The two men and single woman sitting at the end of the bar to my right had a point, I thought. After all, I had eaten many strange things in my line of travel work – semi-poisonous blowfish, octopus with mayonnaise and fried batter, the smelly durian of Thailand – but had yet to encounter one of the true tests for the seafood connoisseur: the eyeballs. Morishita-san looked at me with anticipation, standing beside the somewhat ignorant trio and probably half expecting me to act like the foreigners she must have read about in Manga, who gag on tako, avoid sushi bars like the plague, and never try to expand their palette when it comes to ordering omakase from a seasoned chef.

Not wanting to disappoint my audience, I raised the chopsticks with my right hand, the small grey dish with my left, and popped in the fish eye without a second to lose. Delicious.

…

“Little Tokyo, Los Angeles”, josewolff

I didn’t really frequent sushi shops during my years in Japan. For some newbies to the land of the rising sun, this may hardly be surprising. After all, the average “foreigner out of water” tends to stick to comfortable foods, and thinks of raw fish on rice as something exotic reserved for the natives.

When I was living in New Zealand and running on fumes as far as my Japanese experience was concerned, I poured over texts on expats teaching English with the JET Program, which eventually led me to a reference to Trevor Corson, author of The Story of Sushi and quite the authority when it came to obtaining that most coveted of experiences (for sushi connoisseurs, anyway): an authentic Japanese omakase (“please decide for me”) meal from a Japanese sushi chef, with the nigiri packed loosely and the soy sauce tucked away, completely unnecessary for this direction in dining.

So what would you do if you learned of an author whose book you liked? Naturally, you’d Google him, discover his Twitter account, and send him a message letting him know your appreciation of his fine research, and how it has affected your life for the better. This I did. And also, I started eating sushi. Lots of sushi. From Blue Fish in Dallas to Tanuki’s Cave in Auckland, I learned to see the different styles of sushi chefs, notice the quality of the fish they brought in, and determine who could provide the best dining experience for me as a quasi-Japanese eater. Corson was spot on about the most important thing: you can spot a good sushi chef by how clean he keeps his station (no other bits of food getting mixed in with the fish or rice).

But despite everywhere I ate, no place could live up to the promise of what Corson said was available to the average American willing to shell out a few bucks: good Japanese sushi as the chef decides. Enter Little Tokyo, a district in Los Angeles that is probably the closest one can get to Japan without flying into Narita: sushi bars, grocery stores… I understand they even have a few decent hostess bars, though it’s perfectly understandable them not wanting to advertise to the general public (what layman would believe beautiful Japanese girls are only available for conversation?) Combine that with a business trip out west, and I had my solution to the penultimate sushi problem; I would contact Corson for recommendations on the best, most authentic, sushi restaurant run by Japanese in Little Tokyo, have my omakase night, and leave with my stomach swimming with sake (酒) and sake (鮭).

Sushi Go 55 is owned and operated by the Morishita family, who have been running sushi establishments in LA since the 1950′s. Amazing; only ten years after Japanese-Americans were being held in work camps following World War II, some Morishita in Japan was planning to move to the states to start a business. The chef I spoke with at Sushi Go 55 has been in the US for thirty years.

But I digress: THE OMAKASE. I navigated my way through downtown LA to arrive… in what appeared to be a regular shopping mall at the outskirts of Little Tokyo. No mistake; Sushi Go 55 was just two short escalator rides and one noren curtain away. Having never been there or met anyone in person, I responded with my best Japanese to the hostess:

“Morishita-san ga imas ka?”
“Ohhh, she may have gone home for the night. Please wait a moment.”

Ohhh, I sure hope she didn’t. I had had to contact Corson to put me in touch with Eji Morishita, son of the owners, and arrange a time to meet this Tuesday night. If she didn’t show, I would have to explain to the chef exactly what kind of omakase I wanted, and I certainly didn’t trust my fading Japanese skills to that level. Not to mention apologizing to Eji for failing to meet his mother and enjoy the sushi she was offering to arrange. No siree.

No worries, though, as she appeared from the kitchen after only a minute or so. Going through the formal introductions (giving her one of my few remaining genuine meishi), we made small talk about why I wanted such good sushi, and how I was willing to try whatever she would throw my way. Here it is, my experience, dish by dish:

“Salmon Belly Sashimi!”, Noeluap

Sake
Your standard-issue salmon sashimi, although, even in my excited state, I swear this fish was more delicious than any other salmon I had eaten. Merely an appetizer.

Cooked Uni and Mussels
I’ve had uni (sea urchin). I really don’t care for it. It’s still not my favorite, but cooking or searing it makes it far more desirable in my book.

Sashimi Platter: Toro, Maguro, Tai
Ahhh…. toro. The fatty bluefin tuna. The most expensive and delicious fish of them all. Toro is usually listed in sushi restaurants next to the letters “MP”, meaning “market price”. If you have to ask, you won’t want to spend it. Even an order of two toro nigiri can be over $20.

Chawanmushi
An egg dish filled with vegetables. I seldom ate chawanmushi in Japan (or eggs, for that matter), but found this little dish to be surprisingly tasty.

Tamago
Eggs are usually a good test of a sushi chef’s cooking ability; sure, many can cut fish properly, but prepare tamago to the epitome of sweetness and filling? That takes skill.

Hamachi Nigiri
My first stage of nigiri after nigiri began with yellowtail with a dash of salt and seasoned with lemon juice; both accentuated the flavor perfectly.

I wasn’t exactly sure of the proper etiquette between dishes in an omakase order: should I ask for the next dish, or would that make me appear rushed and greedy? Any sushi bar worth its weight will present you with a geta, the wooden platform on which to place ginger and wasabi to use with the piece of sushi. Thereupon the chef will lower dish after dish until you declare “ippai!”

Saba Nigiri
Ahhh, the mackerel. I didn’t know what this was at first, and my stomach was already bulging from the 15+ pieces of delectable fish.

Tai Nigiri
Red snapper with hot mustard.

…

I think that brings us back to the eyeballs. Appropriately after such a large serving, I declared I was too full to continue, requested the okanjou, and devoured the palette-cleansing pickled plum. The end of meals in American-based Japanese-run sushi restaurants has always been confusing for me: should I tip? These are Japanese people, therefore tipping is annoying and insulting. But…. these are Japanese people working on American wages, which require tips, so therefore tipping must be welcome. Well, the latter is correct, but I didn’t discover that until Morishita-san “reminded” me with a friendly verbal nudge.

And overall? A great Japanese experience in the heart of Los Angeles. Sushi Go 55 is the way to go. Check out Sai’s review too.

Total Price Tag: $70 + tip

In the states, you can get spicy mustard, spinach leaves, and several kinds of cheese (not to mention the meatball subs). The restaurants are as far reaching as Praesidio, Texas.

In Japan, the bread is cut a little more neatly, the dressings added in precise proportions, and the servings of chocolate chip cookies and drinks surprisingly small (but adequate); Subway is one of the few places in Nippon where one can enjoy decent turkey.

Subway in Japan, nata2

So when I first arrived in Palmerston North (Palmy as it is known around NZ), it came as no surprise that Kiwis would offer the meat they have in abundances in the greatest sandwich chain to traverse the globe: lamb. Lamb subs… still sounds classy.

Furthermore, stores and even major restaurants in New Zealand towns tend to shut down rather early by US standards; if you’re arriving after 5:30, it’s a safe bet every door will be closed, and it’s unlikely you could even find a coffee shop to enjoy some free wifi. Maybe that’s another reason Americans gain so much weight – we have late night drive-thrus, restaurants open until 11 or 12, and food carts greeting us after a crazy time clubbing. As of yet, I have seen no such food carts in Kiwi territory. Subway in Palmy, as an apparent exception to the rule, keeps its reputation as the place to go after the pubs kick you out: they close at 3 AM, but Subway stays open until 4.

In any case, my main motivation for heading to Palmy wasn’t sandwiches but sakura, the Japanese cherry blossoms. I had been WWOOFing with a great family in Wanganui when a friendly Twitterer informed me that one of my favorite pastimes – eating meat on a stick with pretty girls in kimono looking at cherry blossom trees – would be available in Palmerston North, only about an hour away. Of course I had to partake, especially when I talked my attractive tell-it-like-it-is Couchsuring host into joining me. I’ll say it again: I think I’m destined to be with a Kiwi girl. I love their attitudes and accents.

The Sakura Festival was held at the International Pacific College (IPC) just outside of town. I was expecting the crowd to be mostly Japanese, surprised to find most in attendance were Chinese and Korean. No complaints, however, as the trees were in few bloom, only a few past their prime. The festival included traditional Japanese classes like calligraphy, tea ceremony (and Pokemon), but there were also rooms showcasing Thai, Indian, Russian, Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean, and New Zealand culture: a room full of All Blacks merchandise and pictures of Kiwi birds… nice.

Walking under the falling pedals of the blossoms did bring back some happy memories of my time on Yoshinoyama, but the ambience in Palmy just didn’t do it for me; I suggested to my host that we move on after a few hours, and she already had a few ideas in the works…

Woodville is the windmill capital of New Zealand, or so the sign on the north side of town would have you believe. Te Apiti, the wind farm itself, is atop a range overlooking Palmy. Despite the wind (well… duh), cold weather, and promise of rain, there were a few other onlookers who had driven the distance to pray none of those huge blades come loose and strike them dead… hey, you try standing underneath one of those things and see if you can think of anything but the elephant.

Overall impressions? Palmy seems to be a town with boy racers on the square at all hours, a few decent pubs like The Grand and the Celtic Inn, and not much else. Best to hold out hope for a festival or just chill at the bar drinking JD and Coke. One note: Palmys do tend to take their bicycle security seriously:

Your English lesson for the day:

• British, pavement
• Kiwi, footpath
• American, sidewalk