It was a dark and stormy night, and the rain was coming down in sheets. As the heavens spewed forth buckets of cats and dogs upon our humble city, we grew hungry. Only sushi would do - fast and close sushi.
So, in the little rental Corolla we piled (long story, involving a young kid making a left turn from the right lane, that ubiquitously attempted traffic faux pas in these parts) and up Wickenden Street we drove to pick up our fast and close sushi at Sakura.
Sakura is not fancy sushi nor is it my favorite (currently that's in Manhattan - haven't yet made it to Japan), but it is very fast and very close. And when it is very busy (which is most of the time, at least when the "kids" are back in town for college) it is very fresh.
We gorged ourselves on sashimi, nigiri, maki, edamame, and shrimp fried rice in the dry comfort of our living room and were treated to the lovely sound of the best kind of downpour - one that doesn't get you wet.
Which brings me to expound upon something that has always bothered me about this culture (well, one of the many things) and has continued to bother me in ever increasing intensity since I have returned from Italy last June, and that is how hurriedly Americans dine.
I have seen the other side. I have experienced the pace of a Tuscan meal, the naturally relaxed cadence of courses. I have eaten the meat, drunk the wine. And I will never be the same.
Restaurants don't even open until 8 pm over there. Italians seem to trickle in after 9. Courses are brought out in a leisurely fashion; the check is never left for you until you request it. Never does one feel rushed or unwelcome. That is a culture that treats food as an celebration, drawing people together. It felt so natural, to eat this way.
So there are reasons we patronize Sakura. And a very important reason we get it to go.
(I've been quite parenthetical this morning.)
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