This image is more blurry than I would like it to be. I'd blame the camera phone, but I'd had a lot of sake to drink by the time I took this.
For me, the first carafe of large, cold sake always goes down like water to a dying man in the desert. It is sweet. It brings life. It fixes all that has gone wrong before it. In the space of about 20 minutes.
I had pain that needed killing. For the record, dry shaving your legs to save time and hot water isn't worth it. Morning ablutions oughtn't need recovery via Percocet. Booze is acceptable though because the sun is always over the yardarm somewhere in the world. I'm not an alcoholic; I'm just sharing a cold one with my antipodean neighbors. Because they're somewhere in Australia. I hear they drink there. I'm at 42.376N and -71.236W. You run along and do the math. I'm too drunk.
Anyway, we went to our usual sushi hangout. We always seem to end up there low on blood sugar and ready to eat everything that had the temerity to drop dead and get packaged as a comestible. Ever. We consumed a variety of lovely maki and sashimi. Much alcohol was ingested. They just bring it to us and I'm not of a mind to tell them no. That would be rude. Sometimes they even comp it.
Mr. Scoop went outside for a cigarette. It was about then that I got the HubrisTM.
Several years ago, I was served a gratis handroll at a Korean place in Harvard Square by an itamae that I was fairly certain was hitting on me by the end of the evening (beware the custom of buying your sushi chef a frosty beverage if you're alone and single. That's all I'm saying.). Anyway, the roll was uni and seaweed salad on a rice. It was weird, but damn tasty because of the texture contrasts of the creamy, briny sea urchin and the crunchy sesame flavored seaweed. Not good enough to sleep with the sushi dude, but still, pretty damn fine. I later tried ordering it at a sushi place in Jamaica Plain and the guy behind the bar just looked at me funny.
So, tonight, I remembered the roll and asked them to bring it to me. I heard the guy behind the counter ask for clarification from the waitress no fewer than three times. Two guys left the kitchen during this time. Mr. Scoop had returned from his cigarette and I'd told him what I asked for. "See", he said. "You made the kitchen staff walk out. I hope you're happy. No more freebies for us. You shot our comp wad."
The roll did eventually find its way to the table. It was every bit as good as I remembered. And, while they did occasionally visit us with odd looks over the remainder of our meal there, we still got a comp'ed dessert.