2004 Sawtelle Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90025
One of my girlfriends is currently hot into the online dating “scene.” That is, if there is such a thing as an online dating “scene,” akin to a “singles scene,” but online instead of a bar, and with the thin veil of the Internet serving as temporary *wink*-ing beer goggles, until you finally meet the person “for a drink” at some bar halfway between your workplaces to see how much Photoshop the other used on their profile picture. Usually none, because you end up wondering if that profile picture was actually of that person. wtf?
For the time being, let’s call my friend who is all up into this online dating scene "Rachel," though that may or may not be her real name, so don’t try to guess who she is. (Rachel, are you reading this? It’s not you! And even if it were, at least I didn’t reveal your online persona “RacyRache!”)
Because I have never been, and likely never will be a part of this “scene,” at least in its formal, official, subscription-based, non-blog format, and while we’re at it, not ever into the dating scene in any format thank you very much, I like to get together with Rachel every once in a while and get live “updates.” It’s sort of my way of vicariously living a swingin' single, date-ful life through her, just like you are vicariously living a wild and crazy girling-about-LA’s-dining-scene-in-semi-haute-couture life by reading this blog.
We made a sushi craving into a reason to gossip.
Sushi Tenn has been on my Sawtelle radar for as along as I can remember, but for some reason, it always got lost in various phases of personal hype. First there was Hide Sushi during my cash-strapped-but-cash-only years. Then there was Sasabune during my subservient-is-stylish years. Then there was a whole period of my life when I absolutely refused to eat sushi because it was trendy and I wondered whether self-titled “foodies” and “gourmands” actually liked eating raw fish because it tasted good, or whether they simply said they liked raw fish because it was a sign of “taste.” F--king posers. I believed it to be the latter, so I fasted in protest. Lastly, there is Kiriko. I use the present tense “is” because I am still head over heels hyped for Kiriko, which is not really hype, but a slow return realization that no matter how much I try to eschew foods for the mere fact that they are “trendy,” there is only so much that civilization can do to repress primal tendencies toward tearing into raw flesh with my bare hands and teeth.
I’m over myself now. I like sushi. In fact, I love sushi. In fact in fact, I luuuurve sushi. I’ll just hate on the skinny jeans trend instead.
Sushi Tenn is on Sawtelle, a very short drive from home, even during rush hour. I arrived first and was not only early for our dinner, but I was apparently just early. There was no one else in the restaurant, which was a little disconcerting, but I tried to ignore it as a sign that there were 1) high (price) barriers to entry and 2) clustered competition. Did I mention that Rachel and I are old classmates from business school?
The dining space is small, but doesn’t feel at all cramped. An all glass façade and seemingly high ceilings give the illusion of expanded space. Décor is minimal, with what would seem to be a conscious absence of visual clutter. Tables are nothing but straight, sharp-edged tops and legs; they are few and far between. Chairs are so simple that they could be either the $10-for-a-shrink-wrapped-pack-of-four or $10,000 uber-high-Tokyo-street-style. I am guessing the latter. My ghetto butt doesn't deserve to sit in such fancy chairs, so I plopped myself down smack dab in the middle of the sushi bar, without any consideration for future parties that might have to wait because I didn't sit one seat over. Besides, those dining chairs looked far too uncomfortable for precious sexy back.
Rachel arrived shortly after, and all sense of time and space were lost once she started. The stories were flowing faster than the sake out of the cute little ice-coddled carafe. Let’s just say that I got the lowdown, dirty, shameful details of her back-to-back-to back appointments with various guys, all of whom turned out to be quite close to the bottom of the online dating barrel. That should most certainly not be taken as any indication of what Rachel is like. It is, however, an indication that most Photoshop professionals are on j-harmony-match-personals.com.
The sushi chef started us with a small appetizer of what looked like mushrooms, but could have been some sort of reconstituted dried mountain, field, or stream vegetable. It was nothing special in terms of taste, but a welcomed gesture from two gossiping girls’ perspectives. Eating an appetizer paced our conversation, giving both of us (mostly Rachel) opportunities to re-oxygenate our hemes before taking a bite.
We ordered a tofu salad to start, which had the universal Japanese restaurant creamy beige sesame or peanut dressing on it. At some point between my sitting down and Rachel’s anchor-like plunging ahead with a full report of the evening news, I realized that The Boy had arrived, sat down, ordered a beer, and was eating with us. Had you been observing, you would have thought that 1) The Boy was a complete stranger and just creepily decided to sit right next to me even though the entire restaurant was empty, or 2) The Boy knew us, but Rachel and I were simply ignoring him. It was really neither, but if I had to choose one, it would be the latter. The Boy knows us. We know he knows us. And by “knows” us, I mean that The Boy had no intention of participating in our conversation, and we didn't try to lasso him into it.
Hirame (halibut or whitefish) and sake (salmon) fish were not extraordinay, but what I did appreciate immediately was Sushi Tenn’s attention to balance and proportion. The rice was neither too sticky nor to loose; neither too sweet nor too sour; neither too warm nor too cold; neither too much nor too little. In fact, I appreciated that in a world where bigger and bolder is de rigeur, Sushi Tenn makes their sushi small enough to eat in one bite. It’s a full bite to be sure, but still far more manageable than sushi that is prepared by draping slabs of entire sides of fish over enormous bricks of rice. My mouth can handle some pretty big things, but sushi shouldn’t be one of them.
The rest of the sushi was so good that it didn’t distract me from the matters at hand. I will put it to you this way. If it’s good, I eat it, and somewhere deep in my subconscious sensory memory, its harmony of flavors and textures will be etched like the first ecstatic moment that you know you had because it didn’t hurt, but of which you can’t express any detail because it was like you were unconscious. Only when something is sub-standard will it hook my attention with its crooked claw and violently jerk me upright, interrupting any concurrent data flow until I force it into my memory for future reference; burned, so I can try to forgive, but will never forget.
Now that last paragraph was not entirely true; the part about the rest of the sushi not distracting me. First of all, clearly, every time the sushi chef placed a tiny plate of sushi before us, I would snatch my digital camera from behind my butt on the seat, fire it up, snap a photo or two. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention to Rachel’s stories. I was. It’s just that I am a naturally-talented, highly-skilled, multi-tasking food blog ninja who can take fabulously focused photos of raw fish without missing a beat of the conversation. (As a note to anyone who ever eats with me, there is never – I repeat “never” – a need to stop talking, hold your breath, etc. as a courtesy to me when I am taking a picture. Of course, you might be interrupted when I shove my camera between your fork or chopsticks and the plate, but really, there is no need to remain silent.) Secondly, if ever I thought I might like oily, strongly fishy fish like mackerel, I was wrong. I don’t like it. I love it. I could have eaten at leat three more orders each of the saba and kohada, both beautifully presented with their shiny, silvery skin.
The same argument of “fishy,” however, does not apply to uni. I thought I was starting to like uni, but I am ashamed to admit that I think I was falling victim of the very thing that temporarily turned me off from sushi in the first place. Uni is an “indicator.” Eating uni, hell, even knowing that uni is available, is an indication that you are a true sushi connoisseur. My sisters rave about uni. My mother will deny herself everything else in that little refrigerated glass case if the only thing she can eat is uni. I thought I should like uni, too, so I tried to teach myself to like it. In fact, I think there might have been a moment when the brainwashing has actually taken effect and I really did believe that sea urchin gonads were tasty.
They are sea urchin gonads. They are reproductive organs. I don’t eat organs. Go. Nads. ‘Nads. The only reproductive organs I eat…er, never mind. It’s enough to say that not only are they gonads, but in a pure taste vacuum, uninfluenced by external factors like celebrities, family taste, and other things that seeingly influence out “taste,” uni does not taste good to me.
Our meal was done. On a scale of 1-10, I'd give Sushi Tenn a 10. Rachel was done with her updates, and unfortunately, we concluded that on a scale of 1-10, collectively, they didn't even add up to 1. When the check came, The Boy picked it up without saying a word.
As much as I love hearing stories about the online dating world, I wouldn’t give up The Boy for anything.
** a year ago today, i rocked out on the rooftop of akwa **