Whole Lotta Fishy Goin' On

I just got back from a fine sushi dinner at one of my favorite Japanese restaurants. And before I say any more about the food, let me describe the place. The atmosphere when one enters takes one back to the imagined time before the "opening" of Japan -- the decor is natural wood with low ceilings, low (and hidden) lighting, polished floors and mats for seating. Screens are artfully placed to make each table an island of tranquillity. The waitresses move about with elegant grace, the only sound they make being the occasional rustling of silk kimonos. Tasteful traditional music can be heard at low volume, alternating with the gentle burble of a fountain in the center of the Zen stone garden. This is, truly, the height of Oriental elegance and understatement.

Except that's not how it is at all. Everything I just wrote -- except for the "favorite" part, and that's just because they serve really great sushi -- is pure fiction. In reality, the place is brightly lit, bustling, and _extremely_ noisy. The waitresses are dressed in black slacks. The staff is, in fact, quite friendly, but their endless chitchat and bantering with the regular customers can get annoying. There is a TV set over the sushi bar, and it's always tuned to either news or some game, on top of which there is an extremely distracting sound track being played at high volume and at all times, consisting mostly of 1960s Las Vegas nightclub-style singing -- you know, that totally overblown stuff that must have inspired Andrew Lloyd Webber when he was still young and impressionable.

But the real mystery is the customers. I think the loudest people in the world are the ones who patronize Japanese restaurants. Why this is so, I cannot fathom. But all over the room there are voices -- male and female -- that would put a Parris Island drill instructor to shame. And on top of this is that perennial character I call "the sushi bar drunk". This is the guy -- usually in his 40s or 50s, red-faced and with a sheen of perspiration, out of shape, and somewhat dissipated -- who shows up, always by himself, and plops himself down at the sushi bar, starts schmoozing with the waitresses -- all of whom he knows by name -- in that kind of slurred, overly-loud, and never-totally-sober voice of the alcoholic, and proceeds to order a heaping plate of sushi, which must (at today's prices) set him back close to $100.

So the mystery is this. Why all the loud people? Does Japanese food (or drink) make people loud, or do loud people tend to like Japanese food, and if so why? And you can double all those questions for the sushi bar drunk. Who _is_ this guy? And how did he get hooked on sushi? Now, I know for a fact that a lot of guys who were stationed in Japan while in the service kind of went "native", tried sushi on a dare, found out they actually liked it, got totally hooked, and once they got home went on a quest for the perfect sushi, the way a surfer endlessly seeks the perfect wave. Well, if so, more power to them (even though they probably raise the prices I have to pay). The stuff is certainly healthier than 99% of what you can find in other restaurants -- despite that subtle hint of mercury in every bite. And yes, it's very "alive" food, very energizing, very elegant in a non-contrived way. And it does represent the epitome of the Japanese aesthetic; we can almost overlook the Las Vegas sound track. I recommend sushi to everyone, and in fact all of my kids are confirmed addicts. So I will always go back for the food. But I wish someone would explain to me this "loud people" phenomenon, and especially the "sushi bar drunk" phenomenon. Those are real mysteries.