Shibumi

Downtown Los Angeles | CA

| Late March, roughly around the release date of Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs |

Act 1: The Drop Off

We pull up to a nondescript curb. As I climb out of our Toyota Sienna transport, the driver sternly instructs me to watch my head. His tone is that of a tiger mom prescribing a healthy diet of piano and arithmetic. Forceful yet in my best interest; I know it’s an act of love. The only reason I know we’ve arrived is an A-frame sign brandishing the restaurant’s name. I’m told it’s very Japanese to hide the location in plain sight, but I wouldn’t know. Two bolo ties, a shag rug, an exotic pendant, and an olive trench coat walk into a Japanese restaurant.

As we push through the curtain found behind the entrance door, we realize we aren’t the most interesting party in the restaurant. Twelve German homosexuals dressed like 60’s era Bond villains fill the minimal standing room in front of the sushi bar. One guy was wearing a turtle neck and an eyepatch, I mean you can’t make this shit up. Oh, and there was one librarian-looking woman sporting thick black framed glasses who I can only assume was their leader. There was no receptionist to greet us, so we stood there quiet and motionless. I took the time to reflect on the atmosphere and ambiance, which I concluded were lacking. I’m once again reminded this is a Japanese custom.

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Act 2: Momma Wants Another Sea Slug

We decide to do both the food and drink omakase, obviously choosing the hundred-dollar drink omakase upgrade. With no food allergies and open minds, we were ready to embark on our culinary experience. Our first dish is an orange oval fermented something or other paired with a white triangle fermented something or other. Both pieces are paper thin, no larger than a fingernail, and difficult to pick up with chopsticks. The only thing I understand is that I’m being served sake. My cousin and I are given hundred-year-old sake glasses, which is an act some might call a mistake. We are instructed to eat the fermented shapes together and then follow them with the sake. The combination tastes like the sea. We all hope more substance is to come.

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Act 3: Kombucha Sake

Atmosphere is weird.

Eye-patch man in the corner.

I want more sake.

The music is so loud that we can’t understand the waiter’s introduction of each dish. We make him repeat everything out of principal even though we’re still unable to understand what he is saying. Cucumbers and giant clams were consumed among other strange dishes. I wondered when the fish would come. Can a Japanese restaurant be a Japanese restaurant without fish? I sipped on my glass of white wine as I contemplated this essential question. Then it came. Not fish, but six inches of cubed bamboo covered in a sticky green sauce. It was like that scene in The Emperor’s New Groove when llama Kuzco is served that bug dish that unravels when you hit it with your straw and then you’re supposed to suck up its insides. Not the taste, but the general vibe and aesthetic. It didn’t taste great though. I decided to cut my losses and focus on the alcohol.

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Act 4: Not One, But Two Bottles of Pear Cider

We were starting to fade. Despite our alcoholic-level tolerance, we couldn’t take much more. Think 300, but change out the Spartans for samurai to make the analogy more fitting. I’m not sure if or what we ate, but I do remember having an unpasteurized Japanese lager that was good. As we waited for the final entrée, we began researching fast-food restaurants in the area. Our last course was our saving grace – small bowls of rice for all five of us and a plate of unknown shredded meat. The portion size was barely enough to satisfy a boy who wears children’s husky clothing, but it gave us hope. We still had dessert to look forward to.

Whatever the dessert was, it came after two bottles of pear cider. Our gracious waiter was trying to make up for the slow service generated by the German homosexuals. Although appreciated, his kindness was causing my liver to slowly fail.