Sushi's Revenge

You know what? I'm really not such a complicated person. (The lovely Mrs. G. will say otherwise, but I digress…)

I may have my little quirks here and there, but when it comes down to it, I really don't have a lot of character flaws. Lack of humility notwithstanding.

But there is one little thing about me that many will find shocking – or possibly unbelievable.

I can't eat sushi.

It's not that I don't *want* to eat sushi – in fact, the complete opposite is true. Sushi is artistically pleasing to the eye, what with its perfect little rows of rice and shrimp and other assorted stuff.

It's just that I *can't* eat sushi.

God knows I've tried eating sushi several times over the years. But once it hits my taste buds, my pre-barf alarm goes off, and I make those nasty gaggy faces that are normally reserved for 4 year olds eating peas.

I just can't help it – it's the seaweed wrap and/or uncooked fish that gets me every time. I've tried to just buck it up and get over it, but no luck – the sushi goes in, and immediately wants to come back out.

My most recent example of almost-puking-on-a-California-roll happened last Saturday night – yes, Valentines Day. I took The Lovely Mrs. G. out to a local Omaha restaurant that is famous for its diverse, multi-cultural menu. They've got seafood dishes, pasta dishes, pan-Asian delicacies, and oh yeah…a sushi bar.

We watched -- all around us people were enjoying sushi delights. Young people, old people, and everything in between. I was perfectly happy ordering some chicken potstickers for an appetizer, and then some French onion soup for a starter.

Mrs. G. however ordered a California roll.

So the sushi shows up – 8 perfectly aligned slices, all sparkly and shiny and sushi-esque. It came with pretty little chopsticks, pretty little pickled ginger (shaped to look like a flower), a pretty little wad of wasabi, and a cute dish perfect for your choice of two types of soy sauce. It was Japanese cuisine perfection – Iron Chef Morimoto would definitely approve.

I quietly ate my onion soup (which was mostly cold, but was politely taken off our bill by the apologetic waitress) and watched as Mrs. G. thoroughly enjoyed her sushi. It really did look good.

Anyway, Mrs. G. asked me several times if I'd like a piece. No, no, I begged off. I'm just fascinated by something that looks so good but tastes so bad.

"Oh, come on and try one," Mrs. G said, placing a piece of sushi in front of me.

Now, all of my previous sushi-eating experiences had been a bust. But not wanting to be mocked for being a sushi-chicken, I decided to give it another shot. So I put it in a little soy sauce, picked it up, and popped it in my mouth.

Let the gagging begin!

Long story short, I didn't puke. But God knows that I wanted to. I made that nasty pre-puke face a few times while Mrs. G. tried hard not to laugh at my discomfort. It was AWFUL – the nori just about put me over the edge, and every part of me wanted to experience "urges contrary to swallowing." Icky, isn't it?

So thanks to a large glass of water, I did finally get it down the hatch, and fortunately it stayed there.

And that officially ends my fascination with sushi. Game over, I lose. And I'm okay with that.

So from now on, I'll just admire the pretty sushi from afar, and will continue to wonder what it would be like to partake in its bounty.

And then I'll go back to my onion soup, if it's all the same to you. The sushi may be beautiful, but the French don't make me want to have a Technicolor yawn.

Of course, I haven't tried escargot yet, so I should be careful with what I wish for…