(Now as my good friends will attest, I am not one to try to push my views and opinions on other people...oh shut the hell up! Fine, fine, I may occasionally try to lend my guidance to try to lessen the pain of going through this human life with wisdoms that I have learned in my twenty years. I can assure you they are purely for your benifit. You see, everyone feels that they are the most right person in the world. That is essentially the definition of an opinion; a view that confirms that you are correct and omniscient. So trust me when I tell you that the following opinion is honest-to-God right, and in case you still don't believe me after I've pleaded my case, I have two witnesses who have given me permission to give out their contact info to confirm what I will have stated.)
Sushi Ya on Corydon (where Meiji used to be) is as of last night the worst restaurant ever.
Having struggled through a relatively arduoud opera rehearsal, I decided that I needed to kick up my heels and enjoy a little levity with my dear friends Unity and Stephen. We decided, what lovelier way to spend an evening than at a lovely Corydon eatery ogling the lovelies. As we arrived at the restaurant, the scent of promise was on the midnight breeze; the patio was open (albeit we were the only people on it. The other 4 people dining there chose the sauna-like atmosphere inside.), the waiter was quick with complimentary unsolicited waters, and there was also a small dish of edamame provided. How lovely, we though, salted soybeans to thank us for our patronage. The first hint of trouble came as we all finished a first pod and looked to find the second bowl customarily brought with the first in which one can place their empty shells. There was none such bowl to be found. After calming my fellow gourmands and securily fastening my own saftey mask before assisting them with their's, I asked the waiter (who was a very young 42) for an additional bowl, and proceeded to order. The menu was extensive but obviously researched, having stolen certain novelties from other popular Winnipeg establishments (i.e. the sacred sushi pizza). The drink menu - which we had to ask for - was mildly confusing due to the fact that there were no martinis. Now, I'm sure I am simply being redundant in stating this, but as everyone knows, martinis and sushi have a very symbiotic relationship in our Americanized version of the Japanese bistro. They are like the chicken and the egg; which came first? We just don't know! And further, their cocktails were all followed by colours in paranthases e.i. Monkey's Lunch (yellow), which Stephen ordered and tasted somewhat like what a monkey's lunch would taste like had he subsequently lost it. Also, the waiter (who was aging at a frighteningly rapid pace, possibly from the exposure to radiation inside) failed to bring us a dish for are edamame shells, and we decided that it therefore be appropriate to through them at passing cars in the passive-aggresive hope of being asked to leave and not having to sit through - and pay for - what we predicted would an unmitigated disaster. After my miso soup was brought forth (still no empty bowl) I went at it like Star Jones at a male strip joint (...yeah, I don't really get that one either) and fashioned a crude bowl in which we could deposit our weary pods (read: I put the bowl next to the edamame). The food arrived, and it was as we feared - unmitigateday istasterday. Stephen's gimchi, which according to Margaret Cho's mother are like the Korean equivalent of potato chips on the addiction scale, tasted roughly like the feces of a Cabbage Patch Kid. That is to say, like cabbage and ass. My 'Winnipeg Dream' roll just tasted like feet. Well, properly, post-gym sock feet. The saving grace was my seafood tempura, but really, smack that shit on anything and deep fry it and it's gonna be a good time; I deep fried Rosie O'Donnell. Luckily the company was outstanding, and the only awkward social moment came when a passer by coughed under her breathe wasabi. Like...what? Is that supposed to be racist or something? Cause really, that's a poor show. Either appear in your Klan outfits on Jerry Springer, foaming at the mouth, or go home. For realz.
So we wound up tipping five percent and as I'm paying the owner, a small Korean woman in a kimono (wtf?) hands me back my debit card and bows. I so wish I was joking, and it was so painful, because I'm looking at her and she goes down everything kind of goes in slow motion, and when she comes up I'm trying to stifle the unstiflable grin and you wanna know why? Not because I'm a big ol' racist who shops at the KKK Mart, but because I know...that it...is such an act. I honestly think he was born in Charleswoord (shout out to Tote Bag!).
Short story long: c'est l'ass. N'eat pas there.
PS-Wasabi rules all.