delicate little rice balls, molded by hand and wrapped in strips of pink salmon and octopus, abalone, tuna and shrimp. I loved the little hidden pockets of horseradish that surprised you and made your eyes water. And I loved a bowl of soup, especially soybean and seaweed, and to drink it from the bowl Japanese style. I put it away faster than Mako could lay it out and I guess I looked like a buffalo at the
sushi
bar. Much as I tried to control myself and use a little Japanese self-discipline, I kept throwing the chow down and emptying the little dishes while Mako grinned and sweated and put them up. I knew it was no way to behave at the
sushi
bar in a nice restaurant, this was for gourmets, the refined eaters of Japanese cuisine, and I attacked like a blue locust, but God, eating
sushi
is being in heaven. In fact, I’d settle for that, and become a Buddhist if heaven was a
sushi
bar.
There was only one thing that saved me from looking too bad to a Japanese—I could handle chopsticks like one of them. I first learned in Japan right after the war, and I’ve been coming to the Geisha Doll and every other restaurant here in J-town for twenty years so it was no wonder. Even without the bluesuit, they could look at me click those sticks and know I was no tourist passing through. Sometimes though, when I didn’t think about it, I ate with both hands. I just couldn’t devour it fast enough.
In cooler weather I always drank rice wine or hot sake with my meal, today, ice water. After I’d finished what two or three good-sized Japanese would consume, I quit and started drinking tea while Mama and Sumi made several trips over to make sure I had enough and to see that my tea was hot enough and to try to feed me some tempura, and the tender fried shrimp looked so good I ate a half dozen. If Sumi wasn’t twenty years too young I’d have been awful tempted to try her too. But she was so delicate and beautiful and so
young
, I lost confidence even thinking about it. And then too, she was one of the people on my beat, and there’s that thing, the way they think about me. Still, it always helped my appetite to eat in a place where there were pretty women. But until I was at least half full, I have to say I didn’t notice women or anything else. The world disappears for me when I’m eating something I love.
The thing that always got to me about Mama was how much she thanked me for eating up half her kitchen. Naturally she would never let me pay for my food, but she always thanked me about ten times before I got out the door. Even for an Oriental she really overdid it. It made me feel guilty, and when I came here I sometimes wished I could violate the custom and pay her. But she’d fed cops before I came along and she’d feed them after, and that was the way things were. I didn’t tell Mama that Friday was going to be my last day, and I didn’t start thinking about it because with a barrel of
sushi
in my stomach I couldn’t afford indigestion.
Sumi came over to me before I left and held the little teacup to my lips while I sipped it and she said, “Okay, Bumper, tell me an exciting cops-and-robbers story.” She did this often, and I’m sure she was aware how she affected me up close there feeling her sweet breath, looking at those chocolate-brown eyes and soft skin.
“All right, my little lotus blossom,” I said, like W. C. Fields, and she giggled. “One spine tingler, coming up.”
Then I reverted to my normal voice and told her about the guy I stopped for blowing a red light at Second and San Pedro one day and how he’d been here a year from Japan and had a California license and all, but didn’t speak English, or pretended not to so he could try to get out of the ticket. I decided to go ahead and hang one on him because he almost wiped out a guy in the crosswalk, and when I got it written he refused to sign it, telling me in pidgin, “Not gear-tee, not gear-tee,” and I tried for five minutes to explain that the
sushi
bar. Much as I tried to control myself and use a little Japanese self-discipline, I kept throwing the chow down and emptying the little dishes while Mako grinned and sweated and put them up. I knew it was no way to behave at the
sushi
bar in a nice restaurant, this was for gourmets, the refined eaters of Japanese cuisine, and I attacked like a blue locust, but God, eating
sushi
is being in heaven. In fact, I’d settle for that, and become a Buddhist if heaven was a
sushi
bar.
There was only one thing that saved me from looking too bad to a Japanese—I could handle chopsticks like one of them. I first learned in Japan right after the war, and I’ve been coming to the Geisha Doll and every other restaurant here in J-town for twenty years so it was no wonder. Even without the bluesuit, they could look at me click those sticks and know I was no tourist passing through. Sometimes though, when I didn’t think about it, I ate with both hands. I just couldn’t devour it fast enough.
In cooler weather I always drank rice wine or hot sake with my meal, today, ice water. After I’d finished what two or three good-sized Japanese would consume, I quit and started drinking tea while Mama and Sumi made several trips over to make sure I had enough and to see that my tea was hot enough and to try to feed me some tempura, and the tender fried shrimp looked so good I ate a half dozen. If Sumi wasn’t twenty years too young I’d have been awful tempted to try her too. But she was so delicate and beautiful and so
young
, I lost confidence even thinking about it. And then too, she was one of the people on my beat, and there’s that thing, the way they think about me. Still, it always helped my appetite to eat in a place where there were pretty women. But until I was at least half full, I have to say I didn’t notice women or anything else. The world disappears for me when I’m eating something I love.
The thing that always got to me about Mama was how much she thanked me for eating up half her kitchen. Naturally she would never let me pay for my food, but she always thanked me about ten times before I got out the door. Even for an Oriental she really overdid it. It made me feel guilty, and when I came here I sometimes wished I could violate the custom and pay her. But she’d fed cops before I came along and she’d feed them after, and that was the way things were. I didn’t tell Mama that Friday was going to be my last day, and I didn’t start thinking about it because with a barrel of
sushi
in my stomach I couldn’t afford indigestion.
Sumi came over to me before I left and held the little teacup to my lips while I sipped it and she said, “Okay, Bumper, tell me an exciting cops-and-robbers story.” She did this often, and I’m sure she was aware how she affected me up close there feeling her sweet breath, looking at those chocolate-brown eyes and soft skin.
“All right, my little lotus blossom,” I said, like W. C. Fields, and she giggled. “One spine tingler, coming up.”
Then I reverted to my normal voice and told her about the guy I stopped for blowing a red light at Second and San Pedro one day and how he’d been here a year from Japan and had a California license and all, but didn’t speak English, or pretended not to so he could try to get out of the ticket. I decided to go ahead and hang one on him because he almost wiped out a guy in the crosswalk, and when I got it written he refused to sign it, telling me in pidgin, “Not gear-tee, not gear-tee,” and I tried for five minutes to explain that the
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