A few days ago a friend treated me to some sushi. Proper sushi. Having lived in Japan for several years he was familiar with an okay place and the real thing. Dalian's sizeable Japanese population ensures 'the real thing' does exist here, or will do for a while at least.
Near the Railway Hospital we walked under the short 'noren' curtain and through the familiar teak door into a small sushi bar. Two waitresses spoke Japanese. The owner behind the counter purveyed over chilled steaks of fish for most of which there was no translation for (what is Half Beak?) soon to be cut up and digested by the (including us) half dozen diners or so. The place's appearance was typically average, sitting at the bar we faced a poster on the wall of a leggy model holding an overly large glass of Super Dry, elevated directly in front of us the curved glass cabinet containing various fish meat ingredients, under the poster of Ms Asahi a rice cooker kept the rice just above room temperature. On the opposite wall, behind us, was a bookcase full of Sake and Soju. The restaurant was clean but had aged since it's most recent furbishment, it did not pretend to be flash but clearly knew what it was.
Speaking Japanese in a Japanese operated restaurant brought out the inevitable raised eyebrows, cheeky smile and instant banter with other customers. I could only sit back and thinK "Speaking Japanese would be great but I've hardly mastered Chinese, perhaps I could come back 5 years later and participate in this conversation," as Adam bantered on about small-town life in Japan with a customer hailing from the location my dinner buddy lived and worked in. After a while it became apparent the owner had a ticking clock over his establishment: a month to move. The owner of the building was increasing the rent and no nearby locations seemed appropriate. (The sensibility of kicking out a long term client during a global financial crisis has yet to be determined.) read more »
