How do you say “chicken” in Japanese??
So, as you know by now, darling husband and I are regular restaurant-goers and try as we might, we haven’t quite kicked the habit yet, even if it means getting creative with Little D (and the iPhone) in tow.
This past Friday night was no exception. After trekking to Beverly Hills for what proved to be a useless warehouse sale at Taschen (does anyone really need to own the “Big Book of Breasts”? I was looking for the big book of Chanel. Alas, not on sale), we were headed for an exciting night of Trader Joe’s turkey burgers when our craving for Katsuya reared its yummy head. Since we had no budget for the nearby Brentwood version, we headed north — way north — to Encino, and the original, strip-mall, much cheaper version.
We waited among the hordes, fascinated by the Valley on a Friday night as Little D amused a pack of tweens, and their mom, with her tales of Disneyland, Piglet, and seashells. And we waited. And we waited. Until the plates of crispy rice with spicy tuna going by became straight-up sushi suffering.
Now, think about the hungriest you’ve ever been. Hangry, if you will. And multiply it by 100, because that’s basically the level of hell you are in when your toddler is in the same state.
So we finally sat at a communal table, right beside the sushi bar. Little D usually loves to watch the chefs, and even more importantly, their “cute little hats”, but tonight she apparently had other plans. We ordered. We sipped our drinks – pinot for me, Kirin for the man, water for Little D. Sashimi came out. Won ton soup wandered over. But no sign of Little D’s beloved meal of choice.
Out of nowhere, she turned towards the sushi bar and in her loudest little pipsqueak voice started yelling. CHICKEN!! CHICKEN!! CHICKEN!! Darling husband and I looked at each other – that split second of “F*CK, which one of us is going to deal with this?” looming overhead as our fellow Friday night sushi lovers looked on.
And instead we burst out laughing. And let her bellow a little longer. And a little louder. Until all those cute little hats turned up and looked over, slightly alarmed, sticky rice in hand. Apparently these sushi chefs don’t have 2-year-olds. And after Friday night, they may never. But they sure as hell will learn how to speed up their chicken teriyaki.