When I was nearly 20 and graduated from a 4 year college, I met this
blond man with blue eyes, a golfer and a corporate executive, I worked
for him indirectly and soon we fell in love. He was born in Marin, and
lived in California all his life. Besides golf, watching sports an
gambling in Reno, he loved one thing and one thing only. He loved sushi.
When Miyake opened in early 90s in Cupertino, right near the Apple
headquarter, it was quite the scene, because it was the very first sushi boat restaurant in the South Bay. We went there nearly every other night. I learned to order
sushi and enjoy the boat and how the dishes cost different price
depending on the plate's color and pattern. The year was 1992.
When he and I parted ways, out of spite I began to date this man who was his nemesis professionally. He was from upstate New York, besides playing hockey and dating blond women (which I was not, clearly), he liked me (and since developed a thing for Asian women), and he loved sushi. We ate in every good sushi restaurant in the South Bay until I couldn't take any more sushi. The year was 1994.
My third boyfriend was a Jersey boy who went to college in Boston and was a controller at a large semiconductor company. Our first date was at Miyake's, the sushi boat restaurant in Cupertino. He too loved sushi. I remembered eating there and then rushing home to pack for Philly. That winter I spent at Philly for work. By the time spring came and I returned to the bay area, I found out that he had been accepted into Harvard Business School. "I should go. Don't you think?" He asked of me, as if I should be giving him the permission.
For years we dated bi-coastal and ate sushi through Boston, New York, Hoboken, San Francisco and more. It was the one thing we had in common. Whenever we went out, we ate at a sushi restaurant, unless we went to a bar, like Left of Albuquerque on Union Street, which he seemed to like the most.
I began to think if I was cursed. It was as if I was imprinted with a specific kind of men. Men who loved sushi also liked me.
When I met this dashing TD&H man who was an accomplished journalist and a New York transplant attending a prestigious fellowship at Standford, I was more than smitten. He was also 16 years senior than me. Alas, such a girl crush type of romance never ended well. He introduced me to French cuisine and I took a break finally at sushi. By the time he broke up with me I was crushed and decided to go into hiding.
For nine months I stayed in a monogamous relationship with a Norwegian boy who loved surfing and clubbing. He was the only vegetarian I had ever dated. We never had any sushi, or coffee. When the spring came and I started to work in Salt Lake City, I had decided to give him the boot.
The first thing I did after my final break up was visiting this sushi boat restaurant in Japantown in San Francisco, which, given where I lived at the time, was the closest place near my house. I travelled Monday through Thursday, and every Friday I worked at home. Every Friday during lunch, I drove myself to Japantown, found that sushi boat restaurant, and parked myself at the start of the boat parade line, and consumed a large amount of sushi, soundlessly, alone, with a book on hand. The year was 1997.
For about six months I treated my Japantown sushi boat restaurant expedition as a detox, from a worn out, sparkle-less, tiresome, boring, monogamous , sushi-less, relationship. Gradually I was feeling whole again. I remembered one day I was walking into work and ran into my partner. He took a look at me and said to me, "Wow, you do smile."
For nine months when I was stuck in this monotonous relationship, I missed two things - coffee and sushi, and apparently smile. But later on in life, I realized perhaps what I missed more than these items were my freedom. I could not be happy to be stuck in a relationship that signified monogamy and was passionless. I avoided sushi the same way I avoided my feelings.
I was worried about getting stung again by trying to love someone without knowing if he'd love me back, so instead I chose someone who was safe, nice to me but ill-matched in the end.
I couldn't remember when it was the last time I went back to Japantown, to that sushi boat restaurant, it must have been over a decade. But I remembered how satisfied I was to walk out of there, week after week, every Friday, lunch time, I was there, alone, enjoying the mediocre sushi floating on the top of the water, and I waited for my favorites to arrive, and then I picked them up gingerly, ate them while reading feminist books that denounced men and relationships.
In the years followed, I had graduated my taste from regular sushi boat restaurants to fancier sushi places like Ozumo near Embarcadero or Kirala in Berkeley. But whenever I drove on Geary Blvd., I was reminded of my trips to that particular sushi boat restaurant in Japantown, every single Friday, lunch for one.
It did not take a therapist to figure me out. Sushi boat = freedom; man who love to eat sushi = love affair that guaranteed sparks.
As I had gotten older, I figured out a few things about me and how I operated. We all had our imprints. The first love, the way a person made you feel when you were young, the experienced you gained while dating during your impressionable years were the imprints you gained. For me, a formula to my heart was quite really that simple - blond haired man who loved to eat sushi with me. Sounded a little simplistic, but it would somehow fit the M.O.
My last big love affair came unexpectedly. It was with this little boy who was little, literately. He was only 5'8", comparing to all those men I dated who were over 6'3", he was petite, and I told him so (a big mistake, as I later learned) in more than one occasions. He lived in North Beach and went to MIT. I thought he was smart and cute, plus he loved sushi. So despite my nagging feeling of him being too short, (and also very insecure, as it turned out,) I went out with him. He fitted my formula - a blond boy who loved sushi. Nearly ever other date we went to Sushi Groove in Russian Hill, now called Elephant Sushi, and we ate at the counter liked two love birds. I was convinced he was the one for me.
Sadly the passionate intense love affair ended quicker than I could have imagined. As much as I thought the formula would have worked, and that I'd already spent a lot of time meeting his parents and the only sister, it was doomed at the start. I had more than once called him "petite" in front of my girlfriends, I was a bit of an insensitive brat, and he wanted to be thought as a man. I would never have given him the respect he needed to gain the validation of himself, no matter how many sushi meals we had at Sushi Groove.
I figured out that there was a fundamental flaw to my no-fail formula of "blond hair man who loved sushi "- he must also love me no matter what. My flaws were severe and irreversible. I needed a man who was mature and older than me to know how to deal with me and to take care of my emotional needs as well as my craving for sushi. It was not the sushi that made them special, it was what they did to me and for me that made them significant.
I erased my formula for good.
My adult relationships did not evolve around sushi. It dealt with practical matters, with sushi being just a side note, as it should be.
I had not returned to Japantown sushi boat restaurant, alone or with anyone.
But on occasion, the romantic, impractical side of me would wonder, would I ever meet another blond hair man who loved sushi, and who loved me too? And if that day should come, would he be so kind and take me to that mediocre sushi boat restaurant in Japantown?
That day would be a fine day indeed.
When he and I parted ways, out of spite I began to date this man who was his nemesis professionally. He was from upstate New York, besides playing hockey and dating blond women (which I was not, clearly), he liked me (and since developed a thing for Asian women), and he loved sushi. We ate in every good sushi restaurant in the South Bay until I couldn't take any more sushi. The year was 1994.
My third boyfriend was a Jersey boy who went to college in Boston and was a controller at a large semiconductor company. Our first date was at Miyake's, the sushi boat restaurant in Cupertino. He too loved sushi. I remembered eating there and then rushing home to pack for Philly. That winter I spent at Philly for work. By the time spring came and I returned to the bay area, I found out that he had been accepted into Harvard Business School. "I should go. Don't you think?" He asked of me, as if I should be giving him the permission.
For years we dated bi-coastal and ate sushi through Boston, New York, Hoboken, San Francisco and more. It was the one thing we had in common. Whenever we went out, we ate at a sushi restaurant, unless we went to a bar, like Left of Albuquerque on Union Street, which he seemed to like the most.
I began to think if I was cursed. It was as if I was imprinted with a specific kind of men. Men who loved sushi also liked me.
When I met this dashing TD&H man who was an accomplished journalist and a New York transplant attending a prestigious fellowship at Standford, I was more than smitten. He was also 16 years senior than me. Alas, such a girl crush type of romance never ended well. He introduced me to French cuisine and I took a break finally at sushi. By the time he broke up with me I was crushed and decided to go into hiding.
For nine months I stayed in a monogamous relationship with a Norwegian boy who loved surfing and clubbing. He was the only vegetarian I had ever dated. We never had any sushi, or coffee. When the spring came and I started to work in Salt Lake City, I had decided to give him the boot.
The first thing I did after my final break up was visiting this sushi boat restaurant in Japantown in San Francisco, which, given where I lived at the time, was the closest place near my house. I travelled Monday through Thursday, and every Friday I worked at home. Every Friday during lunch, I drove myself to Japantown, found that sushi boat restaurant, and parked myself at the start of the boat parade line, and consumed a large amount of sushi, soundlessly, alone, with a book on hand. The year was 1997.
For about six months I treated my Japantown sushi boat restaurant expedition as a detox, from a worn out, sparkle-less, tiresome, boring, monogamous , sushi-less, relationship. Gradually I was feeling whole again. I remembered one day I was walking into work and ran into my partner. He took a look at me and said to me, "Wow, you do smile."
For nine months when I was stuck in this monotonous relationship, I missed two things - coffee and sushi, and apparently smile. But later on in life, I realized perhaps what I missed more than these items were my freedom. I could not be happy to be stuck in a relationship that signified monogamy and was passionless. I avoided sushi the same way I avoided my feelings.
I was worried about getting stung again by trying to love someone without knowing if he'd love me back, so instead I chose someone who was safe, nice to me but ill-matched in the end.
I couldn't remember when it was the last time I went back to Japantown, to that sushi boat restaurant, it must have been over a decade. But I remembered how satisfied I was to walk out of there, week after week, every Friday, lunch time, I was there, alone, enjoying the mediocre sushi floating on the top of the water, and I waited for my favorites to arrive, and then I picked them up gingerly, ate them while reading feminist books that denounced men and relationships.
In the years followed, I had graduated my taste from regular sushi boat restaurants to fancier sushi places like Ozumo near Embarcadero or Kirala in Berkeley. But whenever I drove on Geary Blvd., I was reminded of my trips to that particular sushi boat restaurant in Japantown, every single Friday, lunch for one.
It did not take a therapist to figure me out. Sushi boat = freedom; man who love to eat sushi = love affair that guaranteed sparks.
As I had gotten older, I figured out a few things about me and how I operated. We all had our imprints. The first love, the way a person made you feel when you were young, the experienced you gained while dating during your impressionable years were the imprints you gained. For me, a formula to my heart was quite really that simple - blond haired man who loved to eat sushi with me. Sounded a little simplistic, but it would somehow fit the M.O.
My last big love affair came unexpectedly. It was with this little boy who was little, literately. He was only 5'8", comparing to all those men I dated who were over 6'3", he was petite, and I told him so (a big mistake, as I later learned) in more than one occasions. He lived in North Beach and went to MIT. I thought he was smart and cute, plus he loved sushi. So despite my nagging feeling of him being too short, (and also very insecure, as it turned out,) I went out with him. He fitted my formula - a blond boy who loved sushi. Nearly ever other date we went to Sushi Groove in Russian Hill, now called Elephant Sushi, and we ate at the counter liked two love birds. I was convinced he was the one for me.
Sadly the passionate intense love affair ended quicker than I could have imagined. As much as I thought the formula would have worked, and that I'd already spent a lot of time meeting his parents and the only sister, it was doomed at the start. I had more than once called him "petite" in front of my girlfriends, I was a bit of an insensitive brat, and he wanted to be thought as a man. I would never have given him the respect he needed to gain the validation of himself, no matter how many sushi meals we had at Sushi Groove.
I figured out that there was a fundamental flaw to my no-fail formula of "blond hair man who loved sushi "- he must also love me no matter what. My flaws were severe and irreversible. I needed a man who was mature and older than me to know how to deal with me and to take care of my emotional needs as well as my craving for sushi. It was not the sushi that made them special, it was what they did to me and for me that made them significant.
I erased my formula for good.
My adult relationships did not evolve around sushi. It dealt with practical matters, with sushi being just a side note, as it should be.
I had not returned to Japantown sushi boat restaurant, alone or with anyone.
But on occasion, the romantic, impractical side of me would wonder, would I ever meet another blond hair man who loved sushi, and who loved me too? And if that day should come, would he be so kind and take me to that mediocre sushi boat restaurant in Japantown?
That day would be a fine day indeed.
No comments:
Post a Comment