Sat 6 Jun 2009
I walk into Jun i and as soon as the moshi-moshis die down I hear a hot breathy whisper in my ear: Here, Bottom, put this in your mouth.
…waitaminnit. Haven’t I already played this cassette before?
‘Omakase’ is perhaps one of the lovelier words in the gastronomic dialect. I put myself in your hands, I imagine it meaning. You sit down at a blond-wood bar and call out omakase! to the man on the other side of the fish fridge, and you wait for him to give it to you. His minion points out the soy and gets you your drink, but His White-Capped Excellence is your master for the night.
From the other side of the bar, it may be perceived as less a command for dominance and more an acknowledgment of care and insight. Never been there, so I wouldn’t know. (Remember, I’m a big food power bottom.) Whatever the case, the surprise and satisfaction that comes from putting one’s dinner in another’s hands is as much a treat as the food selections themselves.
Tonight: An amusing, linear, four-noded platebowl (kind of Space 1999-ish), each pod bearing a beautifully light tempura’d tuna maki roll, topped (topped) with a three-fingered plump of spicy salmon. Black and white sesame, a little tap of teriyaki, and the barest drift of spicy greens and violet blossoms.
A little too soon on the entrée’s heels came the Big Oto-san platter with all the things I was supposed to continue to put in my mouth. Lovely organic BC salmon, unagi, and arctic char sashimi and sushi. Julienned radish and daikon and carrot. Real wasabi. (Made me feel pretty.) But also a wonderful spicy hotate temaki roll, five very cunning rice-krispie/tuna/avocado tokubetsumaki pieces (umami thy name is Jun i), and two cozily-curled-up sweet and creamy ebi. OMG sounds a lot like omakase, I discovered.
There is a lot of trust in eating omakase. You don’t know what to expect next or when it’s going to end. There’s no safe word. Being satisfied in completely in your master’s hands. At the same time, the shiso shochu helps bend one’s will, and there are witnesses to prevent any serious dom-damage from happening.
I drifted home on what I have to say was one of the most perfectly balmy night breezes ever. St-Urbain was closed for some maudit night-bicycling marathon that Tremblay no doubt dreamed up, but it made the walk sublimely calm. The moon beamed down and in post-consumption bliss I felt like I was reclining safely into someone’s strong and careful arms, the sushi knife placed at a safe distance.
Omakase, arigato.