“DON’T WAIT TOO LONG to eat,” the waiter half-whispered, bending slightly so the other diners wouldn’t hear. “The seaweed will lose its crispness.”
In my fingers rested the small bouquet of a temaki-style hand roll, nori furled around rice and ume (pickled plum). Obediently, I took a bite. The nori fractured, as if on cue.
It was the kind of attention to detail that you expect to find at one of New York’s temples of sushi, those hushed rooms where every gesture — from the presentation of the hot towel to the stoic nod of the sushi chef in his snowy uniform — is measured and balletic, every shimmer of fish to be approached on your knees. Read More