Raw Fish and Enlightenment

I can't believe that I found a Japanese sushi bar / steak house in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Who knew? They turn salmon into something sinful, and waitress remembers that I like ice tea.

The restaurant is run by marginally bilingual orientals. I often imagine that they are porcelain guardians, and I am violating the temple of some unknown tradition. I cant shake the feeling that I have come to devour what I do not understand.

I wonder if they are a family, or perhaps they travel like gypsies, stopping here and there to start up bistros and buffets, luring unsuspecting Midwesterners into the magic of Japanese cuisine

The most fearful of them all is the old man that I have come to regard in my mind as "The Sushi Master." He sets about his art with the intensity of a high priest; a complete contrast to the dull faced Americans who begrudgingly smoosh together bits of fish and rice at the sushi counter in Target. The old man is wielding something sacred, and I can taste it in his handiwork.

He watches suspiciously as customers approach his grotto and make their selection. Once I made the mistake of putting the tongs back in the wrong tray, and was reprimanded sharply in Japanese. I felt clumsy, like a child who had dropped my rosary, and forgotten the words. I do tip well though, I think I get points for that.