Fuck You, Wasahi
Last night, Ben and I went to the gym, came home, showered, and asked each other that age-old question all couples end up asking each other until they're blue in the face--
"What do you want to eat?"
The original plan involved a salmon filet, a George Foreman grill, some rice and broccoli. But we were out of broccoli, and I didn't want to cook (like Foreman-ing anything constitutes "cooking"). So we batted a few restaurant ideas back and forth and finally settled on sushi. As I squeezed into a pair of jeans while my sweats accused me of not loving them anymore, a little voice in the back of my head was saying "don't do it...stay in...order carry-out."
I should really start listening to those little voices in the back of my head. They're not always evil.
We went to Wasahi, the Japanese grill/sushi bar we've taken a liking to. Until last night, when we sat for an hour waiting for food. Watching other people come in, have tables cleared for them, order, eat, and leave, while we kept sitting there looking like jackasses. We were pissed.
To get the full gist of what went down next, you need to know where my husband and I come from. He comes from a nice, college-educated, WASP family who lived in the burbs. Nice, college-educated, WASP families in the burbs don't get all up in the Kool-Aid of some service industry puke who has disrespected them. I, on the other hand, come from poor white trash from a small trashy town. And we do get all up in the Kool-Aid of service industry pukes who dare to cross us.
So there we were, with me wishing Ben would grow a pair and rip the heads off some Japanese restaurateurs, and him wishing I might have a totally out-of-character moment and keep my mouth shut. He did end up saying something to one of the servers, but the level of English spoken among the Wasahi employees is about as high as the level of my Japanese. I think they ended up comping us the two glasses of plum wine we had and that was it.
When we got to the car, Ben lost it. He went off for a good 30 minutes about the inept service, the asshole diners who kept smirking at us like they were in on the "don't feed them" coup, ad nauseum. After a few minutes, I was thinking, Jesus, if you're that pissed about it, why the fuck didn't you make a bigger stir while we were there? He eventually apologized and said something about not wanting it to ruin our evening. I'm thinking it already has and just didn't say anything. So then he turns it on me. "Oh, so you just think I didn't stand up for myself, that I just let people walk all over me, huh?" Oh, fuck...just shut up already.
He slept on the couch, and I got the bed to myself. That was one good thing.
People fight about the stupidest things. To understand the rest of the story, you have to know that WASPs from the burbs don't usually get involved in knock-down drag-out screaming matches with each other, especially when the family is small and live in a house big enough for all of them to have their own space. You should also know that white trash families tend to live in slightly closer quarters and there tend to be a lot more of us under one roof. I have two sisters. You do the math.
Suffice to say that when two people from opposite ends of the fighting spectrum go to it, things get ugly fast.
Eventually it passed and we had lunch at the Indian buffet, which is always a pleasant experience.
So fuck you, Wasahi. Fuck you hard.
As of this morning, I'd lost another pound. But I think I may have gained it back at the hands of vegetable masala, chicken korma and rice pudding.
Mmmm...rice pudding.
"What do you want to eat?"
The original plan involved a salmon filet, a George Foreman grill, some rice and broccoli. But we were out of broccoli, and I didn't want to cook (like Foreman-ing anything constitutes "cooking"). So we batted a few restaurant ideas back and forth and finally settled on sushi. As I squeezed into a pair of jeans while my sweats accused me of not loving them anymore, a little voice in the back of my head was saying "don't do it...stay in...order carry-out."
I should really start listening to those little voices in the back of my head. They're not always evil.
We went to Wasahi, the Japanese grill/sushi bar we've taken a liking to. Until last night, when we sat for an hour waiting for food. Watching other people come in, have tables cleared for them, order, eat, and leave, while we kept sitting there looking like jackasses. We were pissed.
To get the full gist of what went down next, you need to know where my husband and I come from. He comes from a nice, college-educated, WASP family who lived in the burbs. Nice, college-educated, WASP families in the burbs don't get all up in the Kool-Aid of some service industry puke who has disrespected them. I, on the other hand, come from poor white trash from a small trashy town. And we do get all up in the Kool-Aid of service industry pukes who dare to cross us.
So there we were, with me wishing Ben would grow a pair and rip the heads off some Japanese restaurateurs, and him wishing I might have a totally out-of-character moment and keep my mouth shut. He did end up saying something to one of the servers, but the level of English spoken among the Wasahi employees is about as high as the level of my Japanese. I think they ended up comping us the two glasses of plum wine we had and that was it.
When we got to the car, Ben lost it. He went off for a good 30 minutes about the inept service, the asshole diners who kept smirking at us like they were in on the "don't feed them" coup, ad nauseum. After a few minutes, I was thinking, Jesus, if you're that pissed about it, why the fuck didn't you make a bigger stir while we were there? He eventually apologized and said something about not wanting it to ruin our evening. I'm thinking it already has and just didn't say anything. So then he turns it on me. "Oh, so you just think I didn't stand up for myself, that I just let people walk all over me, huh?" Oh, fuck...just shut up already.
He slept on the couch, and I got the bed to myself. That was one good thing.
People fight about the stupidest things. To understand the rest of the story, you have to know that WASPs from the burbs don't usually get involved in knock-down drag-out screaming matches with each other, especially when the family is small and live in a house big enough for all of them to have their own space. You should also know that white trash families tend to live in slightly closer quarters and there tend to be a lot more of us under one roof. I have two sisters. You do the math.
Suffice to say that when two people from opposite ends of the fighting spectrum go to it, things get ugly fast.
Eventually it passed and we had lunch at the Indian buffet, which is always a pleasant experience.
So fuck you, Wasahi. Fuck you hard.
As of this morning, I'd lost another pound. But I think I may have gained it back at the hands of vegetable masala, chicken korma and rice pudding.
Mmmm...rice pudding.
posted by Mitzi Green at 4:59 PM
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