JERK OF THE WEEK: Return to Kyoto - The Japanese Nightmare
I had a nightmare recently where I was forced to go to a baseball game. This family I've never met before - comprised of a stern-looking father, a short mother and their fat daughter - forced me to go to the ballpark. I didn't want to go at all. They dragged me, kicking and screaming. All I wanted to do was stay home.
I obviously like sports, but baseball sucks. There's nothing more boring than watching fat "athletes" standing around and scratching their balls for four hours. There's just as much excitement at the DMV, and you can go there for free.
At any rate, I was forced to sit through the whole game next to the fat, blond-haired daughter, who had this putrid stench emanating from her. Making matters worse, this giant column was obstructing the view of the field. So, not only did I have to endure watching a boring sport; I couldn't even see it!
I woke up in a sweat and checked my phone. One missed call from my mom. I called her back, and she informed me of her birthday plans.
Mom: We're going to Kyoto, that Japanese restaurant near you, for my birthday dinner.
Me: IT'S THE WORST PLACE EVER AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
I pinched myself just in case I was in another nightmare. Unfortunately, I wasn't. I wouldn't be forced to watch a baseball game while sitting next to some fat chick, but I would have to eat dinner at Kyoto one night. I didn't know which one was worse. Suddenly, the fat chick's stench didn't seem so bad.
If you're wondering why I was so distraught over my mom's decision, I wrote about my time at Koyoto for my sister's birthday in October. Among the lowlights:
I decided that an evil Japanese president, hell bent on revenge for Hiroshima, orchestrated a plot to make Americans eat raw fish. The purpose was so he could make fun of them because no sane human being would want to eat raw fish without being told that it was "cool."
I didn't like anything on the menu, which was as long as a Game of Thrones book. Of course, I didn't understand half of it. I think one item said "sacrificed cat's hairballs," which had me wondering if the hairballs of a sacrificed cat were better than those that belonged to a cat that had died of natural causes.
I ultimately opted for chicken and shrimp hibachi. The hibachi master made my chicken and shrimp, yet gave some to everyone else sitting with me. Yet, when he made the steak for my dad - he ordered steak and shrimp hibachi - only my dad received the steak. I'm still pissed off about that.
I was extremely upset because the hibachi master had a red squirt bottle in his tray. I assumed this was ketchup. I love ketchup, so it made me happy - until he squeezed the bottle and a clear liquid came out. That stupid a**hole got my hopes up for nothing. What a douche.
At any rate, the unfortunate day had finally arrived. The day before, I was hoping I'd keep waking up, and it would be the same day over and over again. I would've killed to be Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, but I didn't have such luck. That evening, my girlfriend and I drove over to Kyoto - we would've walked, but we feared that the sidewalk would still be slippery from the snowstorm the day before - and I braced myself for what I knew would be a horrifying dining experience.
My girlfriend and I were the last ones to arrive, so we found my parents, sister and her fiance sitting at the hibachi table. Across the way was another family, and the patriarch was someone who looked oddly familiar. Then it hit me - it was Ohio State football coach Urban Meyer!
OK, fine, it wasn't the real Urban Meyer, but it definitely was his long-lost twin. Fake Meyer looked extremely smug, almost as if he just signed a five-star recruit. He was sitting with a bunch of people who appeared to be typical Russians. They all had slicked-back hair, and they wore leather jackets and cheesy gold necklaces - typical Russian attire.
They weren't Russians, however. I heard them talk, and they definitely weren't speaking Russian. My dad looked at them disdainfully.
Dad: F***ing gypsies.
Dad: Yeah, look at them. Motherf***ers.
Me: How do you know they're gypsies?
Dad: I can tell. Lots of bad experiences with gypsies. I can spot them from a mile away. F***ing a**holes.
My mom interrupted my dad, who was staring down the gypsies with venomous hatred. "Anyone want appetizers?" she asked. I knew it was futile, but I flipped back to the appetizer section. Most of it looked like gibberish, though I did spot the sacrificed cat's hairballs - a fine Kyoto specialty.
Girlfriend: See anything you like?
Me: Mozzarella sticks.
I said this jokingly, though a part of my soul died in the process because I really did want mozzarella sticks. The waitress came by a couple of minutes later, and she asked what we wanted as appetizers.
"We'll take the mozzarella sticks," my girlfriend said.
The waitress sported a completely puzzled expression. I was equally confused. Were there really mozzarella sticks at a Japanese restaurant? I quickly glanced at the appetizer page to make sure, and unfortunately, there were not.
Me: I was kidding about the mozzarella sticks.
Girlfriend: You jerk!
Me: Of the week.
Girlfriend: You better not make me a Jerk of the Week, or I'll punch you!
Me: I think I'm the jerk for this one.
I said this in front of the waitress, but in truth, Kyoto is the real jerk. What sort of restaurant doesn't carry mozzarella sticks as appetizers? What an outrage. I feel like every restaurant should be required to carry mozzarella sticks, bacon cheeseburgers and cheese fries.
You might be thinking, Walt, why would a Japanese restaurant have those items when they're not Japanese? Well, to that, I would say that the Japanese should go f*** themselves and invent mozzarella sticks, bacon cheeseburgers and cheese fries. Because that's stuff people actually want to eat - unlike sacrificed cat hairballs.
Everyone was eating their salad when the hibachi master came along. Everyone but me, of course, because they put this yellow goo on my salad. It looked like mustard, and I hate mustard, so I opted not to eat it.
Sister: Why aren't you eating your salad?
Me: I hate mustard!
Sister: It's ginger.
Me: Same Japanese bulls***.
The hibachi master, meanwhile, was twirling his various tools in the air to impress the paying customers. This got me thinking - I wonder if hibachi masters are failed ninjas. Think about it - they can do all of this fancy stuff with knives and other utensils, and they can make cool fire, and yet all they do is work in a restaurant. I feel like these people went to ninja academy to become ninjas, but they either dropped out because they earned bad grades or got some skank pregnant.
The hibachi master did some neat aerial stuff with his utensils, and then he began squirting stuff onto the hibachi grill. He reached for the third bottle - one of the clear ones - and he dropped it. I wish I would've taken a picture of his face because I can't properly describe how depressed he was upon doing so. Hibachi masters are supposed to be super skillful to delight the customers, and he was until he dropped the bottle. He looked like he shamed his family and wanted to kill himself.
No wonder he never graduated ninja school, I thought.
The hibachi master began cooking stuff. As he was doing so, my girlfriend, who wasn't mad at me anymore - at least I hope not - got my attention.
"Look at the gypsies," she said. "Doesn't it look like they want to steal our souls by the way they're looking at our food?"
She was right. The gypsies were all watching our food cook with extreme envy. I could see why my dad hates them so much. I almost wanted to grab a hose and spray the gypsies with it so they'd run away. Everyone knows that gypsies hate high-pressure water, which is why they never shower; they bathe in rivers and other people's swimming pools instead.
Fortunately, they weren't getting any of the food the hibachi master was currently preparing. He eventually used the red squeeze bottle, and once again, it was a clear liquid. I cursed under my breath, but I was then relieved when clear liquid came out of the yellow bottle. I don't even care if it was urine; it would've been better than mustard or ginger, or whatever the hell the Japanese put on their salads to completely ruin them.
I quickly made a note to myself to bring a packet of Ranch dressing if I ever go to Kyoto again, so I can use it after asking them to hold the mustard. Of course, the note I took from the previous trip was to order steak and shrimp instead of chicken and shrimp. My girlfriend was confused when I made the order.
Girlfriend: I thought you liked chicken more than steak.
Me: I do, but they're going to give each of us some chicken, but only the people who order the steak will get steak. So, I'm basically going for all of the food items.
Girlfriend: I don't think it works that way.
Me: It does! Last time they gave my pieces of chicken to everyone!
Girlfriend: I think that was just shrimp and vegetables.
Me: Chicken too. Trust me, I got this all figured out.
Naturally, the hibachi master gave some vegetables to everyone, and he did the same thing for the shrimp. He dumped the rest of the shrimp onto my plate along with the rice. He did the same with the steak, only giving some to those who ordered it.
The chicken was last. My girlfriend could see I was getting my hopes up, so I guess she didn't want my dreams to get crushed. "I don't think you're getting any chicken, babe," she said.
"You'll see, I replied." The hibachi master dumped half the chicken onto my sister's plate and then the rest onto her fiance's plate. No more chicken. I did not get a single piece.
I CAN'T F***ING BELIEVE THIS BULLS***. WHY DOES EVERYONE GET PIECES OF MY SHRIMP, AND YET NO ONE GETS ANY PIECES OF CHICKEN OR STEAK!? WHY DID I HAVE TO GIVE MY PIECES OF CHICKEN AWAY LAST TIME!?!? F***ING A**HOLE JAPANESE PEOPLE. THEY SHOULD EITHER GIVE OUT NO SHRIMP TO ANYONE ELSE, OR GIVES PIECES OF CHICKEN AND STEAK TO EVERYONE ELSE! WHY IS IT DIFFERENT WITH CHICKEN AND STEAK!? IT'S F***ING BULLS*** AND I WON'T STAND FOR IT ANYMORE. I'M GLAD WE F***ING BOMBED JAPAN AFTER THE GERMANS ATTACKED PEARL HARBOR BECAUSE PEOPLE WERE PROBABLY F***ING PISSED THAT THE FAILED NINJA F*** HIBACHI MASTER A**HOLES GAVE EVERYONE PIECES AND SHRIMP, BUT THEY DIDN'T GET ANY F***ING PIECES OF F***ING STEAK OR CHICKEN! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sorry. Just got a tad bit pissed off.
I gulfed down the food. I was starving, so I quickly shoved everything into my mouth. My mom took notice and made a remark.
"Walt, looks like you don't hate Kyoto after all!"
I tried to answer, but my mouth was full. No, I still hate Kyoto. I despise Kyoto. But I'll eat steak, shrimp and rice, especially if I'm hungry. I just hate Kyoto and all Japanese restaurants for all of the ancillary reasons. Seriously, they can't have mozzarella sticks on their menu?
I could've used the mozzarella sticks because I was seriously still hungry after I cleaned up my plate. Ironically, my sister and mom, both of whom wanted to go to Kyoto, barely touched their food, as they asked the waitress for boxes. I, meanwhile, half-joked about wanting to go to the cheesesteak place across the street. OK, it was a non-joke. I could've devoured an entire cheesesteak after that meal. That's how ineffective Japanese food is for me.
I told my mom I was still starving, and she was surprised. "They have fried ice cream," she suggested.
Fried ice cream? I was shocked. I figured a typical Japanese dessert would be sacrificed cat's frozen breast milk. Fried ice cream would actually be something I'd enjoy.
My girlfriend was excited about the prospect as well. She asked the waitress if they had chocolate, but she responded, "Oh no, we onry have a vanirra and a green tea."
Green tea ice cream? God, this place sucks. Who the hell eats green tea ice cream? Gypsies, actually, because I heard one of them order some. F***ing a**holes.
At any rate, the fried ice cream arrived. Without any spoons. I don't know if the waitress forgot to give us any, or if it's Japanese custom to eat fried ice cream without any silverware. My girlfriend suddenly looked depressed. She didn't get her chocolate fried ice cream, and she couldn't even eat the vanilla type they gave us because we didn't receive any spoons.
I didn't ask her, but I think she would've agreed that a boring baseball game would've been better than this.