The Chef's Special
Tonight I got a bad haircut. I know, I know - it's trivial - but as Chance says "you don't want zero problems, big fella" and this trim was a fcking problem. The woman who incurred the damage was from Cincinnati and spent 40 minutes talking about Trump, trying to quit smoking, and how to properly moisturize my curls and frankly - I was exhausted by the end of it and looked like I had just gotten dolled up for my quinceañera. "You happy with the haircut, hon?" she asked me and I sort of did a Johnny Depp / Jack Sparrow half grin into the mirror. "It's lighter?" I said. (Dr. Melfi is sitting in a corner asking: now, Remy, why do you feel responsible for making other people happy?)
I left the salon and turned down Atlantic, thinking through the rest of my evening. I had planned on a summery - low fi dinner (a watermelon salad with red onion, feta, and mint) but that wasn't going to cut it now. No, I needed something decadent, seasonal, and memorable, something to cut through the disappointment (and two bottles of leave-in conditioner) which were now my sad fate. And so I did what any basic bitch would do: I decided on revenge sushi. I stomped my way down Atlantic past the aromatic oil dispatchers, fertility specialists, and dodgy looking clothing depots and took a right on Flatbush Ave, headed to Geido. Geido is a new favorite - thank you, EERF, for the introduction - and is the perfect spot for a solo dinner.
I hit up Duane Reade to scoop up "Rolling Stone" and "Fast Company" (reading always makes me feel a lil less alone, ya dig?) and took a seat at Geido's counter with my cheddar and my bougie broken heart, savoring the fan, anonymity, and luxury of a menu all to myself.
For all my stated individuality (cue Jason Derulo's "miss independent"), I'm not always comfortable eating alone. There's something deeply communal about eating at a restaurant that sometimes feel sacrilegious (selfish even?) to trot out alone but tonight I felt totally at ease, happy to have an experience to myself. I took a few minutes to peruse the menu and quickly decided on a cold beer (had to) and the "Omakase" special - the chef's seasonal choice. The Sapporo was delivered quickly, delightfully cold and I sipped it slowly, making notes to myself as I went (ooh Al Green did a remix with Disclosure? New York is going to be swallowed whole by Global Warming?) when the main event was delivered to me: 5 pieces of silvery sushi. Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure what was on the plate. "Would you mind telling me what these are?" I said to the waitress and she giggled, gave a conspiratorial look to the sushi chef and replied "one is tuna!" I believe I had some combination of sea bass, tuna, yellow tail, and salmon and they were all deeply delish. The fish was airy, buttery, fatty and lean, playing with hints of citrus, sesame and spice. I added some wasabi to the mix and sighed to myself happily as the tiny (caviar?) eggs hit the back of my throat. The haircut was receding into the background.
"Can I get you anything else, mees?" the waitress asked. On a whim I had to go for the hometown hero, pork gyozo, to round things out. She brought me a small plate of the dumplings and they were perfection - just out of the pan with the slightest oily lace hanging to edges and all heat inside. I flipped to the next page of "Rolling Stone" and raised my beer to Drake, grateful for R&B, dancehall remixes, and another night in BK.