We have developed a serious sushi addiction. It all started innocently enough, I swear.
I used to live in Vancouver, a city renowned for its exceptional sushi. Amazing, and ubiquitous– there are over 600 sushi outlets in Metro Vancouver. So as a student, there was always good food close by, even when the budget was meagre.
When I had my son, Sam, every morning we would go to the park, or the library, or out walking somewhere (I was walking, he was in a stroller) and when lunchtime rolled around, my natural inclination was to go for sushi. And practically as soon as he could eat solid food, we did.
Fast forward many years later, to now. Living in the forest. Lunch fare switched to sandwiches–we have wicked panini-press skills–or the house favourite, chicken noodle soup, or leftovers from last night’s dinner. I’ve tried to make California Rolls and miso soup, and although good, just not great.
But then one day, in the nearby town that we take the 8 miles journey to every few days (mainly whenever we run out of wine), a little sushi restaurant opened. Quietly, low-key–it just kind of popped up–right across the street from the only food market. So naturally, we decided to check it out.
It wasn’t just good; it was excellent. So, as much as we loved the hot, Gruyere-gooey, pesto-infused, salami-laden grilled sandwiches, the sushi worked its magic on our palette. We began to crave the salt of seaweed, the heat of wasabi, the cool freshness of raw fish.
Let’s just say, we’ve become regulars. Sometimes we eat in; sometimes we phone for take-out. Now the “treat” my boys want isn’t a doughnut from Tim Horton’s, or ice-cream from the store; it’s sushi.
How can Boston Cream compare to Monkey Brain?
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