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SUSHIOLOGY 101 With more raw fish on Division Street, Newcity swims with the school
I had to be plastered and it had to be right after this year's Oscars to wind up drinking gold-flecked sake for last call at Mirai. I had no delusions about my date or our shared laughter, the room was warm and friendly, the staff trim and cool, and the other customers less than the sum of the sweet burn of the pricey pour. Atmosphere was all. I didn't make it back for the fish until Friday the thirteenth of last month, when one of my best friends rang me up and reported he was ready to go out for dinner for the first time since recovering from major brain surgery. Something better than cheeseburgers and some place not too loud, as the accompanying steroid treatments made his anger surge. How about a super-popular Division Street sushi joint at eight on a Friday night? Perfect. Division Street wears its celebrated tradition of immigrants and emigrants and shifts and changes, literary and literal, on its bookshelves. How many apartments within a mile of Wicker Park have barely-cracked copies of Studs Terkel's "Division Street: America" on the windowsills? We got a table on the sidewalk, and, as the full moon rose behind scudding bars of charcoal smudge, we piled on the basics: I was dying for Udon noodles, which came in a flavorful, not-too-rich broth with tempura vegetables, which I set to dipping. Two were special, a sweet contrast between pillowy shitake and brisk mint-leaf with plum paste. There's a light breeze and we're away from the conversational din inside. It's all good: Tuna roll, wild yellow tail (buri) and salmon (sake) and freshwater eel (unagi). The waitress is funny, obsessed with the rare conjunction of the full moon, Friday the thirteenth, and the traffic light that had been out for an hour at Damen and Division. It's perfect; my friend and I laugh at life, the moon, the increasingly drunk and loud and vacuous table beside us, and at ourselves, and we order another round of sushi, appreciating the fish but also the unusually moist, dense ball of rice that Mirai serves. Raw fish and rawer truth, from Nelson Algren's "City on the Make": "And Chicago divided your heart. Leaving you loving the joint for keeps. Yet knowing it will never love you." Cities change as quickly as we allow ourselves to change our minds about them. So, too, do culinary trends. In an era when sushi is served at Bridgeport all-you-can-eat buffets, you start to wonder if anyone knows what truly good sushi should be. Bob San, another sushi restaurant, opened cheek-by-jowl with sturdy Leo's Lunchroom. I visit with a great friend at Bob San's, open until midnight, and we ate late on an off night, spotting only a couple of neighborhood faces before ducking to our table. Again: solicitous, amusing service. And on this quiet night, a respite from the incessant stream of the eager-to-be-pleased at Mirai. We share a spicy tuna roll, which, when split for two, had a curious burrito-like consistency. A salmon skin (sake) hand roll had delicious crisp bits that when dropped sent chopsticks dueling. Other bites were disappointingly mild-bland more than agreeable-such as sea water eel (anago); a prosaic asparagus beef dish, with fibrous asparagus and tasteless beef in a lackluster marinade; and a pale bit of snapper that left a lingering, odd but not unpleasant chlorophyll taste. Worse was the spicy scallop, its zest more picante than what we thought we knew to be Japanese. Best were the edamame, the soybeans moist as we popped them out of their pods, with a light, toasty savor. A few nights later, we impulsively check into Mirai. While a few parties of destination-driven, too-cool-for-their-shoes, gracelessly aging thirtysomethings herded loudly through the room in ostentatious layers of leather -- in a virtuous world, the cow would be wearing them -- the meal was a revelation. A server going off duty offered suggestions before our own arrived, and we were both simply anxious for good, simple flavors. Kani nigiri, king crab marinated in a spicy sauce, was both cool and pungent in a single fresh bite. Madai, Japanese red snapper, had a so-fresh, meltaway texture, subtle enough not to mask the gentle notes of the vinegar between the fish and rice. The anago, again, a bold contrast from what we had a few nights earlier, elsewhere. Simple, vivid and memorable. The distance between the two meals was more than a city block. Kanpachi, Japanese amber jack, had us rolling our eyes until we could swallow and then smile. Food, atmosphere and savor matter. We eat, we survive, we thrive. Little bites get us through life. The big bites are when setting and situation provide social grace notes, a kind of effortlessness and conversation that requires no-second-guessing which makes the transitory experience of the nosh something more than brief moments, digested, discarded. "Narrative bliss," the French essayist Roland Barthes called it: anecdotes and sweet bites alternate, a form of storytelling told by two. (Tell me about your food. Tell me about your day. Tell me about you.) The elegant simplicity of a proper, traditional-sized morsel of sushi means the food does not get in the way. We ordered a couple more pieces, a couple more, okinomi style, the sushi bar was closing, she was going, the fragrant fish would soon be memory, I finished my Kirin, the room was emptier, emptier: I watched her face. Some things are fresher than others. Bob San, 1805-07 West Division, (773)235-8888 Also by Ray Pride INTIMATE LIGHTNING
AMERICAN POP
TICKLE ME DEADLY
WEST IS EAST
THE FODDER OF OUR COUNTRY
HOW THE FEST WAS WON
DIRTY LOOKS & SMILES
RAGING HORMONES
THE WHITE ALBUM
IN THE COMPANY OF RENEE
VOICES CARRY
BENT
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