I have a confession to make.
I hate sushi, sashimi, soy and any other food group even remotely Japanese (Yeah, I’m looking at you wasabi peas!). There I said it! Bring on the jeers, hisses and anally aimed pitchforks – I just don’t care anymore. Truth be told though, I used to love sushi. Allot. That all changed yesterday though. The day I lost, in seaweed wrapped gangbang, my Sushi buffet all-you-can-eat virginity. All too clearly, I remember the sickness and the hard intense searing pain like I was being ripped apart down THeRe (my stomach).

That night I had owed Cara dinner (for just what exactly I doubt I’ll ever know). Sadist that she is, she suggested sushi at a newly opened Japanese buffet style restaurant. Now let me get this straight for the record: I fucking hate buffets. Why anyone would actually want to eat “all they can eat” is far beyond me. Despite this, I get invited to them all the time. Usually it’s something like this:

“Oh my fuckin’ god, [Sushi or whatever] buffet only is 15$ tomorrow!! What a hype deal, you gotta come!”

Me: “Oh hell no.”

How is 15$ a good deal, when all I can eat without dying is less than half that? Going to a buffet feels like a war has been declared against my stomach: the side of me that actually thinks is fighting to get me to stop, the side of me that’s brown is telling me to keep eating, to get the most bang for my buck. Except the bang in this case is my fucking brain exploding.

Last night was no different. Well, it was a little different. I’m used to the kind of buffet where the food is in arranged in what can only be described as trough-like dispensaries and each little boy and girl are given a plate (as many plates as they want in fact) and told to load it up with all they could ever want. At Saké (the name of the place), they do what I’m told is apparently high-class buffet (I figured the two words were oxymorons)..

So here’s the rub.
At the start of the meal, we’re given a piece of paper that lists in a table all the many different things they offer. Beside each thing we want, we’re supposed to write down how much we want of it. Then, a waitress will come over and send the page to the chefs who’ll make our sushi, sashimi, soups etc. Sounds okay so far right?

So here’s the next rub.
To prevent people from ordering too much (and lowering their profits), saké makes you pay extra for any excess food that you aren’t able to finish. Which does make sense..

And so we’re rubbing again (I came).
After our first order we were pleasantly full, so on our second sheet we decided against ordering too much and so only ordered 1-2 of each item. They pretty much ignored that. The huge meat-laden platters came one after another, and with each one, just another piece of me died. It got so bad, that as waitresses were walking towards us I started to pray that the dishes they were carrying weren’t destined for us.

For the first time, a restaurant visit filled me with fear. We did our best, I almost died. In the car afterwards, she tried to kiss me. Her gently slithering tongue felt like raw tuna sashimi. I recoiled in horror.

Writing this all out was painful, it was almost like I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again. Thanks a lot Saké, you killed sushi for me.

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There was a time when I would’ve loved to have a pillow like this. Now, it would just give me nightmares.

Food - YUM! //