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Sushi story
Apr. 8th, 2006 08:13 pmI walk past the bus depot today on my way to the art supply store and see a sign in the window: "Sushi". Sushi at the bus station – a very Vancouver thing to have.
After purchasing some small indulgences at the store, I pass by the bus station again on my way home. I enter impulsively. From the outside of the bus station, the mysterious sushi sign was in the far right window of the large building and I enter the building through the doors at the center – I can't see the restaurant upon entering the station. I begin to follow the signs that indicate, through pictographs, the way to food.
Sushi at the bus station. I imagine a humble little restaurant, with only a bar and a couple of tiny tables with uncomfortable chairs. In my mind, it is clean, but plain. One sushi chef, the owner, works behind the bar, and his wife handles the money and serves tea in Styrofoam cups. I imagine that it is a place of the most delicious, fresh sushi, served simply but attractively. They have regulars, who don't share this secret treasure with many people for fear that it would become too busy and that prices would skyrocket. Their other customers are the lucky ones who get off the bus hungry or who need a quick bite to eat before they depart.
Sushi at the bus station. I guess it is more likely to be a little storefront selling prepackaged sushi of uncertain age or origin. Perhaps it makes someone sick once in a while, when they eat it right before a swaying bus ride. More likely, it is just rubbery and bland.
I don't turn the corner of the bus station to see the sushi restaurant. I don't want to know whether something precious or something mediocre lies that way – I like the not-knowing better. Instead, I turn into a magazine store and buy a fat Saturday paper that I won't read until tomorrow, then I leave the bus station for home.
After purchasing some small indulgences at the store, I pass by the bus station again on my way home. I enter impulsively. From the outside of the bus station, the mysterious sushi sign was in the far right window of the large building and I enter the building through the doors at the center – I can't see the restaurant upon entering the station. I begin to follow the signs that indicate, through pictographs, the way to food.
Sushi at the bus station. I imagine a humble little restaurant, with only a bar and a couple of tiny tables with uncomfortable chairs. In my mind, it is clean, but plain. One sushi chef, the owner, works behind the bar, and his wife handles the money and serves tea in Styrofoam cups. I imagine that it is a place of the most delicious, fresh sushi, served simply but attractively. They have regulars, who don't share this secret treasure with many people for fear that it would become too busy and that prices would skyrocket. Their other customers are the lucky ones who get off the bus hungry or who need a quick bite to eat before they depart.
Sushi at the bus station. I guess it is more likely to be a little storefront selling prepackaged sushi of uncertain age or origin. Perhaps it makes someone sick once in a while, when they eat it right before a swaying bus ride. More likely, it is just rubbery and bland.
I don't turn the corner of the bus station to see the sushi restaurant. I don't want to know whether something precious or something mediocre lies that way – I like the not-knowing better. Instead, I turn into a magazine store and buy a fat Saturday paper that I won't read until tomorrow, then I leave the bus station for home.
