Gari: Cue Barry White, Fade into Vivaldi
Oh. My. Goonness. While your head is about to spin from a sincere usage of the word "CAD" which I think is Old Latin for "tiny hat," your amygdala is also about to throb, with panicked fear, as you read the following opening paragraph of this week's review, in which the count will literally refer to a former habit of wanton, promiscuous degradation of flesh:
"I am ashamed of my past. Horrified by it, really. I need to glance back only a little more than a decade to catch a glimpse of my wantonness, to see myself treating something precious as if it were just so much flesh. When it came to sushi, I was a cad. I degraded it with excess wasabi paste, and my use of soy sauce was nothing short of promiscuous."
(For more on "soy sauce; promiscuous uses of" please see this guy:)
But in short, ladies, just before you slapped a second padlock on your panties, you realized the real victim of Frank's kinky indiscriminate soy-play: mediocre sushi. As Frank explains, we have an abundance of fresh, delicious sushi in the city these days, but when Frank was younger, navigating the virgin web of medieval New York's many canals and foot trails, they had NO idea what to do with raw fish.
Personally, I like to be generous with the wasabi--sure, occasionally I'll end up grabbing my tits, screaming "uncle" and pounding milk, but I think people agree I'm pretty tough. But wasabi and soy are irrelevant at Gari, which serves pre-garnished sushi, where yellowtail gets "caressed with sesame paste" and bluefin "sports an ecru plumage of tofu mousse."
aha. artfully prepared indeed.
But don't let all this caressing and crowning and plumage lull you into thinking something terribly sad and violent didn't happen at one of Frank's dinners at Gari. The getaway tracks still fuming from the pavement and three geishas down with head wounds, Frank stands outside the restaurant, reporting dutifully into a bamboo sake cask he grips like a mike: "an à la carte maki roll of fried oysters... were held hostage by a ruthlessly unctuous mayonnaise."
Thanks Frank. Now back to you Frank, with Sports. JK!! With a serene and humble conclusion, that is.
"I consumed the luscious toro as it was, even though the barest dab of wasabi or the subtlest splash of soy sauce would have been O.K. Now that I'm older and wiser, I know how to show a little restraint and respect."
While I would venture to say that RESTRAINT could steal Frank's purse a thousand times before he could so much as pick it out of a police lineup (for which I am profoundly grateful), it's good to know he's reformed from blindly bangin' every piece of tail he can get his chopsticks around, and carelessly bathing them in a "salty murk". And by tail I mean yellowtail...[cricket chirp]...of course...
And so after lathering my screen up with those lascivious--and laudatory-- murmurs, Frank calls Gari pricy, gives 'em the ol' vampire bite (2 stars), mops his brow with a satin doily and retreats to his villa.
P.S. Because I feel inexplicably dirty for writing (well, citing) the "salty murk" bit, I'm posting a picture of this wholesome Nigerian dwarf dairy goat.
SOMEONE MILK THAT TINY EWE!