I sat on the stool at a strange angle. Its edge dug into my thigh and left a sting after I hopped off. Another customer was next to me asking for his usual. What was his usual? The Sushi chef nodded and went to his small kitchen. I remember the noise, the heat of that busy indoor market. The sense of inprisonment by the walls and ceiling, making me wonder when I'd see the sun again.
The sun was an unusual concept here. Constantly it hid from our sight behind the great blankets of grey cloud that promised to wring out its cold, heartless rain. And the breeze. Always, always a breeze from the sea-front. Either blustering past us or caressing our faces, teasing us. At least on the few hot days we experienced per miserable year we could be assured our own city-wide cooling system.
Finally I saw the chef bring out four slim, perfectly pink fillets of salmon. He laid them on a stone plate, like an offering on an altar. He bought out a blow torch and I watched, fascinated as the heat of the flame he commanded distressed the perfect, pink flesh.The skin bubbled, fizzed. It cracked and popped open. The sound fed my ears with sizzles and hisses of agony. The vaporised, transendant remains of the whitening, browning sacrifice teased and flirted with my sense of smell.
The Chef laid his masterpiece on some fluffy white rice and drizzled a sticky sauce over it. He handed the food over to the customer without any more show and smiled.
And so the spell over me broke and I sat back on my stool in the same, uncomfortable angle.
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