Hitting The Wall of Sushi
I've always hated the taste of fish.
Over the years I have developed an appreciation for crayfish, scallops and prawns, but I can't stomach fish.
Dates back to Friday nights at O'Rorke Hall where blind ripping drunk from The Globe (now deceased) we would stumble into dinner and eat the standard fish and chips. One night the fish tasted so bad that a food fight erupted. I of course did not start this by tripping up the geekiest pillock in the hostel who then proceeded to spread himself eagle with his tray of fish and chips all over the table containing the front row of the hostel rugby team. But the mental aftertaste of that batch of the worst fish ever caught in the history of the world was enough from age 17 to be totally averse to eating fish.
While in Auckland last October I was starving mid-afternoon and sick of eating cafe food so I popped into the sushi place opposite Rebel Sport in town. There I ate teriyaki chicken and kiwi sushi. It was fucking great. So I had a sushi thing going. It's apparently very healthy and like when I discover anything cylindrical and new I went days and days in a row eating the stuff.
Hong Kong sushi consists however not of lovely beef, chicken and lamb flavours with rice (all ingredients that I like), but fish, tuna and crab meat. The only sushi I can eat here are California Rolls and the salmon ones. So I tucked into them for weeks on end. I do inform you that the health benefits are amazing.
But tonight it ended. I had my last California roll. As it entered my mouth through the chopstick, instead of biting down on the morsel to indulge in the flavour of crab, avocado and rice, I attempted to swallow and spat it all back out again.
The smell of the stuff was making me so sick that I had to take it out to the waste bin. It was not off. I had hit the giant wall of sushi.
As I washed my mouth out with the greatest alcohol replacement for detox purposes, diet Bundaberg, I wondered just how the fuck I went so long eating such supremely girlie shit that basically tastes like paper with the texture and smell of baby's vomit.
I am going out tomorrow night for dinner so I think I will have a nice big juicy NZ eye fillet steak to celebrate my return from turning Japanese.
Over the years I have developed an appreciation for crayfish, scallops and prawns, but I can't stomach fish.
Dates back to Friday nights at O'Rorke Hall where blind ripping drunk from The Globe (now deceased) we would stumble into dinner and eat the standard fish and chips. One night the fish tasted so bad that a food fight erupted. I of course did not start this by tripping up the geekiest pillock in the hostel who then proceeded to spread himself eagle with his tray of fish and chips all over the table containing the front row of the hostel rugby team. But the mental aftertaste of that batch of the worst fish ever caught in the history of the world was enough from age 17 to be totally averse to eating fish.
While in Auckland last October I was starving mid-afternoon and sick of eating cafe food so I popped into the sushi place opposite Rebel Sport in town. There I ate teriyaki chicken and kiwi sushi. It was fucking great. So I had a sushi thing going. It's apparently very healthy and like when I discover anything cylindrical and new I went days and days in a row eating the stuff.
Hong Kong sushi consists however not of lovely beef, chicken and lamb flavours with rice (all ingredients that I like), but fish, tuna and crab meat. The only sushi I can eat here are California Rolls and the salmon ones. So I tucked into them for weeks on end. I do inform you that the health benefits are amazing.
But tonight it ended. I had my last California roll. As it entered my mouth through the chopstick, instead of biting down on the morsel to indulge in the flavour of crab, avocado and rice, I attempted to swallow and spat it all back out again.
The smell of the stuff was making me so sick that I had to take it out to the waste bin. It was not off. I had hit the giant wall of sushi.
As I washed my mouth out with the greatest alcohol replacement for detox purposes, diet Bundaberg, I wondered just how the fuck I went so long eating such supremely girlie shit that basically tastes like paper with the texture and smell of baby's vomit.
I am going out tomorrow night for dinner so I think I will have a nice big juicy NZ eye fillet steak to celebrate my return from turning Japanese.
posted by Cactus Kate at 12:59 AM
2 Comments:
There was NOTHING, not even the random pieces of Zandria (the cook's) hair, that I despised more than the cruel joke that was friday night fish and chips at O'rorke hall.
That is .. except for the leftovers being served on Saturday night..
Harden up Cacko! I did not spend years of my life in all weathers catching good fish so you could turn your nose up and go eewwww.
If fish is bad take it back to the vendor and tell them to eat it. You wouldn't eat rotten meat why let a fish merchant get away with it? As for sushi, no self respecting Japanese atami would let women prepare sushi as the perfumed soaps and hand creme residues taint the product. What passes for sushi and sashimi in NZ is crap, the MacDonalds of the fish world; prepared by female immigrants as a stepping stone in their commercial life. Most never ate it at home [let alone prepared it] before they came here.
Remember that Scotland got it's brains from the herring...that per my Irish grandmother.
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