Recently, I flew to Wisconsin for a three-day business trip. One evening, our hosts took us to a fancy Japanese restaurant that is renowned for its sushi.
“Wisconsin sushi?” I asked. “Do they pour melted cheese all over the raw fish?”
Neither the traditional style of sushi nor the imagined Wisconsin style appealed to me very much. I’m lactose intolerant, so cheese-covered anything is a problem, even if it makes raw fish taste better. By the way, in Wisconsin, they seemingly put cheese on everything, from cupcakes to bananas to cheddar-flavored glue on the back of postage stamps.
My business trip was a non-stop exercise in dairy vigilance, and I carefully examined every morsel of food I ate. I’m happy to report that I successfully avoided consuming any cheese-laden cuisine during my 72-hour stay in the Cheese Capital of America, despite multiple wait staff personnel who insisted, “Ooh, but ya just gotta have some cheese curds when ya visit Wiz-KAHN-sin, doontcha?”
I’m relieved to report that no one at the fancy Japanese restaurant thought it would be a good idea to pour melted cheese on the raw fish. In fact, our waiter didn’t even think the idea was remotely humorous, even when I added an exaggerated, “Ha ha!” after playfully asking the question. He just kind of stared at me with a “And these guys from the East Coast think WE’RE rubes” smirk on his face.
So, there was no cheese on the sushi, which was good. But that still left the sushi, which was not so good.
I’m relieved to report that no one at the fancy Japanese restaurant thought it would be a good idea to pour melted cheese on the raw fish. In fact, our waiter didn’t even think the idea was remotely humorous, even when I added an exaggerated, “Ha ha!” after playfully asking the question. He just kind of stared at me with a “And these guys from the East Coast think WE’RE rubes” smirk on his face.
So, there was no cheese on the sushi, which was good. But that still left the sushi, which was not so good.
Let me digress for a moment. I am at the stage in life where I freely acknowledge that I am not in the Cool Kids Club. And I’m at peace with it. There were times in my life when I desperately wanted to be classy and stylish, and I tried really hard to act the part. But no more.
Even back in the days when I wanted to be hip, I could never bring myself to embrace sushi. I certainly tried. I would listen attentively when my fancy friends and associates gushed rapturously about sushi, and then I’d look on in wide-eyed wonder as they emitted an ecstatic “Mmm!” while placing a piece in their mouths.
To me, raw fish and rice tasted exactly as I expected it to taste: like nothing. Dipping it in soy sauce helped to add a little flavor, and that green wasabi really cleans out your sinuses in a hurry. But every time I’ve eaten a piece of sushi, I did not offer a Meg Ryanesque moan. Instead, I smiled politely at my dinner companions and thought, “One minute each side on a gas grille would make this thing taste SO much better.”
Even back in the days when I wanted to be hip, I could never bring myself to embrace sushi. I certainly tried. I would listen attentively when my fancy friends and associates gushed rapturously about sushi, and then I’d look on in wide-eyed wonder as they emitted an ecstatic “Mmm!” while placing a piece in their mouths.
To me, raw fish and rice tasted exactly as I expected it to taste: like nothing. Dipping it in soy sauce helped to add a little flavor, and that green wasabi really cleans out your sinuses in a hurry. But every time I’ve eaten a piece of sushi, I did not offer a Meg Ryanesque moan. Instead, I smiled politely at my dinner companions and thought, “One minute each side on a gas grille would make this thing taste SO much better.”
Based on the cold reception my first attempt at humor received, I decided not to ask the waiter, “Hey, can you bring some ketchup?” Even though I don’t care about being classy anymore, I knew a ketchup crack in that fancy restaurant would be a Jethro Bodine-level gaff.
Out of curiosity, I did a Google search for the phrase, “Wisconsin sushi.” To my surprise, there is such a thing, but it has nothing to do with fish or fancy restaurants. The expression is kind of a joke. Wisconsin sushi is made by taking a little pickle and wrapping layers of cheese and ham around it. Then, you slice it into small pieces so it kind of looks like real sushi.
Out of curiosity, I did a Google search for the phrase, “Wisconsin sushi.” To my surprise, there is such a thing, but it has nothing to do with fish or fancy restaurants. The expression is kind of a joke. Wisconsin sushi is made by taking a little pickle and wrapping layers of cheese and ham around it. Then, you slice it into small pieces so it kind of looks like real sushi.
It’s the type of thing someone would serve to friends while watching a Packers game on TV — with everyone proudly wearing their oversized cheese-head hats.
Those are my kind of people, and that’s my kind of sushi — except, of course, for the cheese.
Those are my kind of people, and that’s my kind of sushi — except, of course, for the cheese.
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