Rice is often served in round bowls.
I have hardly a reason for saying this, as it’s mostly nonsense, a maimed man’s attempt to make sense of things, but I see no reason to serve rice in round bowls.
Had it been a plate, I’d be able to close my hand right now.
I knew they were bad, that gaggle of frat morons, that pack of turds. There should have been a sign above the entrance that read, “Hot sake is not a jello shot.” Or at least, “No class, no service.”
When Ben arrived at the hibachi table the meatheads were hammered, and they screamed “Bonzai” as he unpacked his sauces, squirted oil on the hot steel cooktop, tossed his knives in the air – a shtick samurai – and diced onions like Art Blakey on a drum break.
It was a normal part of the show, when after dishing out the rice in twelve equal portions, in twelve round bowls, he lined up a few onion pieces to fling at the diners’ mouths. The gimmick was simple, wholesome fun, meant to help people to drop their guards and laugh at life as they opened their mouths and tried to catch the flying onions on their tongues.
But then Ben hit one of the idiots in the eye, and after maybe twenty seconds of “fucks” and “assholes” – Ben apologizing, of course – one of the morons grabbed the rice and tossed it at the chef.
The sick cackle that followed makes me wretch to think about. That such cognizant manure exists is our fault, my fault.
And the group took turns pelting Ben with hibachi rice, as people stood up, yelled or silently left.
As manager, I should have been more civil, called the cops, escorted Ben to the kitchen and calmly asked the rioters to leave. But civil would have them win, those fools who throw rice.
I was tossed over the table. My hand landed on a round bowl that flipped when I put my weight on it, so my flesh slid onto the steel.
And the burn was awful.