I’ve been playing Luigi’s hostess for almost a week; for the most part, I’ve felt like a failure. We had a great weekend, but let’s face it, during the week I work and I’m not living in a public transportation friendly city. He has been a bit bound to my place and my hood. However, last night I felt some easing of consciousness. Mainly because of RuSan’s. It’s fishy magic, I promise.
You see, in the land of great pasta, meats, wine, et cetera it is difficult to complain. But complain I did, loudly, over the state of certain things. For example, a scarcity of international flare at the table. It’s true. Italians can cook their own dishes like no other. Yet there is a certain timidity when it comes to leaving the borders. Sure, exceptions are made and I was lucky (with the help of Luigi) to find an Indian take away that was lovely. My last year there I found what I consider passable Chinese. But I never really embraced the sushi there. If I liked it at all, it was too expensive and by far inferior to what I was accustomed. I extended my sushi snobbery to a new extreme when I blah blahed about some (albeit cheap) sushi in New York.
After such a build up, I was a bit nervous. But in my core knew I was right. And I was. After he saw the prices and tasted the goods, Mr. Picky (as opposed to my Ms. Selective) exclaimed it to be the best sushi he’d ever had. Ha! All poor hostessing guilt fled. My fears back to the corner. Ah RuSan’s, what would I do without you?