This is how it’s done. The Roger Federer of Sushi, the Michael Andretti, dare I say, the Steve McQueen. How easily can a master shame an entire city? I speak of my hometown, more importantly, I speak of my hometown sushi chefs. In recent years, the quality of Japanese food has decreased somewhat where I live. Don’t get me wrong, we have many options, around ten in fact. And most of them…kind of…well…suck. A few are dreadful while others gain a passing grade only out of desperation. Some fail because of a limited menu, others because they cut their sushi too large. Some simply lack passion, or at the very least, an actual sushi bar.
Ultimately, my point is that years ago, after the closing of a favored Japanese restaurant, I began searching for a replacement. To this day, that has yet to occur locally. When I travel, I inevitably find surrogates. My demands are simple. I require a dominating sushi bar and a relatively intimate atmosphere. I require a charismatic chef with unequalled knife skills. And of course, I require the food to be good. Every time I go on vacation, I always insist on sushi at least once. In Banff, I found Samurai. Those 200+ words of preamble was necessary for the following statement to carry the necessary weight: I really wish Samurai was in my hometown.
Granted, such quality comes at a cost, prohibiting it as a weekly indulgence, perhaps monthly. But it’s depressing I found such superior sushi hiding, literally hiding, in the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel. My girlfriend and I weren’t staying there, just freeloading on the free entertainment, snapping photos and browsing the incredible architecture. We had planned to eat somewhere, but where…
Then someone mentioned sushi, and I became excited to the point of being borderline aroused. We went searching, almost gave up a few times. In the end, I almost ran into it, Samurai—okay, the name sucks. Sorry, to break out of the moment, but really? Samurai Sushi? I thought the names of Japanese restaurants in my hometown were bad. Sushi Hut? Wasabi Sushi? Might as well call it “Japanese Typecast”. Is it such a chore to give it at least an original name, something cool, like Japanese words with six or seven syllables? I mean, you could’ve translated the address number into Japanese, and that would’ve been more interesting.
The fish are brought in via plane per the claim. All right then. So does the mail; I’m not sure why that’s special. It could’ve been brought in by truck—Vancouver is like eight hours away. That one good sushi restaurant in Prince George I alluded to brought in stock via ground from Vancouver—they did just fine. But that’s unimportant; what’s important is how good the itamae is. Has he proven himself? Not just how he handles the fish, but how he handles his knives or his clients? The art is as much in his interaction with customers as his creation of sushi.
Fear not. My eyes were locked on him like a lava lamp; if the itamae was the Ark of the Covenant, my head would have exploded. It was perfect, every cut, ever form. This was what I was waiting for. A rainbow of nigiri—shrimp, scallop, tuna, salmon. The whole experience was painfully short. I tried to extend the joy with casual conversation, but eventually, I had to swallow the last bite. It was not some strange fusion cuisine. There were no deep-fried rolls or pizza sushi. This was a classic serving, like watching a Spielberg movie. It looks easy, but if it were, everyone would be doing it.
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