Sushi and Jazz

Mellow jazz notes drifted onto the pedestrian street connecting Santo Domingo and the Zocalo.  We followed our ears into a large colonial building which has been converted into stylish shops and restaurants.  We recognized Miguel Samperio, our favorite saxophone player, who accompanied by a vocalist and a keyboard was rendering old favorites.  They were playing in a restauarant, which, to my knowledge, was the first sushi place in Oaxaca.  The restaurant was overfilled with a festive and noisy crowd, munching sushi, and sipping wine.  Before I could ascertain whether we wondered into a private party, a large smiling man came over.
"This is our inauguration night." he said in English, "Please enjoy the food and drinks.  They are free."

We sat by the sushi bar and ordered a tuna nigiri.  A young man, wearing a suit and a well groomed pony tail, filled our glasses with Argentinean malbec.  The malbec had a pleasing aroma, medium body, and fruity after-taste.
'So far, so good.'
With wine in hand, we relaxed and focused on the chef. He worked frantically to fulfill the hunger of the large crowd, yet kept his good spirits intact.  His smile exposed a silver front tooth that sparkled like a star in the bright lights.  No, he told us, he did not learn his trade in Japan, but in Tucson, Arizona, and has been a sushi chef in Mexico City for some years.  While waiting for the maguro, we grabbed a couple of slices of california rolls from a tray, which a heavy-set girl was circulating around the room.  In front of us, as on all the other tables, was a bowl of heavy soy sauce. Floating in the sauce were sesame seeds and sliced shallots.  I doused the roll in the sauce, put it in my mouth, and then, my breathing came to a sudden stop. When I could finally inhale and swallow, my eyes were tearing, and my mouth was seared.  Apparently, the green slices were not shallots but jalapeno, of the hottest variety.  I could not help but laugh.  The maguro arrived, and I painted it with only a microscopic amount of sauce.  I found the rice to be acceptable, the fish fresh, and the assembly containing an appropriate amount of wasabi.  Overall the nigiri was different from standard, but good.  Perhaps you can't expect sushi in Oaxaca to taste the same as in San Francisco.  Our next request, the tokyo roll, was one of the most colorful creations I have ever seen, and had a flavor to match.  We continued with more rolls off the travelling tray. Without any sauce, all the rolls tasted conventionally agreeable.  Adi, more accustomed to spicy food, dipped her rolls liberally, until a slice of jalapeno lodged between her teeth.  The acute pain that ensued, ended her eating binge.

The Jazz trio left for their next gig, we took another sip of the Malbec and approached the owner.
I congratulated him, and wished him good luck.
"Oaxaca needed a sushi restaurant."  I told him.
"How did you like the food?"  he asked.
I told him that the sushi was good, and that this was my first experience tasting soy sauce with jalapeno.
"And how did you like it?"  he inquired, suddenly alert.
I lied.

Oaxaca did need a sushi restaurant, and to make up for my lie, we will return soon.  This time, I will insist on pure soy sauce.

Oaxaca

HOME:  Noun
             בית
             집
             hogar
Definitions:

1. A place to rest after a long trip
2. A place to learn swimming and drawing
3. A place to make salad and bake bread
4. A place to meet friends
5. A place to plan the next long trip

Antonym:  Hotel room

Use:  We are back home, in Oaxaca.

Sab'res

There are two ways to contend with summer heat in Israel.  First, do as little as possible; second, ingest cold and sweet foodstuff.  I was sitting outside my brother’s home; doing the first, contemplating the second, when across the lawn I saw Pnina, the attractive next-door neighbor.

“Hi Tsahi, would you like some sab’res?” she asked.

I love rhetorical questions from beautiful women, but what made this offer especially noteworthy, is that Pnina may be the only Jewish person in the Land of Israel that harvests her own prickly pears.

Like most Israelis, I love sab’res.  The chilled fruit is the perfect summer treat.  Although the contradiction of soft flesh and hundreds of hard seed, presents a chewing challenge, the reward is sweet and juicy.  During the middle of summer, the fruit turns an inviting orange color, and is ready to eat.  As children growing up in the semi-rural town of Tivon, we would brave the heat, venture out to the nearby cactus patch, and collect as much as we could of the delicacy.

The procedure sounds easy.  Attach a tin can to a broomstick, use this tool to pluck the ripe sab’res off the plant, peel, chill (Optional step), and eat.  However, by the time you arrive at the site, all the easily-accessible fruit are, most likely, gone, and you will need to penetrate the heart of the patch.  Protective clothing and a careful approach may get you past the long dangerous thorns without suffering too much damage.  Inside, the air is oppressively stagnant and hot. Despite your careful maneuvers, you will disturb the stalks, and launch millions of tiny needles into the air.  These miniature missiles will stick to your sweaty skin, and make your life miserable for hours.  With pride and anticipation, you emerge from the hot inferno, carrying a basketful of the golden bounty.  Prior to peeling, you need to shed the fruit of its remaining thorns by rubbing it in soil, yet despite the vigorous effort, as you peel, some thorns will succeed in lounging themselves in your fingertips.  Finally, it’s time to enjoy.  Most often, we consumed the fruit before it had a chance to reach the refrigerator.

This task, even for us kids, had a dubious pleasure-to-pain ratio.  Thanks to the neighboring Arab village, we were able to have the pleasure, while avoiding the pain.  Each day, an Arab vendor, leading a donkey laden with sab’res, passed on the streets of Tivon.  We would wait for his ringing voice, and run down to meet him.  With grace and precision he would chop off both ends of the fruit, cut a slit down its length, part the slit with his calloused fingers, and let the juicy delicacy roll into our anticipating little hands.  I would look at him with admiration, believing that Arabs are somehow tougher than us, and immune from the thorns.  Immune or not, all across Israel, the sab’res trade remained exclusively in Arab hands.  Many years later, the street vendors disappeared.  Sab’res emerged on supermarket shelves, but their scrumptious flavor was gone.

Pnina, bucking the cultural trend, learned the art of picking sab’res with impunity. She routinely harvested the cacti that grew on her lot.  Her offer of peeled and chilled fruit was an act of great generosity.  Unfortunately, in my rush to devour, I forgot my duty as a blogger, and neglected to ask how she acquired this rare skill.