Wasabi Blues
by Jamise Caesar, 826LA student
Originally published in From the Couch to the Kitchen: A Book to Indulge In

Wasabi. I hate wasabi. I quiver at the sight of it. Its maliciously potent aroma makes me anxious, and its faded, tinge-of-vomit green hue makes me nauseous. I haven’t suffered very many traumas in my life, but the moment I had the misfortune of enduring the “unique taste” of wasabi is definitely among the few of my physically and mentally scarring ordeals.

It began on a fateful day in July, around four o’clock. We were deathly hungry, and the cupboards were barer than an infant born to nudist parents. My uncle suggested we go to an amazing sushi joint: Ziki’s was the name. Of course, my aunt and I complied out of sheer starvation. So began the journey I would soon rue.

At first glance the establishment seemed to be an amazing place to dine, but that misconception was quickly dispelled. We ordered hibachi steak, shrimp, and tuna prepared in an array of ways. Indeed, the food was fantastic as my uncle had promised. The texture of the cold, raw fish was not as chewy and overbearing as I had suspected, and strangely, the Benihana style in which the adeptly poised chef seared the steak and shrimp didn’t bother me. The dangerously extreme heat emanating from the skillet/table certainly surpassed all safe-for-physical-contact levels, yet I had every faith in the cook not to char my skin beyond recognition. (In retrospect, I regret enjoying his fabulous cooking so much because I’ve just won the battle with my parents regarding my desire to become a vegetarian.)

Anyway, the threatening sizzle of the scorching grill only excited me. After the chef—with an acrobatic flick of his wrist—tossed a shrimp into my aunt’s mouth, he took a break to let us enjoy our meal as a family. I wish this had been the end of my Ziki’s dining experience. I would have appreciated and cherished that. Sadly, it was only a misleading prelude to the terror to come.

My uncle sat back, patted his full stomach with a grunt of gratitude, and picked the tidbits of steak from his teeth. My aunt gleamed with satisfaction, and I was stuffed beyond a fourteen-year-old’s intestinal capacity. We were done. The waiter brought our check, and we began to leave.

Suddenly, my uncle realized that the fancy saucer of thinly sliced spicy ginger and a looming clump of, yes, wasabi were still resting menacingly on the table. In jolly seriousness, my uncle dared me to inhale the entire cluster while keeping a straight face for twenty whole dollars (as a fourteen-year-old, twenty dollars meant a wide-eyed chi-ching!).

At that exact moment, there must have been an eerie draft. There simply was not enough thinking time between the dare and the execution. Before I could express doubt, I shoved the mountain of greenish goop into my mouth.

To say the least, my tongue was burnt to oblivion; it sizzled until my taste buds lost the will to live, grew numb, and died. It was total and utter mouth burn, worse than early-morning, shock-inducing, scalding coffee. It felt unnatural, like I was about to pass away shortly after. Sadly, I did fear for my health during my noticeable lapse of judgment both before and during the wasabi fiasco.

Today you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to consume that rancid death trap disguised as food. Alas, ’til this day, I still ask myself, Why?! If I had known then what I know now, I would have never taken my uncle up on that bet.

I guess I really needed the money.

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