While dining at a Japanese steakhouse, I experienced something new — our chef was not of Asian descent. His name was Victor. Victor. Never once was I forced to just smile and laugh because of some communication breakdown. I understood him clearly. I never felt compelled to roar with laughter because I assumed his joke must be funny in Japan even though I had no clue what was happening. I was following his logic. It just wasn’t as thrilling when Victor set the onion on fire. It was more like something I would do in my kitchen. I wasn’t amused when he was whipping my food around the room — throwing shrimp tails at innocent patrons.
I will let you off the hook this time Japanese steakhouse. Next time, I want my chef to be of Asian descent or else I will fold my arms in protest…that is until you finish cooking my food.