An ode to Sushiland
Sushi.
Sushi is like the Royalty of food. It requires incredible technique and delicacy to prepare, intimate knowledge of the sources of your ingredients, and the end product cannot be faked—the fish is either fresh or it isn't. There's no masking the flaws in every step that creates god's gift to man known as sushi. In fact masking it, is the antithesis of sushi.
So it was weird when my new-to-Seattle-friend Serina texted me, as we were planning where to go for dinner:
Hey, know of any good cheap, mediocre sushi?
Cheap. Mediocre. Not exactly words associated with royalty.
I responded instantly. Because weirdly, I knew just the place—a place filled with memories of laughter, deep conversations, and barely dented wallets.
She, and I, have been back many more times than I'd care to tell you about.
Serina, I'm so sorry. But also, you're welcome.
“This place makes gas station sushi taste good. I’m pretty sure if Gordon Ramsey went he would hold the sushi and whisper “who hurt you” too it and softly cry. Worst place ever. ”
Here's what Sushiland is:
It's one of those conveyor belt sushi joints. Not like in Japan, in case that's what you thought of, where the lights are dim, the counters are made of marble, and in the center of the conveyor belt is a Japanese chef masterfully grabbing a fish straight from a fish tank—literally right in front of you—and cutting off part of its body and placing it on a small dish before then putting it on the conveyor belt where you can choose to grab its still twitching body. No, none of that. Trade romance lighting for annoyingly bright fluorescents; marble for plywood; mastery of live fish for mastery of grabbing random stuff out of a plastic container covered in plastic wrap. Ladies and gentlemen, Sushiland—the diner of sushi restaurants.
Make no mistake: Most things at Sushiland probably suck. As the conveyor belt delivers a revolving door of whatever disappointing dishes the chefs decided to choose that day, you're forced to pick between chewy gyoza wrappers, fried anchovies, and apple cinnamon pie filling wrapped in egg rolls and deep fried (...because McDonald's?).
I've tried the apple pie egg roll. It's actually not bad. It was also only a dollar.
And that, is precisely why you come to Sushiland. Because occasionally you find the thing that's not horrendous. Like the salmon nigiri. Clearly not super fresh, but it's also salmon. Which, despite being one of my favorite sushi fishes, can both never be that bad, and never really be that good. Also a dollar.
And then there's the seared version of said salmon nigiri. Fire does not discriminate based on money thrown at it, making said salmon taste way better than it really ought to for its quality. For maybe a dollar-fifty.
That's part of the fun of Sushiland, finding the dishes that on any given day, surprise you for how not terrible they are. And when you're done, you have a bunch of empty plates stacked all on top of each other, and it feels dishonest to say that I hated the meal.
This was about $12. Too much?
“Probably the worst sushi I’ve ever had. Their spicy tuna/salmon roll literally tasted like the smell of a urinal cake. I dry heaved, barely strong one piece - paid for the plate, and left.”
I know of Sushiland because my friend Josh loves it and took me there with his family once.
Josh's favourite dish there is one of those super-heavy ones, something like fried shrimp tempura and imitation crab with cream cheese, wrapped in rice, then panko breaded again and deep fried, then topped with one of those thick mayonnaise-like sauces. Cue something about having to mask fish.
I think, think, sushi is supposed to be more like the stuff I've gotten at something like Sushi Kashiba (all blessings on Jiro's apprentice Shiro), where I'm graciously gifted a thick piece of super-fatty tuna on a small amount of rice, and I'm not even sure anything so much as a spec of dust has landed on the fish. And it is, amazing.
AMAZING.
Still, I get a kick out of watching Josh order multiple dishes of panko-breaded heart attack. He's found his sushi diamond in the conveyor belt rough. He can never finish it all, for obvious reasons yet it never stops him from ordering it.
"Um...do you want one?" He inevitably asks me each time.
The real answer is 'no.' But instead I give him some answer about how I'll finish it if he really doesn't want it, but that I'll have to work it off at the gym, and he should order other things instead next time.
"I know, but I really like this one."
And so I suffer and take one for the team and laugh about it later. It's one of my small bargaining chips I like to hold over his head and tease him about. He'll learn one day. Or maybe I'll always just be stuck, using this experience as a 'pat myself on the back' kind of moment. Because somewhere on the list of knowing you're a good friend, must be the willingness to enjoy just spending time with someone and eat their leftover panko-breaded heart attacks.
“$1-$3 sushi plates. If you’re thinking that is too good to be true...you’re probably right... This place has made some serious cutbacks to keep those “1991 prices.” ”
The seared salmon nigiri is probably Sushiland's specialty. That's what my friend Albert told me, and considering it's one of their actually decent things, I'm inclined to trust him. Just like I trusted him with picking out our dinner meetup spot one time we wanted to catch up. He picked Sushiland.
"It's my comfort spot," he told me.
I agreed, thinking I didn't know what Sushiland was. Then I arrived at where Google Maps told me to go, saw the familiar logo in childish-but-not-quite-comic-sans font, and I realized that 'of course, I have been here, thanks Josh.'
I sighed and chuckled, which was the only appropriate response I had as I stepped out of the car. You like to laugh in the face of adversity, is what one personality test told me.
That night we went through a rotation of topics as numerous as the rotation of mediocre sushi plates in front of us, and equally as random as if they were picked off from a conveyor belt: his school, my job, his family, my family, Jesus, relationships. You know, things that totally make sense to talk about with cheap edamame beans and California rolls passing by.
Although, I have to admit that it's far easier to talk about how life is really doing—the real dirty details—within the confines of familiarity, than it is within the trappings of majesty and elite ambiance, where I'm afraid to even get my fingerprints on everything.
Because nobody ever spills their feelings in a fancy cocktail bar, a three-star Michelin restaurant, or a gigantic mansion. All things that I love, don't get me wrong. But deeper life chats often happen in a place that I prefer to be in on a random day—something like a pub.
There's no reason that you can't have both, the commoner and the royal, the fancy and the down-to-earth, the romantic and the raw. But people always aspire for, and crave the glitz and glamor. Everyone wants the fatty tuna (which is AMAZING). It's rare, however, to also want the seared salmon.
Let me be clear, that the seared salmon at Sushiland doesn't actually taste good. It tastes like, some kind of weird butter. It melts in your mouth, but not because salmon is supposed to. I'm okay with this, because it's not gross at all. That's really the best way to describe it.
My review of Sushiland would go something like this:
Amazingly mediocre sushi. Come for the cheap prices, stay for the thrill of the gamble. That's right, the gamble. The House almost always wins, probably moreso than in Vegas. Those sesame noodles that look like they'd be filling? Dry. That thick slice of tuna put on an extra fancy plate? Flavorless. But the seared salmon? Entirely decent.
So decent, that when the waiter who takes too long to get to you, asks you if you'd like anything special ordered, you should immediately say: "Three seared salmons, please. Three plates, I mean." Because what kind of loser comes to Sushiland and only gets three pieces of seared salmon nigiri? No one, that's who. There are no losers at Sushiland when you play this way.
Bring some friends. Get stuff with imitation crab (because how bad can that ever be?). Stay away from the avocado (because how gross is brown avocado?).
3 Stars for the memories. 2 Stars for the actual food.
Unless you get the panko-breaded heart attack. Then 1 Star.
Experiences that promise nothing more than mediocrity reveal something about who you are. Places like Sweet Tomatoes, Cheesecake Factory, and maybe KFC. Maybe. But definitely places like Sushiland.
Going to any of these places is like taking a voluntary Rorshcach test of self-awareness: How strong is your undignified self? How seriously do you take yourself? Can you turn otherwise poor choices into something special, something memorable, even? Because there are many ways to turn around mediocrity, whether it's the poor choice that spawns jokes, the safe haven for comfort, or the mistake that's just way too much fun to make only once.
Serina, Matt and I go to Sushiland admittedly way too often, and every single time we invariably discuss how awesomely mediocre the place is, and what our reviews for it would be like. I'd apologize for how excited we always are to go, but really, when you're writing the reviews for just yourselves, it hardly matters.
If I were to write an online dating profile, I think I would include "must be able to enjoy experiences at Sushiland" as a prerequisite. I'm mostly joking, but I am also currently single, so...
This was not paid for or sponsored by Sushiland, which is, in fact, incredibly mediocre.
Unless you count going there. Then, yes. I do donate about $12 every so often. I'm so sorry.