TulaneLSU's Top 10 dishes at Sushi Kashiba (Seattle)

Friends,

Seattle has always felt unwelcoming to me. Over the years, I have traveled there five times, always hoping to find something to reconcile myself with the city. But each time, I leave feeling as connected to the city as before I arrived.

Thanks to Degas, I booked a flight to Seattle a couple of months ago and arrived about a week ago. My first order of business was taking the train from the airport to downtown, which costs $3, a far cry from the $60 Uber drivers expect. Never has anyone on the train asked to see my ticket. It is refreshing that the people of Seattle still lean on the honor code, which is a beautiful thing.

The rental car facility did not open until 7:30, so I had time to enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of Seattle’s streets in the relative quiet of morning. The Pendleton Store is always my first stop, but sadly, it too was not yet open. The newly released Pendleton jacquard towel in Crater Lake print was #77 on my Christmas list this past year, but no one purchased one for me. They make a lovely addition to any bathroom or Love’s Travel Stop private spa room.



While in large cities, I also enjoy browsing through Nordstrom’s. This store too was closed. Perhaps limited hours here have created a customer relations issue, evidenced by the less than congenial correspondence one of its customers shared on the store’s front window.





Downhill I continued, to Pike Place Market, where I have visited many times, but never have I been able to see them throwing and catching the salmon. Would today be the day? No. Instead, I was able to join the team in a pre-day huddle. It was essentially a pep talk, the type that Michael Keaton would give to his co-workers at Best Buy when he was a manager there. Regretfully, we did not close in prayer, although, had I been there one more day, I would have suggested it.







As you have read previously, the Ruth’s Chris breakfast advertised at a nearby hotel was on paper open when I passed, but the door was locked, and the doorman did not answer my entreaties to open the door. So the next best thing I could think was a breakfast platter at Sushi Kashiba.Kashiba is well known for its tomago, or sweet egg, which 83 year old owner and chef, Shiro Kashiba, perfected during his training period six decades ago with Jiro Ono. Ono, most of you know as founder of the world’s greatest sushi restaurant, Sukiyabashi Jiro. Seattle must be the city that sleeps because Kashiba too was closed and I was left with no breakfast.



One week later, though, just after I returned from Concrete, WA via Astoria, OR, I walked through the doors of Kashiba at 7:15 in the evening. It was misty and cool, but there was an electricity in the air around Kashiba with groups of people surrounding the restaurant like fans waiting outside a locker room for autographs.



The host had just seated a party of four. “Do you, Sir, have any availability for one with the precondition that I must depart for the train station by 8:45?”

He was wearing a white button up cotton shirt that fit him well. His sports coat was bespoke, but he did not wear a tie. I thought it odd that such a hallowed restaurant would have a host without a tie, but I realized we were in Seattle, not New Orleans, and dress codes are much looser here. “Let me see what we can do.” He turned around, not looking at the sushi bar, I assume because he knew it was already fully booked for the evening, but instead, he looked at the regular bar where bottles of alcohol sat waiting to tempt and draw the masses into submission and slavery.

“There is a spot for one, if you do not mind being in a tight spot. I can take your bags also.”

“Thank you, Sir. Please inform the bar’s keeper that I will only be drinking Seattle tap water tonight.” I handed my bags to him, but kept my camera.

The seating at the bar was indeed tightly confined. To my left sat an Asian couple that acted like they were on a date near the beginning of their relationship. To my right was a thirty something blonde female eating by herself. She was petite, perhaps five and a half feet tall and wore business clothing. Her lips formed an upside down arc when I sat on the well-padded L-shaped seat next to hers.

Maureen, the keeper, came to me and asked what I would like to drink. “Water, only from the public works, please.” I then told her that I would be having the omakase, “so long as it can be completed before 8:45. My flight home leaves at 11.”

“Where are you flying?” These words were how the blonde woman to my right introduced herself.

“America’s greatest city.”

“Minneapolis? That’s where I’m from.”

I politely chuckled. “While I have never been to Minneapolis, I have traveled extensively in this country, and even though we are experiencing our hottest summer in history, New Orleans remains our nation’s cultural capital and unequaled gem.”

As she began a story about New Orleans, which I will not share for her own privacy, the waiter, a male, brought out the first course. It consisted of a tri-partite container. He introduced the middle section first, “We have from left to right a jackfish, king salmon, and bluefin tuna.” He of course said much more, but that is all I can remember.

“To the right of the three fish is Japanese scallop marinated in a sea okra sauce. And to your left is a seafood mousse with mackerel.”

He instructed me to eat the middle course first, followed by the okra dish and finishing with the mouse.



Meanwhile, the stranger to my right, who was now apparently my dining companion, told me her story. She had just moved to Seattle from Vancouver, which she seemed to miss. I gathered that she was lonely, as it seems many people in Seattle are. I listened with attention, as I was taught.

Kashiba considers each piece of fish or segmented bite course, so I was already through three courses when a bluefin tuna handroll appeared on a black plate. I must say the presentation was lacking, and all the black on the dish, like a black hole, draws in the light without letting any reflect, making for a bad picture and a monotone appearance.



Having said that, the hand roll was exceptional. It was creamy. The rice was perfect. It had precisely the correct amount of wasabi, and not dyed horseradish. The waiter instructed me to eat it in two or three bites. It only took one bite. My neighbor looked at me, as I stuffed my mouth, not with disgust but with envy. “I would have shared had you asked.”

The waiter promptly arrived, not with a course, but with a palate cleanser. “This is Chef Kashiba’s custard in a fish broth. Once you eat the custard, you drink the broth.” It was served in a fancy version of a bowl that reminded me of the clear, swirled plastic bowls for soft serve at Golden Corral. The custard was not the most enjoyable taste, but the broth was rich and complex.