In the quaint little town of Bellingham, exists a quaint little sushi joint tucked away in the corner of Chestnut Ave. Inside, under the dim lights, the steam of hot green tea wafts to the ceiling, fingered lightly by patrons who talk quietly amongst themselves, glancing up only to watch the wait staff glide by with plates of nigiri and rolls. Some, the very hungry, look eagerly to the north wall, where the staff pass under the navy blue
noren with the white rabbits. An average observer would expect a common kitchen with patient, hard-working sushi chiefs behind that enchanting blue curtain.
Wasabees, however, is no ordinary Japanese restaurant.
The secret and success of Wasabee exists within the Eastern magic woven into the fabric of that blue noren. Behind it is no kitchen found anywhere in Bellingham, but is in fact a portal to an island hidden somewhere off the coast of Japan. On that island exists an ancient temple kept by the descendants of an ancient race. An immortal race, whose only care in the vast universe is to make sushi fit for gods. I, in my habit of spacing off, caught a glimpse of this magical world as I watched a waiter disappear behind the noren one day. The curtain waved only a second, but what I saw lasted hours.
There were smiling faery folk in conical straw hats gathering seaweed and planting rice in paddy fields dazzling and bright under the sun. Men chanting folk songs as they rowed out to sea to pour vats of fine sake into the sparkling waters where tuna and eel swam. Young women took to the mountain dressed in flowery kimonos to croon to the salmon spawn that lined the many streams riddling their way to sea. Within the temple, monks of a long forgotten order raked the sands of the zen garden and blessed each fish before preparing it for serving.
All this I saw in the space of one second. I may have stood on the island myself, having smelt the sea salt thick in the air and felt the wind dash playfully upon my hair and cheeks. But the light of the sun was growing dim by the shadow of a falling curtain and my visit to this magical world was ending soon. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a bald monk sitting cross legged near a pond alive with koi. Surely, he sensed my presence for he glanced up from his meditation to catch me watching. He smiled then. A wide, knowing smile and a thrill went through me, having felt as though I had just been let in on some playful, cosmic joke. I grinned right back but the shroud had fallen and the monk disappeared from me forever.
That was the first and likely the last time I will ever see that island again. Sometimes I watch the north wall keenly, hoping for just a glimmer of that sparkling sea. Other times I allow myself to drift and dream that some benevolent Eastern god will take pity on me and bring me there where I would happily tend the salmon spawn until my life's end.
Most days though, I'm just as happy to eat damn fine sushi.
