HOW TO KILL YOURSELF WITH SUSHI

Technically, I should be dead; but I suppose the God of Food Blogs thought I was an essential resource for the human-kind and the human-unkind restaurant goers and pizza lovers of the world, so he spared me from the burning flames of kitchen hell.

My life was about to end in the most stupid and food-related accident people would have ever celebrated a funeral upon. (I suppose the food-related cause would have, at least, been considered consistent with my blog.)

This post will prove that sushi can be more dangerous than diving in a shark infested billabong, skateboarding naked on oil or be in the passenger seat of your grandma’s car after her weekly pub night.

It was an ordinary thursday night and I went to hip Cho Cho San in Potts Point with a friend. No plans to write a review, as we were having Japanese food and I can’t consider myself an expert: I am not Japanese, nor have Asian relatives. I have been to Tokyo once, but that doesn’t count. I never dated a Japanese person (for the reasons every woman suspects but does not dare say), nor laid naked on a couch with sashimi pieces arranged vertically along my body.

Like all Italians, I also tend to improvise, be messy and disorganised, as opposed to following strict rituals.

To sum it up, I am the least Japanese person you could ever meet.

We ordered tuna and salmon sashimi, mixed with unidentified underwater vegetables and other stuff (after my second Pinot Noir, everything turns into ‘stuff’.)

Cho Cho San is famous for its post-modern, fusion, creative- possibly drunk- chefs and their flavour combinations. Nothing is what it seems or seems what it is, including my ordinary thursday night.

For the second half of the dinner, my only objective was to grab those two delicious looking, sugary mousse towers: egg whites and lime whipped into delicate cones. Certainly a speciality of the house.

My friend was talking about her teenage passion for Take That and I was pretending to listen, with much appreciation, while my chopsticks subtly reached the target, picked up one of the unexpectedly hard sugary towers and eagerly swallowed it.

In the seconds that followed, my entire food life flashed before my eyes: my first profiterole indigestion when I was 2, my sticky Nutella kiss in high school, my allergic reaction to oysters at my ex boyfriend's gay wedding, my gelato war at 37 with my children. I was lying on the floor being chocked, surrounded by women in sparkling mini skirts and business men with ugly ties. Was this going to be the end? Can an Italian die so unstylishly?

Luckily not.

I coughed out the tower and started breathing again.

It turned out it was not a mousse tower, but a perfectly shaped, compressed, wet napkin.

It turned out I was supposed to wash my hands with it, instead of attempting to eat it.

But it also turned out that, despite my inability to follow the rituals, I was still able to improvise a resurrection.

@Cho Cho San, Potts Point

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