god almighty, spare me from the food morons.
i eat a lot of sushi, dear reader. love the stuff. lean, good portion sizes, relatively cheap, fun, different.
i was standing in one of my local sushi joints the other lunchtime — konichiwa all at Mr Sushi at the Ashmore Pitstop — waiting for my favourite dishes to swing round on the train track. in a nearby booth sat a classic set of bogans a la carte. three blokes and what can only be described as a chick. bleached blonde, boob tube, long fake french nails with the obligatory gold sparkles.
Miss Sophisticate picks up the menu and waves over one of the sushi builders.
‘Oi’d loike this,’ she said. ‘Only without the roice. Oi don’t loike roice.’
so let’s get this right. hungry. doesn’t like rice. in the whole universe of fast food and takeaways, picks sushi joint. naturally.
similar thing happened the very next day at my other favourite sushi house, Sushi Train at Labrador. Two — i’m guessing — schoolies sat in the booth next to me.
one pulled a plate off the train and proceeded to drown it in — i kid you not — an inch-think layer of mayonnaise. but at least she chose an actual sushi dish to do it to.
her mate asked for a bowl of rice and a bottle of teriyaki sauce. that’s it. need i say more?
go home, children. go home and have a Chiko roll.
