Sushi

It must be spring. The older man who sits on the bench at the corner of Vicolo del Cedro has finally taken off his coat—a big, heavy parka with a fur trimmed hood I’ve seen him wear every single day. I notice his little dog is still wearing his knitted jacket. You can’t be too careful.

Two nights ago, Steve and I decided to do something we hadn’t done before—eat ethnic food in Rome. For our first venture into non Italian cuisine, we opted for sushi. Conveniently, there is a well regarded sushi restaurant just a short walk from our house.

I found the whole experience somewhat disorienting. The restaurant reminded me of Shiroi Hana, our go-to sushi joint in Philadelphia. The layout was similar and the clientele the same—lots of yuppie looking diners on dates or slightly older academic types—except they all spoke Italian. The problem was I kept expecting the Japanese staff to speak English but, no surprise, they spoke Italian. For some reason, I found this confusing despite the fact that the sushi was excellent and included all our favorites.