The Case of the Flying Miso

Three Fridays ago I've tuned in to my Japanese comfort food in Mr Teriyaki. This small restaurant hasn't changed from their expensive fare but I ordered a Tamago sushi because it was almost a payday, I felt like rewarding myself. That day I felt so confident of myself that I should've known something was bound to vibe like for example, say Murphy's law? While the way I handled my chopsticks to transport food to my mouth was flawless, the server, who was the son of the owner began the clear the table to make way for my bill (is it that big?). As he picked up the fancy tamago plate, he lost his kung fu grip on the almost empty miso soup. Thus, a slow motion moment ensued, started by a screaming "Aaaahh!!" from the Teriyaki son. I instantly closed my eyes and felt the sprinkle of miso and bits of tofu on my shirt and hair. Teriyaki's son showered me further with apologies as he went and grabbed for the napkins. The greatest thing of it all was the restaurant was empty except for me; there's no reason to make a beeline for the manager and say, "Look at what your son did to me." Instead I asked Teriyaki junior to do me a favor and clean my hair. Obviously, I couldn't see where I was cleaning at, the very least he can do was spare me the embarrassment of walking around with a mysterious tofu on my head.


Rhymes with Grey Poupon
Byflyer 2005 ©

My co-worker said later I had my chance to be the new owner of Mr. Teriyaki if I only pursued a frivolous suit ("look at what your son did, there's a dirty finger floating in my miso soup"). I just tried to be nice about it because I didn't wear my favorite shirt that day. But then I'm into instant gratification at that time, so, for my miso trauma I got my Mochi dessert.