I'll Have What She's Having

Your first time was a California roll, eighth grade, at your best friend’s birthday party.

Pre-made from the grocery store deli. Cold, dense, safe. A roll for beginners. You ate it with a wooden toothpick because no one knew how to hold chopsticks properly. It wasn’t that memorable, but just enough to leave you curious.

What else was out there?

In high school, it was the rainbow roll. A food court sampler of sorts: crab salad inside, with a slice of salmon, tuna, and avocado on top. It felt bold and colorful, like making out in someone’s basement during a sleepover. Messy, exciting, hard to pin down. The flavors clashed in your mouth but left you wanting more.

You weren’t ready for subtlety yet.

Then came the salmon nigiri. Real sushi, or so they said. It was a date with your first real boyfriend. He ordered for you, confident, as if he’d eaten sushi his whole life. The salmon was smooth and cool, the rice slightly sweet. It was good, you thought. But not as good as you’d hoped.

You chewed carefully, wondering why it didn’t satisfy you the way everyone said it would.

Uni was different. You’d heard the rumors—divisive, an acquired taste. Briny and strange. You tried it with someone you barely knew, a man who worked in finance and laughed too loudly at his own jokes. The first bite was jarring, the texture unfamiliar, like custard that didn’t know what it wanted to be.

But then the aftertaste hit—a deep, oceanic sweetness that lingered long after, making you blush when you thought about it days later.

You weren’t sure if you liked it. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You still do.

Unagi was easy. Grilled eel, warm and sticky with a syrupy glaze. Sweet in a way that felt almost too safe, like a rom-com you’ve seen a hundred times but still watch when it comes on TV. You ordered it often, not because it thrilled you, but because it was reliable.

You don’t crave it, but you don’t question it either.

The omakase was supposed to be life-changing. You saved up for months to sit at Morimoto’s counter, to let someone else take control. To surrender to expertise. The toro, fatty tuna, was the highlight. It dissolved on your tongue like butter, rich and decadent, a sensation you didn’t want to end.

But as the courses went on, the novelty wore off. The pacing felt out of sync, the bites repetitive. You left full but not satisfied, wondering if the problem was you or Napa.

Expectation outpaced reality, as it so often does.

Maybe there isn’t a point to finding the perfect bite. Perhaps it’s in the variety. The avocado rolls, the sashimi, the ones you try once and never order again. Like lovers who come and go, each teaching you something new about your evolving palate.

You sit at your favorite bar again, watching the chef’s hands, ready for whatever comes next.