Ordinarily, I have no problem with raw fish. Raw fish makes me happy. I fear it not. In fact, I have eaten sashimi in the Mojave Desert every August for at least five years. I am particularly fond of raw salmon. A little wasabi, a splash of tamari. The sweet, buttery flesh of the fish. What could be better?
But today, I walked past a sushi cart on the street, and it just struck me as all kinds of wrong. This was one of those entrepreneurial operations one might expect to find selling hot dogs or falafel or fajitas or, in the right location, gator-on-a-stick. A small, silver trailer decorated with cheerful cartoon food and a clever name. And I have forgotten the name. Sushi something. Sushi Stop. Sushi Wushi. Sushi Creamcheese. I can't remember.
Doesn't matter. It was a hot metal box, baking in the Texas noonday sun, and they were selling a product known primarily for the (admittedly) optional inclusion of raw protein. This may require a bit of salesmanship. I hope they are up to the task.
Today, I didn't see any takers. I wish them luck, but I took the coward's way out. I went home and opened a can of tuna.
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