Pescado/Pilgrimage

So on Saturday, I was enjoying a nice, slow breakfast at the OPH, poring over the Saturday Register-Guard, when I noticed in this year's People Choice Awards that second place for best sushi had gone to Izumi Sushi and Grill.

Izumi Sushi and Grill? I thought, wrinkling my brow. Then it hit me: there must be a new sushi place in town I'd never visited. And apparently a pretty good one.

Well, I said to myself, borrowing the words of the elder George Bush, this will not stand. And just a few hours ago, the Easter Bunny presented me with a first-time visit to Izumi.

泉 means "spring water," which strikes me as apt since I explored it on Easter Sunday, and also since it's located just a stone's throw from the McKenzie River, which supplies Eugene (and me) with tap water. And about five years ago, Organic Style magazine crowned it the best drinking water in the United States, so that's no faint praise. I will point out that the McKenzie flows out of the Cascade snowpack, so it's not exactly spring water, but no need to be pedantic. As restaurant names go, it's pretty nifty.

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Lower left are two 鰻握り, eel nigiri. Upper middle are three 鮭巻き, salmon rolls. Lower middle is 鱈場蟹握り, king crab nigiri. And on the right side, from far to near, are とろ, toro, 鯖, mackerel, and 鱸, striped bass. The 麦酒 is 麒麟一番, naturally.

I tried the king crab because the odd associate of mine from Alaska recommended it quite wholeheartedly. Of course, that recommendation came with a warning that it has to be absolutely fresh to be any good. I hoped that Oregon was close enough to Alaska, and a good sushi place obsessive enough about the freshness of its product, that it might hit the mark. And I have to say, I was disappointed. It was crab meat. Nothing special. I mean, it wasn't bad. It wasn't, say, "imitation krab meat." But it's not something I'll order again.

The toro was also a letdown. I'm starting to think toro is mostly hype. I've had it a few different places now (Sushi Domo, Sada, and now Izumi) and it never lives up to my expectations. All the folks who say it's a delicacy must either have refinement to their palate that I'm missing, which is certainly possible, or else they're admiring the Emperor's new clothes.

The striped bass was nothing special. The mackerel and eel were both quite good, but they usually are. So far, nothing to rave about.

But oh. The mainstay of the meal. Oh my. Oh my my my my my.

Years and years ago I visited a place in Addison, Texas called Mr. Sushi. The sushi fans I knew in Texas always lowered their voices when they mentioned it. Once I finally scraped together enough scratch to afford a visit, I found out right away what they were whispering about. I popped tuna into my mouth and made a discovery.

I don't know if you can pinpoint a memory of first stumbling upon something new and wonderful. Maybe it's the first time you touched silk, or maybe it's the first time you smelled the perfume or cologne that hooked you. But it's an electric sensation, a combination of pleasure and utter surprise, a revelation, a sense of "This is all the more wonderful because I never dreamed this existed." That evening at Mr. Sushi, I finally understood all the yammering about appreciating sushi for its texture. It's a hard thing to describe. You've either experienced it, in which case you already know what I mean, or you haven't, and this won't help. But the tuna that night was firm, solid, had integrity, and then suddenly vanished when I bit down. I don't mean it was like cotton candy, insubstantial and unsatisfying; no, the farthest thing in the world from that. Biting down on it made it surrender, in a funny kind of way. It wouldn't dream of being stringy or tough or rubbery, because that would be rude, and this was an impeccably well-mannered mouthful of food. I slowed down to savor it, which I rarely do, and when it was gone, I wished for more. And dreamed of more for several nights following.

I went back to Mr. Sushi a number of times, hoping for a repeat performance. I usually enjoyed myself, but it was never quite as intense again. But tonight, at Izumi, the salmon was fully that good. As before, I was in awe of the food's texture, and even as I finished a mouthful and was convinced that I had a handle on how good it was, I always gave in to utter astonishment at how good the next one turned out to be.

Probably there's a point to this: the delicacies ranged from fair to mediocre, while the staple was spectacular. Probably there's an aesthetic principle at work. But why spoil a good meal by extracting too much lesson from it? Why chloroform a butterfly that's so beautiful, it takes your breath away?

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