For 19 years, I’ve lived around the corner from Geido, deservedly one of the most famous sushi restaurants in the five boroughs of New York. It is only in the past couple of years that I’ve even begun to crack its secrets, and now, on the occasion of my leaving Brooklyn’s Prospect Heights, I will pass on what I’ve learned thus far, to you.
Sit at the bar, near the master chef/owner, Osamu Koyama. You can probably dispense with reading the menu. Simply order “Sashimi Mackerel,” and you will be treated to an exceptional and oily Norwegian variety, used merely for bait by typical foolish humans, but prepared in a secret, magical and impossibly delicious fashion by Koyama. In fact, order any and all mackerel dishes, menued or specialled, broiled or raw, headless or still-headed, and you can’t go wrong.
Toast Koyama while eating this heavenly fish, which is starting to communicate its fantastic life story through your tongue. Try to maintain some connection with your immediate surroundings, or you shall drown. Now: If you’ve ordered cold sake, Koyama will accuse you of “drinking water,” then he’ll grab your glass, dump it out, and fill it with the mysterious substance he’s been blatantly soused on for these 27 years, which turns out to be Soju, a Japanese potato vodka that his doctor claims is “most healthy.” He will soon start serving you, free of charge, various strange Japanese delicacies, like pickled bitter melon. All of these verge on quease-inducing-yet-exotic-and-interesting, and also, “most healthy.” Very much worth it for the adventure factor alone.
An acquaintance in the audio/vinyl record industry tips me off that the local “audio engineering mafia” meets here, after hours, on an undisclosed and indecipherable schedule, and plans their world takeover. Bring Koyama an appropriate beverage at 11 pm, on a lucky night, and you may meet those powerful ones who are pulling the invisible strings. I have not yet gotten up the nerve to try this.
An ex-girlfriend tipped me off that an exceptionally pretty and equally cold waitress/greeter, has a physiologically blatant thing for non-Japanese boys who can speak her native tongue fluently. She loses all sense of decorum and goes limp, in the middle of taking an order, directly in front of any such boy, even if he is on a date with some lovely lass. This is data I cannot use. I pass it on to you, for its potential in the avoidance of dating disasters or, alternatively, for its possible assistance in finding true love.
19 years of Geido. That’s as far as I got. May my limited learnings serve you well.
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