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There was a recent news item with an x-ray of an Asian guy who was full of worms from eating sushi…I’ve never eaten that crap and I never will.

Been a long suffering week…glad it’s over.

Have a good weekend! :+)

Tried Sushi. . .once.. . .one bite.

Never heard of Pret a Manger, had to look it up. Menu looks good.

Badgers are smart.

Grew up eating sushi & sashimi, never had a problem. 🙂

I have, however, occasionally gotten food poisoning from other, ‘Western culture’ style foods.

We like Pret, you could have picked up a sammich and salad and elderflower soda! Glad you’re home safe, I were worried.

Remember what Douglas Adams said about sandwiches purchased at pubs near railway stations…

While I try to stay out of bars and pubs, other than for professional reasons, I must admit, the best steak sandwiches, and Friday night fish frys are to be found at bars. The Dry Gulch has particularly good fried cod, in Mauston, WI.

Nina—I don’t Remember what Douglas Adams said about sandwiches purchased at pubs near railway stations… It’s been a long time since I read the Hitchhiker series (though I do refer to political blather as Vogan poetry).

Deborah, I don’t recall what Douglas Adams said about sandwich purchases at pubs near railway stations, but I suspect it can be paraphrased as:

“Don’t, Panic!

As for sushi, Mrs. Vegetable being a Japanese girl cruelly forced to live in the West, has a pretty good system for deciding whether to trust the Sushi Chef or not: she speaks to the Chef in Japanese. If he can’t answer in Japanese, it’s something fried for her.

Some Vegetable, you have a very smart wife! 🙂

Me, being a Damn Yank™, who lived in Japan as a wee bratling for 3 years, but upon returning to the USA didn’t have anyone to talk to in Japanese, has to rely on other methods. (What few phrases I recall in Japanese are basic politeness, not for full conversations.) If I walk into a sushi place and can smell the fish, I turn around and walk out again. If it smells fine when I walk in, but what I get served has a detectable smell, I send it back, suggest they stick to cooked foods, then order something fried. 😉

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We’ve always had a name for sushi in the South.

We call it “bait.”

I wouldn’t eat Chinese sushi for the same reason I wouldn’t eat raw fish in Cuba: Commies are lousy at food prep because the producer-consumer relationship is the inverse of that in a free market economy. On the other hand, sushi (and other raw fish dishes like ceviche) here in Costa Rica are prepared to very high standards of hygiene because if someone gets food poisoning they’re on Facebook and Twitter complaining even while in the bathroom convulsed with the white-knuckle shits, and everyone will boycott the offending restaurant and it will go bust. Love me some sashimi.

The key is fresh fish. VERY fresh, like still wiggling as the slice it.

After that, it’s points for style.

My father-in-law (RIP), a fearless fisherman and intrepid gastronome, kept a bottle of Tabasco sauce in his tackle box. We were fishing out in Galveston Bay and he brought up a good sized clump of oysters. He shucked them, doused them with Tabasco, and ate them on the spot. I’ve seen him cut out the roe, and eat it with Tabasco, and wash it down with Lone Star beer. Once he cut slivers off a fish, bled and rinsed them in the salt water, and applied Tabasco. I think it was a bonito, but it was a long time ago. The takeaway: always keep a bottle of Tabasco sauce on hand.

I’ve never been that hungry, Deborah. 🙂

Douglas Adams said, in So Long and Thanks for all the Fish (and I quote thanks to the wonders in the innerwebs):

“There is, for some reason, something especially grim about pubs near stations, a very particular kind of grubbiness, a special kind of pallor to the pork pies.

Worse than the pork pies, though, are the sandwiches. There is a feeling which persists in England that making a sandwich interesting, attractive, or in any way pleasant to eat is something sinful that only foreigners do.

“Make ’em dry” is the instruction buried somewhere in the collective national consciousness, “make ’em rubbery. If you have to keep the buggers fresh, do it by washing ’em once a week.”

It is by eating sandwiches in pubs at Saturday lunchtime that the British seek to atone for whatever their national sins have been. They’re not altogether clear what those sins are, and don’t want to know either. Sins are not the sort of things one wants to know about. But whatever sins there are are amply atoned for by the sandwiches they make themselves eat.

If there is anything worse than the sandwiches, it is the sausages which sit next to them. Joyless tubes, full of gristle, floating in a sea of something hot and sad, stuck with a plastic pin in the shape of a chefs hat: a memorial, one feels, for some chef who hated the world, and died, forgotten and alone among his cats on a back stair in Stepney.

The sausages are for the ones who know what their sins are and wish to atone for something specific.”