Omakase

It was my first trip to New York since my friend Amar had moved there to join the legal department of a big-four accounting firm. I love the City but it can be tough if you don't have a lot of money, so it was nice to know I would be able to stay at Amar's a apartment, and good that he had been there for most of a year already and had had time to get to know a few local haunts. I don't like to just "do the tourist thing" when I visit the City; instead, I prefer to have someone who can act as guide and host, and pick out a few favorite and (relatively) inexpensive places to eat or get a drink.

I had been more than five hours in transit when I arrived at his place on the Upper East Side; the only direct flights landed at JFK and, being too broke for a cab, I took the subway from there, which took the better part of an hour. All I wanted to do was drop my bag, splash some water on my face, and get about three drinks in me as fast as I could. "You hungry?" Amar asked as I emerged from his small bathroom.

"I could eat a horse."

"Well, you're in luck. There's this great new sushi place right near here, in the 90s actually. But the vibe is more like the Village. Check out the name: It's called 'Phat Azz Sushi'." (He told me the spelling.)

"No kidding? Odd name. "

"Yeah, well, I think the chick that owns it—I forget her name—has like a sense of humor 'cause she's like this big fat Japanese-American girl with like a really really big butt, so it's like the restaurant's named after her sort of. Actually named after her ass I guess, when you think about it, haha. But anyway she seems like a pretty cool chick, you know, good sport about the fat thing an' all. Always behind the bar cutting the fish and chatting up the customers. But it's usually so busy in there I haven't really talked to her that much."

I felt my face go a bit wooden as he was describing the owner. In my 30s, I have long since outgrown my adolescent shame about my preferences but, still, not all of my friends are aware of them. I had never formally "outed" myself to Amar and, although I made no effort to conceal my preferences, I couldn't be sure if Amar realized that, when it comes to women I, nearly always prefer fat chicks. In any case, he almost certainly did not understand the effect his description was having on me: It would be the rough equivalent of telling a non-fat-admirer that we'd be going out to a strip club for dinner. Without even knowing it, Amar was telling me that there would very likely be some serious eye candy awaiting me at this sushi bar.

When we got to the restaurant I could see right away that I wasn't going to be disappointed. Even if the food was terrible, I would be enjoying the view all night. From across the room, the figure behind the sushi counter resembled nothing so much as a collection of stacked spheres, like the series of circles a cartoon artist would draw to set out proportion and dimension before filling in details.

Her round head, under a high chef's hat, perched above rounded shoulders, in turn framing two perfectly round volleyball-sized breasts that sat atop a big, spherical torso, all draped in a satiny indigo happi with a white chrysanthemum pattern. A giant round potbelly popped proudly out in front of her; a big spherical bottom the size of an exercise ball sprang out behind her, clad revealingly in skin-tight black capris. I was instantly smitten.

And it wasn't just her body. She was talking laughingly to a customer over the bamboo bar and her sparkling eyes and gleaming white smile radiated a positive energy that I could detect even from across the room. In front she had her bangs cropped in a boyishly straight line above her high eyebrows; in back she had apparently longish hair pinned up in a bun, out of the way of the chef's hat, and bound unabashedly in a regulation foodservice hairnet.

The hostess, who in contrast to the goddess behind the counter appeared to weigh about 98 pounds wet, broke the spell to ask: "Table or counter tonight gentleman?"

Just as Amar was beginning to say "Either one" I blurted out (practically shouted, actually): "Counter!" Then, turning to Amar, a little embarrassed, I said, "If that's okay with you I mean. I, uh... I like to sit at the counter when I go for sushi. Lets me, uh... see the fish."

"Sure, that's fine, dude. Whatever."

"There's a slight wait for the counter," the hostess warned. "But you can have a drink at the bar while you wait."

"That's okay," I put in hastily.

"It'll be worth the wait," Amar assured me. "Just wait till you taste her rolls!" At this, I'm pretty sure I blushed and looked away, stifling a giggle at Amar's entirely unintended pun.

* * *

We sipped sakes at the bar until our party was called. My luck held out as the hostess sat us right in front of the main workstation, manned by the owner herself. Up close she was even more ravishing, and even more of a physical phenomenon. She was deliciously fat, easily more than 275 pounds at 5'3", but she had that easy carriage, that "tight fat" you usually only see on much smaller women. She was young, couldn't have been more than 26 or so, and her whole aura was one of cheerful, energetic ebullience.

"How are you boys doing tonight?" she asked. He brilliant smile, her bright eyes were even more enchanting up close. Being perhaps a typical American Anglo it's embarrassing to admit this, but I was half expecting her to have a Japanese accent. (Intellectually I understand how silly this is; people of East Asian extraction have lived in the US for probably two centuries now. Still, in her happi behind that bar she looked very Japanese.) I detected no accent at all, except perhaps a vaguely West-Coast inflection to some of her words.

"Great!" I replied, practically shouting—using that crowded-New-York-restaurant voice. "How about yourself?"

"Miserable," she half-shouted back, though obviously in jest, given her cheerful demeanor. "I just had to dump my boyfriend."

"Why was that?"

"Kept razzing me to lose weight! Can you believe it?"

I could believe that, unfortunately, but what I could not believe was what a beautiful opening she had given me. What non-fat admirers may not know about digging big chicks is that, in many respects, it can be very difficult to meet and approach them in a casual public setting. I find that this runs counter to many people's intuition: There are those who assume that since fat admirers are a minority, it should be easier to talk to fat chicks because there is less competition. Admittedly there's a certain surface appeal to that logic, but it ignores several crucial factors.

For one thing, because fat admirers are a minority, a lot of larger ladies will assume by default that you do not find them attractive. You somehow have to affirmatively indicate to the woman that you are indeed attracted to her, which can take a lot of awkward hinting and circumlocution.

Second, the woman has to believe it's sincere. There are some ugly practices out there; think asshole frat boys slumming it with fat chicks as a sort of malicious prank ("hogging," being the unfortunate name for this behavior, if I am not mistaken); think lone, horny drunk guy out for a one-night stand turning to the fat chick not because he finds her beautiful, but because he considers her low-hanging fruit. I've known plenty of women who were highly alert to some of these things, and were consequently guarded and initially dubious of any flirting.

And, finally—perversely—it can be tricky when signaling your attraction to avoid making it sound fetishistic or unhealthy somehow. Strange as it sounds, I have actually seen fat women a little weirded out by the fact that I found them attractive, as though there must be something wrong with me for liking them they way they were(!). How fucked up is that?

So this was a near perfect opener. She had managed to indicate her availability and reference her own weight in only the second sentence she'd ever spoken to me. I didn't even know her name yet. But I knew better than to let this opportunity pass.

"You're better off," I told her confidently, "he sounds like a moron." From the corner of my eye I could detect that Amar had shifted abruptly in his seat, and I could feel his eyes on the side of my head, surprised at the brazenness of my opening gambit. I maintained eye contact with the chef. Her head cocked slightly and her eyes twinkled; the corner of her already-smiling mouth turned up a degree or two more as—I could tell—she got the compliment. I think I must have thrown her slightly aback because it took her a few seconds to reply—and she had that quick-witted look of someone who is seldom stumped for words.

Finally, she said "Yeah, and if I lost weight I'd have to change the name of the restaurant."

"Don't do it!" I exclaimed. "Nobody trusts a skinny chef, and nobody's gonna eat at a place called 'Bony-Butt Fish'."

She laughed out loud and turned to Amar. "Amar, I like this one, where'd you find him?"

"He's a friend from college. In from out of town. Bart, this is—uh, I'm really sorry, I forgot your name."

"Don't be silly, it's not you, it's me—I have a photographic memory. Kiku. Kiku Nakamura." We shook hands.

"Bart Waylon."

"Charmed. And welcome to New York. What's your pleasure tonight?"

I turned to Amar. "Omakase?"

He shrugged. "Sure, I'm game. Kiku seems to know what she's doing."

"Oooooh, impressive!" Kiku crooned. "I have carte blanche?"

"Surprise us," I said.

"How much were you looking to spend?"

Amar put his hand on my arm and said, "let me get this." To Kiku: "Probably you should check back in if it's gonna go much above two-fifty not counting drinks. But this is a special occasion—I haven't seen Bart here what? Four years?—so no need to scrimp."

"In that case," she said, wiping her hands on a napkin, "I will be right back."

She stepped into a back room and Amar turned to me immediately: "Dude, were you totally just hitting on Kiku?"

"I was." This is always an awkward moment but I have learned the best approach is just to own it, not try to explain it.

"Really?!" he said, as though to himself, sounding more surprised than anything else. He frowned, looked down, nodded his head slowly, and then said "Yeah, I can see it. She's uh. She's cute."

"I uh. Don't know if you know this... I've uh. I've never been put off by that body type. You remember Cynthia in college?"

"Right! Got it! Got it." he was nodding vigorously now, affirming my statements in that solicitous tone of one anxious to appear enlightened, non-judgmental. "That's cool. That's totally cool, dude," he assured me. Then, after a moment's reflection: "Look, I don't know how likely it is but, if you end up, you know, making any kind of time with her, and you want me to get out of you guys's hair...."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it. I can always send you a text from the restroom or something."

"Good point."

* * *

Dinner was amazing. It was almost like sushi tapas, as Kiku prepared plate after tiny plate of delightful morsels of the freshest, most flavorful fish I've ever tasted. For a grand finale she presented writhing live shrimp and flayed them on the spot, serving them on a wasabi-infused blackberry reduction.

When it was over I was stuffed and teeming with that warm enlivening buzz you get when you've had the first few drinks of the evening and the night is still very young. The food had been so good that I had actually been distracted from my obsession with staring at Kiku. But now, in my postprandial comfort, she was becoming harder to ignore.

Fantasies began creeping into my imagination, as I undressed her with my eyes and imagined what it would be like to let my skinny body flop comfortably onto that big accommodating frame, to feel the contrast of her soft flesh against my sharp bones, to feel her warm skin against mine. The visions were coming too fast and, if I wasn't careful, I was going to pop a boner just sitting there.

Suddenly I realized Amar had been addressing me. Snapping out of it I said: "Sorry? Didn't catch that."

He smiled. "Damn bro'. You got it bad." I blushed a little. "I was just sayin' I'm 'a run to the bathroom and then we can bounce. That is, if you want to."

"Go ahead. I'll let you know."

In another sign that there may be some chemistry between me and Kiku (and I was looking for any sign I could get) she came back over to our area of the bar almost immediately after Amar stood up, as though to talk to me alone.

"So wha'dja think?"

"Jesus, just... amazing. Really. I'm so impressed."

"Glad you liked it."

"Listen, Kiku, I'm not usually so forward but I don't have a lot of time here so I'm just gonna be blunt about a couple things. Thing one, when Amar gets back from the restroom, he's gonna want to pay the check and leave. Thing two, I'm only in town for four nights, so that is what it is.... But thing three or two-point-five or whatever, I am not married or anything like that, so there's that. And, the most important thing of all, I don't want this to be the last I see of you."

"Ha!" she smiled. "I'm blushing!"

"Actually, you're not."

"I know. It's just this thing I say when I'm being coquettish."

"Got it."

"So, you were blunt, now let me be: This place is a restaurant which means it has to be closed like a restaurant, which means like every inch bleached every night no exceptions."

"Sure."

"So that's the bad news. And there's more bad news, which is that I'm the owner, which basically means that I work twelve by seven, three sixty-five, so any night this week is equally as bad as any other night."

"Got it." I was feeling a little dejected when she said this and struggled not to appear sullen.

"However, that last bit of bad news actually leads me to some good news, which is that, for the same reason, any night is as good as any other night too."

"I think I like where this is heading."

"Including..." she paused, puckered her lips thoughtfully, then said: "tonight?"

"I'm free tonight," I nodded, probably too eagerly.

"So, here's what you'd have to be willing to do. You'd have to be willing to come back here at around two a.m. and kind of wait for me to close the place for a while."

"Sold."

"Patiently."

"I have the patience of Job."

"And maybe I can cut a few corners and try get out of here early and we can decide where to go from there."

"Date."

"Okay, then I'll see you here at two. Oh and, find your inner boy scout."

"What do you mean?"

Just then Amar, back from the restroom, appeared at my side and said "Everything was awesome tonight, Kiku. I think we'll take the check?" he inflected it as a question, looking to me for concurrence.

"Yeah, I'm ready, sure."

"I'll be right back," Kiku said, and walked away toward the register printer. As she did so I stared with shameless abandon at the waggle of her colossal ass.

* * *

It was Amar who eventually cracked the code. "I mean, think," I was saying: "What do boy scouts do? Earn merit badges? Help little old ladies across the street?"

"Oh, shit, dude, I think I've got it!" Amar put the back of his fist against his mouth in a gesture—one of his many such expressions and gestures—that appeared to belong to a younger generation or a more urban culture, and thus always seemed a little awkward from Amar. "I think you're getting laid tonight dude."

"What? I mean, I told her I'm only in town for a while so, you know, the fact that she wants to see me at all tonight... I kind of figured there's that chance... but... what makes you say so?"

"Boy Scouts' motto?"

I shrugged. "Didn't know they had one."

"Be. Prepared."

"Ahhhhhhh."

* * *

In the end, my preparations were limited. Amar very generously offered to make his apartment available but there were just too many reasons why that did not seem like a good idea. But after showering, shaving, and brushing my teeth I did stop by the Duane Reade to procure protection. I also picked up a few cheesy roses from a corner bodega.

Arriving at the restaurant as it was closing, it took a moment to persuade the hostess (a different one this time, but with the same waifish build) that I was expected; she wouldn't let me in until she'd flagged Kiku down from across the room and been signaled approval with a nod and a wave. Even then Kiku was busily in the midst of something; the hostess invited me to sit at the bar, though there was no longer a bartender there to offer me a drink. I sat awkwardly on my stool and lay the roses on the bar.

As I waited it was unclear to me why Kiku had not just advised me to arrive at a later hour, rather than come early and be forced to wait. In retrospect it occurs to me that it may have been a sort of security measure. I was a complete stranger, after all, and she had no way of knowing for certain that I wasn't some kind of creeper. Perhaps she reasoned that at least a faint-hearted creeper might be chastened by having so many members of her staff get a good long look at him before leaving him alone with her.

As I sat there, one by one I would see members of her wait staff finishing their side work, checking out with the captain, and then departing. After maybe half an hour, by my count, only two front-of-the-house employees were left (though I could not see into the kitchen). Finally, Kiku emerged from wherever she'd been hiding, having managed to break away from her duties and come acknowledge me.

She gave me a little hug and kissed me very lightly—on the cheek, but in the neighborhood of the mouth. I handed her the flowers. "For me? You shouldn't have."

"I shouldn't? I can take them back—think that street vendor will give a refund?"

"Ha! Thanks Bart. And thanks for being so patient. It shouldn't be more than another fifteen minutes—we're really hauling ass, I promise. Jesus! You don't have a drink!"

"That's okay."

"The hell it is," she said, moving behind the bar. "What's your poison?"

"I'll take pretty much any red wine." She poured me a glass and left the bottle open on the bar, and then disappeared for another twenty minutes or so, before emerging once again with the shift captain, evidently the last employee still in the building, whom she walked to the front door and let out, locking it behind him with a posture of (welcome) finality. Alone at last!

She turned to me, arm akimbo, and shifted her wait to one foot in a gesture of dramatized exhaustion. "Well now," she said with a smile.

"Indeed." She sauntered up to the bar where I was sitting, drew herself a beer from one of the taps, and joined me on a neighboring stool. Except for that light kiss she had planted on me (from which I was still reeling, incidentally) this was the closest I had been to her—I could see the mirco-beads of sweat amassed on her glowing cheeks and forehead. I was intoxicated with her.

Then, in a characteristically bone-headed move, I flubbed the small talk. "So," I began, "how long have you had this place?"

And she, being a high-energy, Type-A entrepreneur, was happy to be led into a discussion of what was almost certainly the most important thing in her life. In what was essentially a monologue, not to say a lecture, punctuated only by my occasional nods and perfunctory vocal affirmations ("yeah"; "go on"; "I see" and the like) she held forth on the history of Phat Azz, about her grandfather, the great sushi chef from the Old Country from whom she'd learned her craft, about the deep-seated prejudice that still confronts women sushi chefs in Japan and elsewhere (there is an old myth, it turns out, that women's hands are too warm for proper sushi preparation), and about how she got the idea for this restaurant and had to beg-borrow-steal the necessary capital to make her dream a reality.