You know sometimes when you go into a restaurant and there's some loudmouth guy (it's always a guy...sorry, guys) who will CONSTANTLY be doing and saying things to get attention from everyone around him, like he's friggin' LORD of the place just because he goes there maybe once a week? Oh, man. Like most people, I just want to eat my meal in peace, but here's this huge dude next to me and his thigh keeps banging into mine, and he keeps calling out the name of the restaurant's owner like, "Hey Jack, hey! Hey, man, ah ha ha, hey! Hey, look at Jack, ha ha! Look at him! That guy, he's somethin' else! You da MAN, Jack!" while stuffing his maw with raw fish and dribbling miso soup into his unkempt beard. Mr. Jack for the most part ignored him, but gave a tight smile and nod every so often.
The WORST is that the guy is tried to impress his gal pal next to him (and I guess US ALL) by loudly talking about all the different kinds of sushi that passed by us on the belt, using OF COURSE the proper Japanese names for the fish and rolls EXCEPT that he mispronounced ALL OF THEM. Unagi (freshwater eel roasted with teriyaki sauce) became "UHN-ayyyy-gee," toro (fatty tuna) became "taro," and I nearly imploded in my seat when I heard him ask his companion if she wanted a "Cali Quad," which is the most painful way to reference a 4-piece California Roll that I have ever had the displeasure to hear. I winced, and Miss Eleven poorly stifled a giggle.
At the end of a meal in belt sushi places, the server comes over and counts up your different-colored little plates, each color representing a different price level for the sushi portion on it. They are always extremely fast and efficient at this, because they do it FOR A LIVING. But Mr. Sushi had to get in there as the served was trying to keep her figures straight by blurting, "Yeah, that's 5 orange, 3 purple, 4 dark blue, 3 light blue...NO NO NO, 2 light blue AH HA HA, 1 red, 2 black, and 2 soups and 2 "SAP-per-oh" beers. The server nodded, gave that same tight smile like Jack's, and silently re-counted for herself.
When Mr. Sushi and his beer-giddy paramour got up to leave, he slammed into my arm, causing me to drop my salmon into my soy sauce bowl, which splashed up and made a stain on my shirt. He bumbled away unknowing as I growled and mopped up.
I ate my sesame seed red bean paste balls dessert that I do not know the proper Japanese name for, stayed silent while the server totaled our plates, then walked over and gave Jack the ticket at the register to pay. I said, "Thank you," and did not call him by name.