It was Christmas again. I have always told people I liked to spend Christmas alone, but that wasn’t entirely true. In years past, I’ve spent it with friends and family. But these weren’t the years I was referring to when I spoke of celebrating solo. While everyone traveled home, I opted to stay behind. It was easy to use various excuses like I couldn’t get time off work, money was too tight to travel, someone had to feed the cat, etc. None of these reasons were binding; they were exactly what they were called — little ways to politely excuse myself from attending the holiday hoopla that everyone was so hell-bent on participating in.
New York City: the most magical place to spend the holidays. Fifth Avenue window displays compete to outdo one another, a claustrophobic visit with Santa Claus at Macy’s, or the swarming crowds surrounding the tree at Rockefeller Center mark the holidays in Manhattan. These mass appeals didn’t hold any magic for me. But what I did like was that in a city that never sleeps, not everyone celebrates.
The first year of staying behind started as some sort of way to feel sorry for myself. Alone on Christmas. A choice of my own making. Still, it was something to be sad about. I put on my boots to set out for snacks and booze, walking along the snow-scraped, empty Avenues in peace. It was perfectly quiet while storefronts were gated up for the evening. The lampposts were adorned with white lights wrapped in red and green tinsel. I approached the liquor store stopping short. Lights encased me. The windows welcoming me in were housing a sushi bar. I recognized it from previous commutes to the train. Or maybe, I had even ordered delivery from it? One couple ate by the window. A magnificent boat filled with sushi and sashimi was docked on the table between them.
The door jingled as I walked in and a host greeted me with her eyes while taking an order over the phone. I scanned the room, gestured toward the sushi bar, and she smiled and nodded. Seating myself, I looked at the chilled fish displayed behind the glass. Moments later the chef greeted me from behind the bar. He looked happy to see me while he handed me a menu. I ordered a plum wine and some safe sushi rolls I was familiar with. The host brought my wine while I scrolled on my phone aimlessly. A fruit fly buzzed around my glass and I brushed it away. Even in December these fuckers are relentless, I thought.
Feeling the chef’s presence in front of me while he worked, I looked up. He wore a double-breasted, white jacket and matching hat, seeming so much taller than me from behind the counter.
“Do you like eel?” he asked. I had already ordered so I was a bit caught off guard.
“Sure,” I said while taking a swig of my plum wine. He just nodded and returned to whatever magic he was creating on the other side of the bar. I watched for some time through the glass until he set down a bowl in front of me.
“Complementary seaweed and eel salad,” he explained while setting me up with soy sauce and chopsticks.
I exclaimed, “Oh! Thank you so much!” His generosity surprised me. I gingerly picked up my chopsticks and tried a bite. The sauce was a bit sweet and the eel had a light smoky flavor to it. He watched as I continued to struggle with my chopsticks but I pretended not to notice.
When my rolls came, I ordered another glass of wine and settled in. I felt good. Like this is where I was supposed to be at that very moment. After mixing some wasabi with my soy sauce, I dipped my crab roll into it. Once I had heard that you weren’t supposed to eat sushi in that manner but I had already committed. I looked at the chef and he smiled. No offense was taken.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of the moment by the bells hanging on the front door. I watched the other patrons exit the restaurant. Their existence was a shock back to reality to me. Glancing at my phone, I saw that it was a quarter past nine. Moments later the host stopped by to check on me. I graciously thanked her and told her everything was fantastic, giving her my card to close my tab even as I finished my last roll. Being from the Industry it makes your skin crawl to think that you were the last person in a restaurant and staff would be waiting on you to leave so they can leave.
When she returned with my check in hand, the chef said something to her – in Japanese, I think – and she responded in kind. He gestured for her to sit and she did — right next to me in fact. He returned with a glass of plum wine for her and for himself, then invited me to cheers.
“Kanpai!” they said in unison while clinking glasses with me.
As I finished my last roll, the host and I casually chatted about life, the most memorable being our cats. We both showed each other photos and cooed over how cute they were.
“Do you like Japanese Whiskey?” the chef interjected.
“Sure.” I lied. It was a small lie, but a lie nonetheless. I never really fancied myself a whiskey gal. But thought it would be rude to decline. Plus, it was free booze. He pulled a bottle of Suntory whiskey from behind the raw bar and poured us three small glasses as he explained it was his Christmas present for himself, and he would be happy to share some with us. We enjoyed our small talk and sipped our drinks until I finally wished them a good night. I walked home in the cold feeling quite warm — from the whiskey and company I assumed.
The next four years played out in a similar fashion. Every 25th of December I’d arrive at this sparsely occupied and familiar scene. Seating myself in the usual spot, the chef never looked surprised to see me back, just welcoming and hospitable. Always offering me a new dish to try while truly expanding my knowledge and comfort zone in the realm of raw. And this year it was uni the chef had me try.
“What is it?” I asked. Pointing at the two orangish-looking tongues in front of me.
“Sea urchin,” he replied. “The insides.”
“Thank you,” I gave a hesitant smile and picked up my chopsticks. Inspecting the first piece, the orange squish was draped over a perfectly oval bed of rice. I thought better of drowning it in the soy sauce this time and consumed it au neutral. It was a bit briny, and for a lack of better words, it tasted like the ocean. Really, the favor took a back seat to the texture. The “mouth feel” was like a seafood-buttered-cream over rice. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t hate it. And I gladly consumed the second piece while still trying to figure out what I was even eating. The food and drinks were a comfort to me. Everything was the same: the no-nonsense tables and chairs aligning the windows to the street; the curtains that covered the entrance to the kitchen; the books and trinkets that decorated the wall behind the raw bar. I never dine here on any other day of the year. It wasn’t my usual spot or anything. It was just the place I now came to every year for Christmas.
After dinner, the chef offered me some of his homemade sakè. It was his mother’s recipe he told me. At that moment I realized I have never asked him for his name. Not in all four years, I’ve come here. Nor did he ever ask for mine.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmured, my own words surprising me.
“Sure,” the chef replied.
“How come you’ve never asked me why I always come here alone on Christmas?” The words floated into the air like the smoke from a blown-out candle (waving and overwhelming until it quickly disappears). It was never something I intended to ask because frankly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to hear an answer. But there they were, my words, wafting from my side of the bar to his. The chef never broke eye contact with me. It felt like it had been so long since I asked the question, so I thought maybe I should say something else. My mind bounced around looking for a way out.
“Because you’re not alone.” He finally said, shrugging his shoulders slightly and turning away from me returning to the next order of business.
