We all have that one line in the sand. A definitive “before” and “after” split by a single, core memory. For me, that line is made of seasoned sushi rice and a cold Japanese beer.
I wasn’t always a believer.
For a long time, I was a sushi skeptic. I didn’t get the hype. I tried sushi a few times (albeit in SoCal and Seattle), and every time, it was a solid nope. The textures, the concept… it just didn’t click. I didn’t understand the appeal of eating slimy raw fish with white rice.
2004 happened. My first trip to Japan.
Crossing the Chasm
I found myself wandering a side street in Yokosuka with a coworker. We weren’t looking for anything more than a snack, a no-reservation quick bite. We stumbled into an unassuming, walk-in conveyor belt sushi joint.
Looking around, I noticed tanks of live fish. Before I could even wonder whether they were fresh or saltwater, the chef plunged a net into a tank and hauled a fish the size of a forearm. On the spot, with surgical precision, he broke it down and turned it into pristine pieces of nigiri.
The plate hit the belt and started its slow, rhythmic lap toward us.
My coworker looked at it, visibly weirded out, a look of mild disgust creeping across his face.
In that split second, something shifted. Call it morbid curiosity, call it traveling bravado, or maybe it was just destiny. As the plate glided past our seats, I reached out. I grabbed it. I took a bite.
There was no chewiness, no fishiness. It literally melted. The contrast of the warm, seasoned rice against the impossibly fresh meat hit my palate like a revelation. I washed it down with a crisp, ice-cold Japanese beer, and the universe clicked into place. That was the moment.
I had officially crossed the event horizon. I went into that shop a skeptic and walked out a changed man. Ever since that afternoon in Yokosuka, I have been chasing that same “sushi high.” The perfect, fleeting harmony where the vinegared rice and the fresh protein converge into something spiritual.
The Return: Living the Island Life
Fast forward to today. I am incredibly fortunate to live in a city that is absolute paradise for a sushi lover. The quest that started on a Japanese side street continues right in my backyard, and when I need to chase that high, I have four distinct temples of flavor to choose from:
- Hihimanu (Kaimuki): My go-to for an intimate, incredibly dialed-in omakase experience where the chef’s artistry takes center stage.
- Sasabune (Ala Moana/Makiki): If I’m craving pure, unadulterated savory bliss. Their legendary “Trust Me” philosophy never fails to deliver flavor profiles that blow your mind.
- Kaiten Ginza Onodera (McCully-Mōʻiliʻili): A massive nod to my roots. It brings that high-end Tokyo technique to a premium conveyor belt style, serving up some of the freshest fish you can find.
- Sushi Sho (Waikiki): The pinnacle of luxury. An absolute masterclass in Edomae technique and cured perfections that makes every single bite feel like a special occasion.
Each place has its own soul, its own specialty, and its own way of recreating that magic I first felt over twenty years ago.
So here’s to the side streets, the live tanks, the coworkers who hesitate, and the beers that wash it all down. If you haven’t found your sushi moment yet, don’t give up. It might just take a flight, a conveyor belt, and a little bit of faith.