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Sure, there was a large fistfight outside the restaurant before our entire party even arrived, presumably over heroin and prostitution arrangements, but what really marked the evening was one of the participants later wandering through the door clutching a Fisher-Price pull-along toy shouting, "Mama! CPS took my babies away! MAMA!" at which a fierce wiry woman came around the sushi counter and gently shooed, as with a great wounded bird, the dazed streetwalker wearing jacket, bra, and badly stretched spandex short-shorts, to the door -- who shortly returned shouting " MAMA! Janet Jackson wants me to come sing on tour with her!" Mama scooted out to more firmly grab Janet Jackson's personal voice coach by the elbow and guide her through the dutch door to the welcoming scents of Mission Street. It may come as no particular surprise to you that the plaintive refrain "Mama! Mama!" entered the restaurant a third time as various sprawled diners looked up from their deliciously warm sake, while the tall sushi chef shouted back "Get out! Please!" before continuing the rapid-fire flensing of glowing orange tuna flesh and Mama, as though sweeping a mound of rocks with an ordinary straw broom, all but pushed our intoxicated muse out before closing and locking the door behind her -- which seemed to settle the matter until a couple of uniformed police officers, with Janet Jackson in tow, began gently knocking on the glass windows, which all the patrons and staff studiously ignored -- not looking to be overly familiar with The Man in a neighborhood so clearly given over to other, more unofficial forms of rulership, or perhaps simply not to witness what ought to be the private tragedy of another -- until the three of them departed. I thought that would be the most unpleasant encounter with a stranger that evening, but I was wrong. |
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