And I Thought Palo Alto Had Too Many Sushi Places

There’s something about the series finale episode of Friends that really says a lot about the past couple of weeks in my life (minus the complete lack of racial diversity in the cast, and no, Julie and Charlie did not count). That one scene where the six of them all, one by one, leave their keys on the counter as they longingly consider that one apartment with so many years of memories and, more importantly, their incredibly intertwined lives about to go in completely starburst directions – that scene just kills me, now more than ever. Why do I bring up a bright note in an otherwise subpar (let’s face it, Friends had nowhere near the cultural impact as a lot of other shows out there) television series, you ask?

SRS moved across The Bay to San Francisco last weekend, since that’s where his new job is. I have been going to school with this guy for 11 years and lived with him for two of those years (well, really more like 2.5 years, based on the amount of time he spent in our house during our Third Year). I went to visit (so I could claim F1RST!!!11! on it) this bangin’ house in The City right next to Golden Gate Park and UCSF that SRS had been raving about for the past month. And, my God, the house is bad ASS. The rooms are enormous and the place is an absolute STEAL for an Inner Sunset location, not to mention SRS chose the room with a FIREPLACE. Non-functional, of course, but HE HAS A FIREPLACE IN HIS FRIGGIN’ ROOM. He conveniently put his couch on the opposing wall, meaning all he needs now is a flat-screen TV hung on the wall above the fireplace and everything will be hunky-dory. The parking situation is a nightmare, though. Every day will be an adventure for him as he liberally employs the George Costanza Method for City Parking: first, look for the magic spot right in front of the building, and if that fails, begin circling blocks in ever-increasing concentric squares to get as close a spot as possible to the building. Honestly, though, at that rate, SRS is going to be discovering new streets in San Francisco every day (hence the “every day will be an adventure for him” claim).

But I digress – that was just me pulling BS out of my ass about more BS (emotions are for non-Vulcans and pussies, incidentally one and the same). Onto the really important observations:

We went to dinner at this excellent Japanese restaurant on 9th and Irving in San Francisco called Hotei, which I highly, highly recommend. Handface moment numero uno: SRS and I weren't originally planning on going to Hotei; we were simply playing Russell the Wilderness Explorer and walking around, looking for a new restaurant to try in his new neighborhood.

There are three - THREE - Japanese restaurants on that block, all within 100 feet of each other. I kid you not: Ebisu is right across the street from Hotei and Kiki is 1/10 of a block north of Ebisu. Don't believe me? TRUE DAT DOUBLE TRUE: check it out here. The thought of needing THREE Japanese restaurants within pissing distance absolutely perplexed us. We looked for all the usual tells: do people like you on Yelp? Are you Zagat Survey rated? Do you actually have people eating in your restaurant? More importantly, do you have actual Japanese people eating in your restaurant? After some Indecision 2009 moments, we picked Hotei.

One of the dishes we ordered at Hotei was one of their specialty rolls, the Hanukkah Roll, which is smoked salmon, broiled salmon skin, topped with salmon roe and green onion. It actually tasted pretty damn good, but because SRS and I are terrible excuses for compassionate human beings, we had to say it:

G: "Man, it's pretty salty. Tastes exactly like 6,000 years of tears and suffering of an ever-resilient people."
S: "Yes. Yes it does."