Sad Clowns

I was having a serious pregnancy craving, so Mrs. Undaground and I went with another couple to a hibachi place last night. We're both very fond of this style of food, and we've enjoyed it together once every 6 months-or-so since we started dating.

In addition to the delicious food, It's really just an entertaining treat to have it prepared in front of you. The chef is usually a cross between a skilled grill-man, samurai warrior, and circus clown. I've been mesmerized by this style of restaurant since I was a small child. I would choose Benihana as my "birthday dinner" not only to enjoy the good food, but mostly to see the ancient art of precision knife-work right in front of me.

I think there was a time when I was 11 or 12 where I wanted to be a Benihana chef for a living. I realize I'm not Japanese, but neither was "The Last Samurai", and they accepted him (even with the whole Scientology thing). I thought they could take me in and teach me, and I could help raise their kids and contribute strong ideas at village meetings, all the while learning to chop off shrimp tails at lightning speed and flick them anywhere. Maybe some sort of exchange program would have worked. My parents could have housed a Japanese boy for a few years and tought him how to become skilled with the remote control, win at Trivial Pursuit, and to use sarcasm more effectively.

So last night, I was very encouraged by our table. Shortly after my soup and my first Japanese beer (when in Tokyo....), another family joined us and there was a young boy there. Excellent. They always do all their tricks when there's kids involved. We'll get the works. Ha! Look interested boy. Don't screw this up.

The samurai arrived at the table and put some oil on the grill. He made smiley faces out of the oil. Cool. Keep it comin. Then, he did the egg thing where he flips it up with the spatula and catches it while it's spinning. I golf-clapped for him. The boy looked uninterested. Maybe he had a vision problem, or he was malnourished. I don't know. The chef then made the onion slice volcano, and fire shot from the grill. Woo-hoo. The boy was not impressed. Maybe his father's an acrobat or fire-eater and spinning an egg is too elementary.

I was rooting for the chef. It was the equivalent of a stand-up comic bombing on stage. I was doing my best to cheer him on, like the comic's brother-in-law clapping in the back of the room and offering courtesy laughter at a high volume. Nothing. Somewhere after the onion volcano and before the shrimp appetizer, the chef's spirit was broken, and he gave up. He never performed another trick. Yes, the steak, shrimp and chicken was awesome, like a party in my mouth, but underneath it all was a layer of sadness.

Some entertainers would push harder in a situation like that. Maybe they'd try a dangerous new trick, or fall down to get laughs. Not this guy. He had too much pride for that. Hibachi chefs are nothing if not proud. They've spent too many nights bandaging their fingers and treating minor burns to have to embarrass themselves. I respect him for that. Here's to you, clown.