Volume 4, Issue 16
August 8 - August 21, 2002
by Delilah Delish
815 Nile Court, Golden
303-278-8000
Through various online conversations, we'd established the things we had in common: my love of history, his historic house in the hills, his retro cars, my retro style, etc. So I made plans to meet what looked like a cute redhead...at least according to his online profile. 'Sam' suggested sushi, as if he somehow knew that one pathway to this girl's heart is definitely paved in raw fish, rice and sake. Though it was yet to be determined whether he, or the fish, would pass my quality test.
He gave me directions to Sushi Uokura in Golden, and I headed out towards the hills. Pulling up to the little white lodge-like place I thought, "This is not a sushi restaurant." I'm used to the glass and wood and clean lines of Sushi Den or Fontana. My second thought, as I stepped from my car and heard my name called, was "This is not my date." While the online picture had been of an almost fierce-looking, taut young man, this fellow was more mush than muscle. I'd liked him online, maybe I could get past the appearance, just as I was hoping to get past the exterior of Uokura.
The inside decor, while having some of the elements of other sushi restaurants--the sushi bar, paper fans and bamboo in the decor--still had that lingering feeling of a family restaurant, someplace where large slabs of meat should be served.
Sam told me about his band and then complained that Denver doesn't support local music. Now, I'm polite, so when I felt my voice rising, I tried to calm myself and excuse his statement based on the fact that he lived in the hills. I told him about the number of local labels, and I listed the local shows I had been to in just the last month. He continued to disagree, so rather than arguing with his wall-like opinion, I suggested we order.
I had a couple of questions about the menu and the waitress went into the kind of detail that suggested she had experience preparing, or at least paid attention to the preparation of the food she was serving. Sam recommended the yakisoba, but I knew I'd never make it through the rest of the meal if I filled up on the thick noodles and meat. The Miso Soup came quickly and the warm, comforting broth was a perfect starter, and staved off my hunger for a bit while I chatted with Sam and tried to find enough beneath his thick exterior to interest me. He was smart, in a folksy, southern, Mark Twain kind of way and I liked the hints of drawl that leaked into his speech. He steered me back to the subject of music and I finally asked him what kind of music his band played. "We're a Jam Band." Any affection I had started to develop for him drained out. I hate Jam Bands--the whirling, pointless music bores me to tears and most of the people who listen to it (i.e. Hippies) annoy me.
"Really?" I asked, and then teased, "but you don't look like a Hippie."
"I'm not," he said, "I just want to make the Hippies dance."
And with that statement, I almost spit out a mouthful of Miso. I looked up hoping to see some irony in his eyes, but met a look of earnestness. I looked around awkwardly, wondering how I'd make my polite escape after dinner, and then I thought, "Where is dinner?" It had been a long time since the Miso was served--long enough that the pleasant warmth in my stomach was disappearing, leaving a cold hunger. Sam didn't seem bothered, so I mentioned it to him. "Oh, sometimes it takes a while, but it's worth it, I promise." The place was almost empty. What could take so long?
It finally arrived, served on a cute little lacquered wooden bridge. I dug in, keeping my mouth full as much in hunger as in conversation deflection. Then spicy tuna rolls were the right size and balance of rice and fish with the exact amount of kick needed to make my eyes water and clear out my sinus passages. The salmon and tuna had a very fresh and clean taste and practically melted on my tongue, and the eel was not overly sweet, as it can be, and is, in other local sushi joints. I had ordered my usual favorite, the rainbow roll, and was pleasantly surprised that the avocado did not taste like an afterthought, but was an integral part of the roll--it was ripe and buttery and complimented the "rainbow" of fish wrapped around it.
Dinner was thankfully consumed fairly quickly and without mention of Jam Bands or other irritating subjects and I feigned sleepiness to make a quick getaway. And don't get me wrong--Sam wasn't awful, he just wasn't me. Sometimes, as in the case of Uokura, you can't judge a book by it's cover, but with Sam, even after flipping a few pages, I had to put that book back on the shelf.
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