Our meals arrived, the dishes placed before us with a quiet grace. Sasha's order was elegantly simple: sashimi and a small bowl of perfectly cooked rice, the fish sliced into delicate pieces that shimmered under the soft lighting. The rice was steamed to perfection, a mound of white that balanced the plate's otherwise minimalist design.
I stared at the sashimi, my stomach twisting into a knot. My mind ran through all the warnings about eating raw food, and I looked at Sasha, unsure.
"Sasha, are you sure… this is cooked?" I asked, my voice unsure, my eyes flicking from the plate to her face. The fresh fish sat there, pristine and untouched, but to me it felt too raw, too exposed.
Sasha glanced at me, her expression unfazed, and a small smirk tugged at her lips. "You do know sashimi isn't supposed to be cooked, right?"
I raised an eyebrow, still processing. "I mean, I know that, but... this looks like it should be cooked. It's just so... fresh." I poked a piece with my chopsticks, as if waiting for it to magically change form.
I struggled with the chopsticks, which was unsurprising given my lack of expertise in Japanese cuisine. Sasha, on the other hand, made it look effortless as she gracefully picked up the salmon with her chopsticks. I hesitated for a moment before reaching for the spoon and fork, but Sasha promptly stopped me.
"Chopsticks only, sir. It is part of the authentic Japanese experience," she explained, her voice firm but pleasant. I smiled sheepishly and put down the utensils, determined to learn the art of chopstick-wielding before the evening was over.
She laughed softly, almost affectionately. "That's the point, Hoffman. Sashimi is about freshness, not cooking. It's about the quality of the fish. You'll be fine."
I hesitated, eyes still fixed on the raw slices, wondering how this could possibly be safe. "But... it's just—raw fish. Are you sure there's no risk? No hidden... bacteria surprise?"
Sasha picked up a piece and dipped it in soy sauce, her movements casual and confident. "You think sushi chefs don't know what they're doing? Trust me, this is top-tier. You won't find fresher fish unless you're standing in Tokyo's Tsukiji market."
She took a bite, the fish disappearing effortlessly into her mouth. "It's all about the freshness. The fish is practically still swimming when it's served."
I swallowed, my skepticism still there, but I couldn't back down now. Sasha wasn't bothered, and I figured if she could eat it without hesitation, maybe I could too. Tentatively, I grabbed a piece of sashimi with my chopsticks, inspecting it one more time.
Taking a deep breath, I followed her lead and dipped it into the soy sauce. There was no turning back now. As the fish slid onto my tongue, I found it surprisingly delicate, clean, and—if I was honest—delicious.
I set down my chopsticks and looked up at Sasha, who had an amused glint in her eye.
"See? Not so bad, right?" she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Guess I'll be leaving the cooked food to you from now on," I replied, a reluctant grin forming.
"Good decision," she teased, clearly enjoying my discomfort turning into approval.
Later, The comforting scent of miso soup, which was placed in front of each of us in small wooden bowls. The soup had a rich, earthy aroma, its deep brown color inviting me to try it. Floating on the surface were thin slices of tofu, chopped green onions, and a few wisps of seaweed that seemed to sway in the broth, just waiting to be stirred.
I followed her lead, but when the spoon hit the surface of the soup, I hesitated. The warmth of it was comforting, but there was something about the faint fishiness of the broth that caught me off guard. I glanced at Sasha, still unsure.
"Sasha," I began, cautiously, "this... this isn't too salty, is it?"
She glanced up, her eyebrows raised slightly as she caught the uncertainty in my voice. "It's supposed to be a bit salty," she said with a small smile, "but not overwhelmingly so. Just enough to balance the sweetness of the tofu and the depth of the miso."
I took a tentative sip, the warmth of the soup instantly soothing. It was salty, sure, but not in a bad way. The combination of flavors—umami from the miso, the smoothness of the tofu, and the slight bitterness of the seaweed—was surprisingly comforting.
I looked at her, impressed. "Okay, I'll admit it. This is good."
Sasha smiled and took another sip, clearly enjoying it. "I told you. Miso soup is one of those things that, once you try it the right way, you'll never want to go back to the instant kind again."
I nodded, still savoring the taste. It was simple but perfect, a warm, rich foundation for the rest of the meal.
Samuel was watching me intently, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "You should get married, old man," he said with a wink, his tone dripping with mischief.
I shot him a sharp look, already feeling my patience wearing thin. "I've never looked at Sasha as a romantic partner. She's like a sister to me," I hissed, trying to keep my tone steady.
Samuel leaned back in his seat, unfazed by my irritation. "Making sisters? Are we?" he teased, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing.
I rolled my eyes, deciding to throw the joke right back at him. "Talking about partners, you two fit the role of an old married couple better," I said, motioning to him and Sasha, who had been exchanging quiet, amused glances throughout the exchange.
He raised an eyebrow, not backing down. "What's the problem? Huh? She's a perfect woman for you. You two are a match made in heaven."
Sasha's expression shifted instantly, the playful teasing giving way to a more serious tone. "Sam," she said sharply, her voice low and firm. "You're crossing lines. I already have a partner, and you shouldn't interfere in my relationship. Keep your match-making skills to yourself."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was an awkward silence. Even Samuel seemed to realize he had pushed too far, his earlier confidence momentarily faltering.
Finally, he broke the tension with a shrug and a half-hearted smirk. "The sashimi... not bad," he said, poking at his plate with his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
Sasha shot him a pointed look but didn't say anything more, choosing to take a sip of his miso soup. I couldn't help but smirk at the way Samuel always seemed to walk right up to the edge of offending someone before quickly retreating.
"Glad to know you're enjoying the food, Sam," I said, breaking the quiet. "But if you're done playing matchmaker, maybe we can get back to eating in peace."
Samuel made a show of pouting, but he finally focused on his meal, mumbling something under his breath about "ruining his fun." I leaned back in my chair, the tension easing, and took another bite of my sashimi. It was good, really good, and for a brief moment, I forgot about the conversation entirely.
"Sasha, thanks for the choice of restaurant. It was something new and tasty," I said, pushing my empty plate aside and settling back in my chair.
"No problem, sir," she replied, casually waving off the compliment. "I was born in Japan."
I blinked in surprise. The revelation caught me off guard. Samuel's chopsticks paused mid-air as he glanced at her, equally surprised. I looked at Sasha, the pieces suddenly falling into place—her features had always carried a quiet grace, but now it made sense. She was short, like most Asians I knew.
"So, what's with the Campbell title?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
"My father is American," she replied nonchalantly, her expression unreadable. "He got attracted to an Asian. That's the whole story."
"Quite smart. But not that smart for an Asian," Samuel said with a grin, leaning back.
Sasha rolled her eyes. "Ten times smarter than an American like you."
I couldn't help but laugh at her comeback. "Touché," I said, giving her a nod of respect.
Samuel sat back in his seat, clearly a little taken aback but still grinning. "Guess I should have known better," he muttered.
Sasha simply sipped her tea, clearly enjoying the banter.
I drove to my house, the night already settled deep at 10 p.m. The streets were quieter now, and the city lights painted the road ahead in a steady, muted glow. I glanced over at Sasha, who was sitting beside me, and offered her a ride home.
"I can drop you off," I said, my voice tired but genuine. "It's getting late."
She shook her head with a small smile. "Thanks, but Samuel's giving me a ride. My apartment's on the way to his place," she replied, her tone casual, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice.
I frowned slightly, glancing at Samuel, who was already making his way toward his car with a grin that seemed a little too satisfied. He'd always had this knack for getting things his way.
"Sure?" I asked, but there was no need to press. She seemed comfortable with the arrangement, and it wasn't like I could argue about a ride being more convenient for her.
"Yeah, no problem," she assured me.
I nodded and started the engine, but before I could pull away, Samuel popped his head back in. "Don't wait up, old man," he teased, his grin wide as he gave me a wink. "We'll be fine."
I watched them both head off, and for a moment, I was alone with the quiet of the night. The air was cool, and the hum of the city felt distant. I couldn't help but wonder, as I made my way home, if I was letting something slip by or if it was all just the natural course of things.