The mother is going to have a field day with this one. You see, she liked to feed us strange things when we were children. Bizarre things, like ... Well, here's a handy reference chart:

What you ate as a child

Spaghetti with meatballs

Pepperoni pizza

Honey-nut Cheerios

Red beans and rice

Peanut butter and jelly sandwich

What I ate as a child

Spinach linguine with cottage cheese

Whole-wheat crust pizza, extra sauce, no cheese

Rice Chex with orange juice, no milk

Millet and eggs

Apple stuffed with peanut butter

I mean, weird, right? But see, we didn't notice. We didn't really know any better until we got to school and were all, "DERwaitaminnit. This apple ain't no sammich." And I'm sure it was all EXTREMELY good for us and packed with nutrients, and we are abject ingrates for wanting fingernails stained with Cheetos dust, but you can't really depend on a 7-year-old for dietary judgment.

Eventually, we realized this weird-food bit was the kind of currency you just don't always get as a kid. Mother S has endured countless hours of our post-puberty torment on the subject. And neither she nor I may ever live down the Nutmeg Incident, which I think is the moment she decided to screw it and let us poison our bodies if we must, if only to keep her oldest daughter from spontaneously combusting.

So here, mother, for your reading pleasure, is my sweet, sweet comeuppance. There are grains in this recipe that we complained about for YEARS. And get this: It was damn good.

Oh, Mom, pipe down. People are trying to sleep.



I started with lentils, spinach, onions, fat-free plain yogurt (the Pube didn't have low-fat), garbanzos, olive oil, salt/pepper, a bay leaf, cumin, allspice, and turmeric. There in the front, in the pretty teacup (thank you, Grandma!), is some cooked barley, and in the back in the ominous-looking box is the Kasha (buckwheat). I KNOW.

I put the oil into the pot and immediately got distracted, so that I was shoving a handful of pretzels into my mouth before I noticed the smoke.

Oops.

The pot came off the heat to simmer the heck down, then in went the onions. After they'd sweated out a bit, I added the spices. Then T called, so I was shooting the shit and forgot to take a picture. Sweaty, pungent onions, and you missed them. The Kleenex are in the bathroom, if you need a minute.

Then I added the 6.5 cups of water, but that didn't make for a pretty shot at all. I mean, would you eat this?



Me neither. And I was a little worried about that much water. Usually you get the flavor benefit of a stock/broth in a recipe like this. Would it be bland? Would I be throwing away 7.5 servings of it in three weeks? I mean, tomorrow?

Next, I tossed in the beans, spinach, and buckwheat, and let that cook for a minute.



Then I pulled it off the heat for 10 minutes. In the last 5 minutes that it had to sit, I drained the yogurt between paper towels



and frantically threw in the barley, which I realized I'd forgotten to do three steps ago. Not much liquid came out of the yogurt, because it was pretty well dense to start with. But I scooped a tablespoon of it into the bottom of the bowl, and topped with the POTAGE. That's right, it's French. It means, "Big Brother and the Non-reader are going to give you HELL for having eaten and enjoyed buckwheat AND barley because how are we now going to present a united front in the battle to Give Mom a Hard Time due to the great Sugar Allergy Test Double Cross of '85?"



I don't know. But this was delicious. Like lick-the-bowl, no-I-won't-share, spit-on-your-neck fantastic.

I'm going to go eat an Oreo now.

Yessir, it's Freudian. Freud, you see, has a theory that there's no such thing as an accident. Which pisses me off, frankly. Is he saying that when I attempted that cookie recipe I ended up with a garbage can full of perfectly useful ingredients because I forgot you can't half 1 egg on PURPOSE? Because that was an accident. It could happen to anyone.

Right?

So I decided, instead of BLOWING. YOUR. MIND. with chocolate wonder, I'd take the Amateur Gourmet's challenge.

And so, without further ado (because ado would imply this would be a much less pathetic insight into my life), I bring you:

My refrigerator. It is very pleased to meet you.



Milk, salsa, soy sauce, cream, more milk, cottage cheese, black-olive hummus (which, YUM), light french onion dip, and Beth's beer. Hear that Grandma? It's BETH'S. She left it at my house when I was at the library. Reading to sick children.

Beneath that? Foil-wrapped bacon on top of a Tupperware of formerly melted chocolate, a tiny wedge of 2% Cracker Barrel Cheddar, and an empty salad spinner.

And then? Eggs and Diet Mt. Dew.

Total percentage of viable foodstuffs? Hovering firmly at 11%. The rest qualifies as questionable, curdled, and possibly poisonous.



Now, drawers. Ooh! Naughty!

Broccoli/cauliflower mix, old olives, a withering cucumber, and red onion. Then some black basil and Parmigiano. What's that you say? Oh, no! Black basil is not a gourmet variety. It is quite simple to make, in fact. Buy some packaged basil, throw it in the refrigerator, and wait one week. Voilá! You, too, have black basil. I recommend you keep it in a crisper drawer. That way it has its very own space in which to liquify.



Butter (oh I still love that butter dish!), pickles, pickle relish, more butter (hi Mom!), spaghetti sauce, hot sauce, brown mustard, tamari, yellow mustard, and what i think is a total of three bottles of ranch dressing (seriously, Mom, just navigate away. Look: novelty tees!), bottled ginger, prepared horseradish, roasted red peppers, hoisin, curry powder, grape jelly, mayos, dijon mustard, and wasabi mustard. Ketchups, a never-used eye mask, and cornmeal.

And now, you have seen into my psyche. Turns out it has some rotten spots and a lot of condiments.

Who knew this:



could become this:



could become this?



YES I am supposed to be freelancing and YES I haven't updated in two weeks and YES I feel shame. SHAME! Please don't hit me, I'll be a good girl, I promise.

Updates when I resurface from the abject hell that has been this week.

P.S. On that subject? The hell one? Hugs to all the people I love. You know who you are. I'm not a hugger by trade, so just ... big squeezes. For serious.

Ah, restaurant food. Why must you tempt me with your made-by-other-people-ness and your expensivity? As I'm sure all of you who know me are aware, I am a person with simple needs. A glass of wine, a warm dog, and two strong hands for doing all my vacuuming.

Seriously, why do I like that guy so much?



Oh yeah. Twitter!

Anyhoo. Restaurants. I really think the formula for a great dining experience, whether it's The Cheesecake Factory or The French Laundry (HAR! Like I've eaten there.) comes down to four basic ingredients.*

MENU: I'm inappropriately obsessed with menus. I'm the Goldilocks of menus. I abhor the enormous ones that act like the dividers they used to make you use in elementary school to keep you from cheating. I hate to see some awkward couple cowering behind giant placards, squinting at the tiny type and murmuring, "Oh, I don't know, it ALL sounds so good ... What'd you say? I can't hear you from behind this piece of POSTERBOARD."

Then, should they want to put their menus down and have an actual conversation about the coworker they're both disappointed with for setting them up in the first place, there's no place to put the damn things, because the size of the table is inversely related to the size of the menu. Go to Brio some day and count the number of people with menus in their laps. Or precariously balanced on the corner of the table, with the silverware as anchor, creating the perfect setup for hitting the overhanging edge of the menu and catapulting forks across the restaurant. Unsightly and dangerous.

And too big isn't the half of it. There's too light (If I'm eating outside and you're going to give me a menu with the heft of loose leaf, at least have the courtesy to provide a paperweight), too many choices—and its corollary, spiral-bound—(If I want a burrito, I'll go to a Mexican restaurant. If I want pizza, I'll go to a pizza joint. No, I do not feel giddily enthusiastic at the prospect of a twice-baked potato with my California roll), and too much information—and its corollary, inane description—(I can see that it's a chicken Caesar salad. I don't need you to explain that that means "a classic Caesar salad topped with chicken").

As a personal aside, I've always wanted to get restaurants to adopt some version of this, wherein the fabric between the seat and the floor is a pocket. I want to keep my menu—maybe I'll need to choose another wine, or think about dessert—but not if it's the size of a road map. I think diners should get to HAVE their menus, but be able to keep them out of sight.

SERVICE: Service is a dance of sorts, but it doesn't have to be complicated. Bring me what I order, and have a sense of humor. That's all I ask. You can be a little slow, or a little busy—you're working, I get it. I want my meal to be a leisurely affair, so I'm not too worried about it. If you have to explain what's going on, don't blame the kitchen or the bar. They're not my problem. Just assure me it's on its way and I'll be fine. See how easygoing?

At the same time, know that there is a general pace to a meal. Don't bring the appetizers out before the bread, or bring out the soup with the entrees. And don't be a snot about substitutions. There is a place for the thin-lipped terseness when someone wants eggplant parmigiano without the eggplant. But if I order a double-decker burger and ask if I can get it as a single-decker? It's LESS food. For the same amount of money. And I'm certain the kitchen can do two minus one. I know you'd like people to order directly from the menu without complaint, but ... I don't know. Maybe your menu is annoying. I don't want two veggie patties, OK, and I know it's not a big deal to change. So stop looking at me like I asked for the Magna Carta.

ATMOSPHERE: Simple and private. Not too many TVs. The decor signifies what the food is going to be like, so if you're garish and loud and overrun with children, I'm going to assume the back of the house is harried and loud and heavy-handed with the sauces. No gimmicks or bad art, please. And if your bathroom isn't clean, I'm not coming back.

PRICE: I don't mind paying for good stuff. That having been said, I know portion sizes are making us fat, but they also give us the impression we're getting our money's worth. Serving a sandwich the size of my head is particularly useful if your food isn't terribly good. I'll be all, "Ew, there's a hair in there. But it has a year's worth of calories for only $4.50!" The flip side is that I'll give you my paycheck for something tiny and delicious.

FOOD: Well, der.

*Trust me on this; I come with excellent credentials. I graduated cum laude from the University of Unsolicited and Unqualified Opinion. Go Fighting Trumps!

OK. End Manifesto.

JLB took my broke ass to Jinsei, which happens to be my favorite restaurant in the Woodside's municipality. The sushi will ruin you forever. When I see the rolls in the plastic cases at the Publix now, I cry.

We started with the tempura green beans:



They were perfectly crispy on the outside and hot like molten lava inside, which sounds dangerous but is delicious. It comes with a low-level spicy sauce that is sort of superfluous but keeps you dipping with its seductive mayonnaiseyness.

After that healthy vegetable course, we had the rock shrimp tempura (that's an errant shiitake mushroom mucking up the shot):



They're tasty, but not my favorite (and by "not my favorite" I mean I only ate 14% more than my share). JB always orders them with the sauce on the side, which helps because it keeps the tempura from going chewy.

Six seconds later, when we'd devoured the popcorn shrimp, we ordered JLB's favorite: the Kadoma tuna ("Cut into small pieces," natch. The wedges are pretty big, which is never a problem for someone with a mouth the size of mine, but JLB is dainty. And likes to make things difficult for the kitchen. Hi JLB!)



A crunchy rice crust surrounds spicy tuna, topped with avocado, jalapeño, and a smattering of roe. I adore spicy, but I'm not a huge jalapeño fan. I prefer fill-your-head spicy to burn-your-taste-buds spicy. Here, though, it's ideal. It offsets the sweet sauce and gets cooled by the avocado. JLB turns into a 3-year-old when it hits the table. She just stares at it reverently and whispers, "It's my fayvritt."

After that, JLB decided she wanted "some of those cone thingies." For unknown reasons, the chef wasn't quite clear on that apt description, so he sent out the nikko roll:



I can't really remember what's in there, but I know there was cream cheese and that the white sauce tasted suspiciously of mayo. I wouldn't order it again, but the worst menu item at Jinsei is better than the best menu item at a lot of places.

JLB proceeded to gesticulate wildly enough to communicate what she had been trying to conjure:



To her credit, it does have a complicated name: "hand roll." I'd never had them before, and they were transcendent. The fish was amazing, and that leathery fruit-roll-up texture you usually get from the seaweed wrap? Totally nonexistent here. I didn't so much eat mine as I gobbled it. Which is attractive, let me tell you.

Jesus, ladies, aren't you full yet?

What's full?

I had to save the best for last. We finished with hamachi nigiri:



That yellowtail, my friends, tastes like heaven. Like someone teaching you how to French kiss (thanks, Pelham!). Not that I've done that, of course. Hi Grandma!

There's a perfect layer of wasabi holding that fish to the rice like Polydent. Ruth Reichl says the Japanese never dip their rice in the soy sauce—it should go into the dish fish-side first. I follow their mandate, because I'm pretentious like that. And trust me when I say you do not want excessive brininess assaulting this fish. It is unlike anything I've ever eaten.

Sigh. This is an exercise in futility. Anyone want to go to Jinsei and buy me dinner?

VERDICT!

MENU: Not ideal. Two small pieces of wood hold the pages in (sometimes), connected by bolts. The clunkiness makes it hard to turn the pages, but the tininess makes it unobtrusive on the table. Which helps when you're hanging on to your menu and ordering item by item. Most dishes come with no description at all. It can seem intimidating, but ... well, see below.

SERVICE: So. Nice. And helpful. I'm sure when you're answering the same questions night after night it can get old, but you'd never know it by the waitstaff. Management makes a point to visit tables and check in without pecking on your shoulder and shouting "HOW IS EVERYTHING TONIGHT?" every four and a half minutes (peeve!).

ATMOSPHERE: Vibey. The restaurant is small, and things are close together, but the food makes people so happy that you won't hate your table neighbors. Except when they stop talking for 48 minutes because they're listening to your conversation and oh my god it's so obvious you're eavesdropping get your own lives. Ahem.

Know that the bathrooms sport pocket doors, or you may find yourself mortified. Unlike other things I deny on this site, that did NOT happen to me. But it has happened, so be aware! Your netherregions and your pride will thank you. My only complaint is that the banquettes are too low. Grab a chair, or you may have to sit with your chin on the table.

PRICE: So massive, and so worth it. Start kissing up to cranky rich people, STAT. The cocktails are inventive and tasty, but if you're a wine drinker, start at home. You'll double your tab fast in alcohol alone. Or you could be less of a lush, geesh.

FOOD: The best.

Jinsei
1830 29th Avenue South
Suite 125
Homewood, AL 35209
205.802.1440