Cook My Sashimi, PLEASE!

I pride myself on being a self-made connoisseur of good food.

Misunderstand me not, for I am not a snobbish nor a fussy eater. I've had my fair share of plain tasteless to downright revolting culinary experiences, and I'm actually quite easily contented by simple, unexciting dishes on most uneventful days.

The only thing that makes me a real foodie is my unrelenting passion in finding out about and tracking down good food, wherever it may be. Suspicious looking street side hawker fare in Bangkok, classy Ritz afternoon tea in London, dingy diner breakfast in the States, I've conquered them all. Even in Singapore, I'd travel across the country (albeit a very small one) just for that great Hainanese chicken rice chili dip, or risk getting heat stroke by walking from Orchard to Botanical Gardens in the blazing sun for that rack of lamb roasted to perfection.

Alas, there is one big regret in this gastronomic pursuit of mine. That is, I absolutely hate raw fish. With this revelation, I have a strong urge to weep and bow deeply to the Japanese to apologize for my horrendous inadequacy. I sin, in the eyes of millions of sashimi lovers, each time I gag when I see or smell raw seafood on little wooden plates.

In the unfortunate event of me being force led into a sashimi restaurant, I would have to ask for flasks of hot green tea to wash the slimy fishy mess down my throat, half hoping that the piping heat from the tea would actually flash cook it in split seconds (well, it didn't, but it did cook my throat to a medium rare). If I get lucky, I might be able to get through the night by pretending to concentrate hard on creating the optimal mix of wasabi and soy sauce. Since I'm mostly not a lucky person, I've swallowed quite a variety of raw things (I still can't bring myself to say 'food') to date.

The most memorable (and coincidentally, also the saddest) experience I've had was the time I went to a yakiniku, or BBQ, restaurant in Nagoya. It was a dinner which I had been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. Not until the beef liver dish came up. If you know me quite well, you'd know that I'm really crazy about liver. Pork liver, duck liver, goose liver, chicken liver, whatever... At this juncture, I'm sure you're feeling really happy for me, but let me tell you that NO, one does not eat BBQ beef liver in a BBQ restaurant! You eat it raw. Oh yeah, red, dripping wet raw.

Thus, it is with greatest sorrow that I placed a slice of raw beef liver gingerly onto my tongue while miserably watching that lovely BBQ fire crackle in unknowing excitement. I cursed silently as the piece of liver french kissed its way down my throat. To add insult to injury, I had to finish the entire plate as I was sitting at the counter bar where half a dozen Japanese diners had their eyes on me, nodding approvingly at my valiant attempt. And it wasn't even cheap.

To this day, I am still bent on conquering my fear for all things raw, in a bid to become a true gourmet. Once in a while, I'd boldly try a slice of sashimi from my dinner companion's platter, but it will always end in the same fashion - me reaching out for my tea cup frantically just before I throw up.

So, minasan, give me shabu shabu, sukiyaki, tempura, anything. Just keep that sashimi away from me, unless there's plenty of hot green tea. Please.