You Are Late For The Experience

This blog is written by a real human being. AI had absolutely no part in writing or editing. To prove it, just read along and tally up the MYRIAD grammatical mistakes. “Hear” is the first mistake that I expect you, cherished reader, to strike through with red ink and condescendingly correct like the vast majority of my English teachers except for Miss Echly who told me I had an incredible writing voice. I do believe she was also my first crush – I continue to monitor my subscribers to “Sincerely Your Friend DOT com” in hopes of seeing her one day. So far it’s mostly my Aunts, mother’s friends and Bangladeshi bots trying to convince me they have a “shy friend who is perfect for me,” but I have to contact her on snap chat first. 

About a year ago, I was living in Atlanta Georgia. One day I was walking through my apartment building and I looked down to see an almost hair-like fecal atrocity that was no doubt left behind by one of those miniature dogs that shake and perpetually have their tongues resting outside of their mouths. I shared this disturbing moment with a very austere Japanese man who happened to be walking by at the same time. Like many Japanese men, he was very proper. His eyes told a tedious and regimented story. I looked at him and could tell that he seldom deviated from social norms. This is culturally true of the Japanese. For example, it is actually frowned upon in Japan to walk and eat at the same time. Food is meant to be respected and enjoyed. Hurrying through a meal is a bastardization. I, on the other hand, have thrown out Taco Bell and later retrieved it from the trash can and devoured it over the kitchen sink. Not quite “walking and eating,” but certainly worse. As my proper friend and I looked down at what the demure lap dog had left behind, we bonded for a moment over our mutual disdain for this eyesore on the ground. After gazing into this man’s eyes and knowing his entire past, I had an invasive thought as to how I might chaotically shake up what appeared to be a lifetime of social propriety. And so I did just that. I made eye contact with the man, looked down at the pile, overtly looked back up at him and this time slowly raised my hand disapprovingly and gently wagged my finger at him like you would lovingly scold a puppy and said, “Did you do this? That’s bad….that’s a bad boy! You don’t poop inside.” Not a trace of emotion crossed his face. After what felt like the duration of a catholic wedding ceremony, his frozen visage began to crack. He couldn’t subdue his laughter any longer. Decades of suppression came welling up and he finally broke into a hearty cackle. My high risk high reward maneuver had paid off. The laughter truly looked medicinal here. What’s equally hilarious is that my assessment of his calculated personality could not have been more accurate as evidenced by his profession. Chef Tomo San was a highly distinguished New York transplant that had recently relocated to Atlanta to pioneer the highly acclaimed Michelin Star, Omakase EXPERIENCE at Mujo. And I just accused him of taking a shit on our apartment floor. After struggling through a conversation of broken English we landed on the idea of me coming into his restaurant to experience the culinary zenith of raw fish.

For the poor people that are reading this, Omakase is a JOURNEY in which the patron surrenders all control and enjoys an EXPERIENCE that is curated by the Chef. Typically this is over 10-15 courses. I have added the Menu so you can see what we ate and the absurd amount of money that we spent – every single dime worth it. Not just for the 5 star, 5 diamond, double platinum, melted gold, granulated stardust service & culinary “one two punch” that left us satisfied in an oddly ethereal way, but also because of what happened that night. An interaction so mind boggling that we almost believed that – like the psychological thriller “The Menu” – it may have been a part of the experience itself. But more on that later. 

When I originally walked in to reserve a “table for two,” the kind lady told me they don’t do tables but rather “seats.” Perturbed, I tried to peer into the restaurant to conceptualize this but as I gazed down the dark hallway, any shred of light seemed to evaporate into a mysterious nothingness. Imbued with enchantment, I told the lady to mark me down for two seats – one for me and one for my buddy Nick Masciantonio who I knew had a seasoned pelican’s gullet, primed for raw fish. 

At this point in my life, my internal organs were kindly begging for ashwagandha, lion's mane and a steamroom detox from overuse so I was detoxing from the devil’s drippings (that’s alcohol). When Nick called me up and asked me what I wanted to drink before dinner I had to tell him that I was taking a well needed break. It’s important to note that, over the past 15 years, I have been the drop of lime juice from a wilted and desiccated lime sliver to Nick’s dixie cup gin and tonic and he the gorilla glue grime on a 4am saloon dance floor to my sticky timberland boot sole. This made it all the more difficult to say, “Hey no matter what you say or what happens tonight, I simply am not drinking.” I would go to that restaurant, eat some room temp fish wrapped in ocean weeds, pay a thousand dollars for it,  and that would be it. Nick is funny because he thinks he’s got this secret psychological manual that he can deploy to manipulate others into doing whatever he wants. He doesn’t know that I have an exact copy of that manual committed to memory and can see every move that he makes from a mile away. So he deployed all of the usual tricks and I countered them like a deft Yale fencer opposite a drunken honey badger who had recently dabbled in ketamine for the first time. It’s helpful to know that every "Psychological Operation” as he calls it is actually just rudimentary reverse psychology. I tell you this mainly because I know he is reading this right now and I really want him to know that he is, in no way, clever.  

Our reservation was at six and I made sure that Nick was aware of this. The hostess – who reminded me of what I envision to be an instructor at a Mount Everest base camp – was stern in her pre ceremony briefing. “Your guided JOURNEY with Chef Tomo San will begin promptly at six pm,” she said wide eyed, veins coursing with Mujo's Michelin starred ethos. I called Nick and let him know this wasn’t a run of the mill shrimp scampi joint and we’d need to abide by the Mujo Code. It was July in Georgia, He was fifteen minutes late and I waited for him outside in whatever temperature you’d bake a Christmas ham. Drenched in my own stew, I fielded a call from Tomo San’s spiritual assistant. “You are late for the EXPERIENCE.” Empathetic, I agreed. “I know. My buddy Nick. He has no respect for EXPERIENCES. He misses flights and falls asleep 20 minutes into films and refuses to go to sleep when we try to send him to bed for snoring through films with dense dialogue which require much attention.” This tale of woe bought me a few more minutes of her patience. 

My tall and lanky friend Nick arrived and gracelessly programmed his sinewy appendages to exit the Uber. There I stood bathed in my own fluids. Once presentable, I now looked like I had just worked a full day nailing roof shingles onto the top of a….well…roof I suppose (this post has never been touched by AI as evidenced by the lack of creativity in the aforementioned sentence). We walked inside, the skin on Nick’s stretched mozzarella stick body a crisp 65 degrees from the Uber ride over, and mine, ready to smelt the stolen gold earrings that your oxy addicted friend recently ripped directly out of poor gam gams lobes when he found her deceased outside of the shower. Sorry about that foul image, this is called stream of conscious writing and I’m not going to deviate from the exercise. 

“You are late for the EXPERI—-”

“YES. The experience, I know. We are late for the experience. I am Kyle. This is my date, Nick. I brought him because I have deeply entrenched intimacy issues that preclude me from going on more than 7 dates with a woman. This makes it very challenging to be in a committed relationship, so Nick – my friend who cannot hurt me despite countless efforts – will be standing in as proxy.” 

The tunnel of shrouded darkness – where I initially made the reservation – lurked in the distance still dripping in the same mystery. This time we were granted passage by way of a human being with a single outstretched arm and an open palmed hand gesture. If you’ve ever been to a fancy hotel or restaurant, this is how the staff are instructed to point. For whatever reason, index finger extended is mad low brow. If you’ve never seen this gesture, I have horrible news for you. You are poor. 

What happened next was fascinating. We walked through the tunnel and, as if delving into the subconscious realm of Joseph Campbell's Hero’s Journey framework, we were transported to a place that felt outside of time and space. There was a certain energy in this place that felt palpable enough to grasp by the haunches like your first high school dance with Alex Chando while Akon and Young Jeezy belched sexual profanities on some loud speakers. 

The energy felt strange. We were greeted by another servant who extended the same upward facing cupped hand to two seats at a U-Shaped bar with approximately 15 other chairs. “Wow a member of the staff designated to gesturing – not pointing – to our seats. Fancy place,” we thought with a tacit glance. It does paint a picture of the exclusivity of this place. To keep the doors open and hold a coveted Michelin star with just 15-20 seats available is astonishing. Another distinguished element was how dimly lit the place was. I find there is a correlation between light pollution and luxury and this place had a positively sultry darkness that I would’ve loved to share with an attractive and edgy woman with a subtle tinge of sadness in her eyes who also shares a love for Jesus. Instead I spent the evening with a friend who literally claims that he chews with his mouth open in order to aerate the food to enhance the flavor profile. I pray for locusts to feast upon his harvest. The place was dark, okay? As we reached for our bar stools, two more indentured servants emerged from the shadows. “Allow us to pull out your chairs, kind sirs,” they whispered. Nick and I shared glances again. He looked at me and said out loud, “I think something really weird is going to happen tonight.” Oddly, he was right. 

I was excited to have a nice meal with my friend and not drink. A fifth face buttoned with a tight tuxedo looking uniform sauntered up to us, posture erect and countenance stoic. “Good evening and welcome to Mujo. Tonight we will be embarking on a journey pioneered by Chef Tomo San. Mujo is an omakase-only tasting experience. Our menu changes daily and reflects the best seasonal ingredients available, accompanied by fish flown in directly from Japan. Guests can expect a series of small plates followed by a progression of seasonal nigiri. A supplemental drink menu consisting of wine pairings and your choice of cocktail is available to start. May I offer you anything additional besides still or sparkling water?” 

“Dirty Martini. Grey Goose. Shaken. With three blue cheese stuffed olives. Extra dirty. I want this martini’s father to be ashamed of her poor choices,” Is what I literally said on the heels of her dialogue. I wasn’t going to be sitting this one out. After all, Nick felt something in the air, I did too. I was just preparing for battle. This, of course, ignited an enthusiasm in my sweet dangle beast of a friend and we were off to the races. “Two please!” 

The food and the service were divine and I could talk endlessly about the tepid sashimi undulating down my gullet like an expectant seal is rewarded with a sardine after balancing a beach ball on it’s whiskered nose but this isn’t a food blog it’s a….um…this is a….I actually have no idea what this is but it’s not about food. The food made it memorable but what transpired next is what etched the night in the annals of cerebral eternity. As we were dining, I sensed a bit of commotion to my left. I peaked over my shoulder and saw a woman trialing a fish niblet and – as if to fully immerse herself in the palatal undertaking – She closed her eyes, outstretched her arms and fixed her gaze to the heavens. In this moment, she was not a consumer of goods but a Shaolin Monk absorbing the secrets of the universe. Time was suspended and, for a moment, she knew nothing other than fish. “Hey, that seemed like a pretty nice bite. I’m Kyle, what’s your name?” Like a stiff manikin that had just been given the gift of life, she turned to me and wheezed, “Why, yes. Yes it was. I’m Charlotte.” Charlotte was an odd duck in need of love. When I’d ask her a question, there was a long wide eyed pause, mouth agape, like I had just pulled a wind up string on the back of a possessed doll that you unearthed in a secret chest in your grandmother’s haunted basement. We’ll be right back to the tale of Charlotte but first…… 

“I invite you to join me on a JOURNEY as we spin the globe and land in New Zealand's highest appellation where we will be savoring a playfully crisp sauvignon blanc. As you allow this whimsical elixir to tap dance all up on that ass, I invite you to open your awareness to notes of minerality and faint echoes of sparrow’s blood,” said waitress number 53. By the time she was done with her slam poetry description of the wine, we were implicitly Oliver Twist gazing for more rations which she expediently and happily obliged. A blanket of martinis and wine now warmed my belly so I spun back to my new friend Hannibal Lector, I mean Charlotte and broached the subject of why she had an international travel sized suitcase as her plus one. She explained to me that she was in town for work as a trial attorney, prosecuting the Russian mob. “There’s something you don’t hear everyday,” I thought to myself and leaned in hungry for more details. As the night went on, Charlotte proved to be one of the most fascinating dinner companions one could possibly imagine. The conversation ranged from hidden love affairs with Nordic Princes, to almost impossibly important work as a prosecutor, taking down massive crime organizations, her life being threatened, kidnapping, travel through the Amazon rainforest….Charlotte was the female version of the Dos Equis man – the most interesting person I have ever met hands down. We had a culinary theatre production center stage and a veritable “Main Character” to our left. At one point in time, Nick and I looked at each other and we commented on how the night didn’t feel real; that this Mujo place felt like a hidden land of mystery. We almost couldn’t believe how enchanted and psychedelic the place was. “Are there mushrooms in this sushi,” Nick uttered in disbelief at one point when Charlotte mentioned something akin to riding on the back of an albino tigress that a Saudi Prince gifted her. Like Joseph Campbell’s “The Hero’s Journey,” it truly felt like we were plunged into an alternate reality.

And then Charlotte had to piss and things got weird. But first, a description of how the bathroom process works.  As though we had given some sort of an API integration between our bladder and the collective Mujo hive mind, the staff could anticipate our need to urinate before even we could. My scantily clad dirty martinis and Sauvignon Blanc steeped in mountain goat breath were begging to exit so I placed my hands on the U-Shaped table to push myself away to create enough space to stand up. As my hands touched the table, I felt a nurturing presence receive my human essence from behind. I was absorbed by waiter number 72 of the night who, again, appeared from the shadows. He rolled my seat back, welcomed me to the land of the standing and gestured with a hand cupped – like a witch catching a princess’ fallen tears – to waitress number 79 who genuinely stood 6 feet away. I was starting to think that this staff didn’t trust us to do anything on our own. With an open statue's palm, waitress number 79 gestured down yet another corridor – this one perhaps fifteen feet – TO ANOTHER bathroom attendant who welcomed me into what felt like a boujee version of the swiss family robinson’s tree house. 10/10 incredible bathroom experience – side note, I’ve been thinking about starting a bathroom review channel, let me know what you think the TAM or “Total Addressable Market” for something like that might be. When I came out, a choir of chamber maids helped me get back to my seat. Charlotte went to the unisex bathroom after me and later returned. Here is where things get really interesting. After Charlotte returned, it was Nick’s turn to go. Something important to note about Nick is that he is an inquisitive little pigeon freak. Nick is the type of person that’ll walk into a building and just drink in what type of wood the rafters are made of. It’s not even cute, he’s a weird guy and makes people uncomfortable with how much he stares. I say this because he made a crucial observation inside of the bathroom that changed everything about the night. “Dude,” he uttered. Any time something serious is coming there is a “dude” preface. He then proceeds to show me a picture of a full bottle of medication that has been discarded into the trash can with Charlotte’s name on it. Upon cursory investigation it became very clear that the medication was for violent schizophrenia. Like the type that Russel Crowe suffers from in A Beautiful Mind. What were we to do? Did Charlotte throw it away? Could she have dropped it by mistake? What was the right thing to do in this situation? 

After much deliberation and several more drinks, I turned to Charlotte. “Hey I think you may have left something in the bathroom in the garbage.” “Pray tell,” she whispered back in her impossibly eloquent manner. “It’s hard to say in public. Maybe just go back and check in the garbage can?” “I’m not going in there unless you tell me what it is,” she said assertively. “Well Charlotte, you see we noticed in the garbage that there is a bottle of medication with your name on it,” I said quietly. She paused emotionlessly. Her eyes darted around the room a bit, she became slightly flustered and then reengaged eye contact. “It couldn’t be mine. I don’t take anything.” I pressed in ever so gently and showed her the picture in the garbage. “Are you sure this might not be yours?” A palpable silence ensued. Nick and I on the edge of our seats. Moments of tension crescendoed. “Ahhhh I see what is going on,” she said as she leaned in. Nick and I did the same. With eyes wider than Pizza Hut’s recent Private Equity backed pies (this is a finance blog?) Charlotte dripped with paranoia, “The Russian Mob that I am currently prosecuting has infiltrated this Michelin star restaurant and planted evidence in the bathroom intended to besmirch my reputation and mental faculties. We are close to a conviction and this is their final attempt to remove me from the courtroom.” It was at that moment that we realized that we had been duped. The sordid affairs with royalty, the amazonian escapades, the mob, the tigers, THE MOB…..all of it….lies. As soon as this realization dawned upon us – on cue – the check slid between us. The experience was over. Nick grabbed the check and said, “I got this,” WHICH I HATED because I knew for a fact that we’d be splitting the 1800 dollar check. What he meant – and we both knew this – was that he “had this” like he’d cover it with one card rather than two cards and we’d split it later on venmo. We both 100% knew that was the process. The reason I hated it is because he got to sound like the absolute man in front of Chef Tomo San and our new friend Charlotte as he “picked up” an $1800 bill. What a loser. I can speak about him freely because he is my day one, OG best friend and brother upon whom I hope great misfortune falls. 

As we exited the experience, we turned to each other, astonished. What had just happened over the past 3.5 hours? Why were there 900 employees to serve 15 people? Who was Charlotte? Was she a figment of our imagination? Is this a food or a finance blog? 

One thing was for sure. It was one of the most ludicrous experiences I had ever shared with my dear sweet pal Nick. And I thank God for his friendship. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Kyle