I never used to like rice but with sushi, I temporarily convert my dislikes into do-able. The Japanese can do that to you. It's pretty funny how I used to be so picky about what went into my mouth and now, I've become adventurous all in the name of "passione"...the tireless pursuit for ultimate happiness in the simple things in life - medium rare beef steak (wagyu, no wagyu, what's the diff?), reverse California maki (best done in Akashi), and steamed custard bun nuked by sunset-orange salted egg (of course, only at Imperial Treasure).I totally dig when Madonna alerts me with "Get ready to jump now, baby. Get ready to jump."
Sitting in a restaurant, not knowing what you ordered and having no idea why, is like jumping into a seemingly calm lake with your clothes on. You don't know what's in the water, you don't care. You only know one thing, there's no turning back. Like when I was in Amici @ Holland Village the other day, I was in my usual "just because I feel like it" mood. But I really wished I could have turned back and headed for the nearest roti prata mama shop. I actually stayed on with my friend where we were adequately tortured with aglio olio which tasted like soggy salted pretzels, and a pizza with limp yellow slices of Asian tomatoes on Asian cheese - all these at a self-professed AUTHENTIC ITALIAN restaurant. Seriously. Seriously.
I don't know why I'm ranting. I guess I felt conned. Aiyoh.
