Sayonara

As I intimated in a tweet on Wednesday, the Bathurst St branch of Sushi Train has suddenly closed after a decade of tossing raw fish down the gullets of human seals clapping their metaphorical flippers with joy.

I'd been dining there since the beginning and was transformed from someone who relied on his fingers and stuck with "safe" toppings to a Miyagi of the chopsticks au fait with the darkest corners of the menu.

Unlike the nearby eruptions of Hungry Jack's and Pizza Hut, this Sushi Train never gave me food poisoning. Nor did it leave me with the meat sweats or arteries so clogged I felt I was gonna chuck a heartie.

I'll miss walking in to the traditional welcoming chorus of "Irasshaimase!" from smiling waitresses who recognised me as "that anal-retentive guy who insists on artfully arranging his empty plates and rubbish".

I'll miss walking out with a belly full of karaage don, okonomiyaki, takoyaki, ebi fry nigiri and oshinko rolls; culturally enriched to the point where I'm fluent is as many as, er, nine Japanese words.

The building is already being refitted behind papered windows, and my dream is that it will reopen under the same team of chefs, seceding from the national ST chain to start their own rebel sushi restaurant.

Like my first par, it'd be a controversial move. The funny thing is, since I typed that line 10 minutes ago, several people have stopped me in the street and said, "We agree with you, Addster - humans are like seals."