For centuries, wandering tribes in Babylonia and Assyria, guarding their flocks at night, watched in awe and fear as the sun sank below the horizon and the stars came up against the black dome of the heavens. They watched them slowly move across the sky, up to the zenith and then slowly down, disappearing finally below the horizon on the other side. This was not all. Some of the larger stars seemed to move independently, cutting diagonally across the path of the moving heavens. Frequently a star would dash from its place and come streaking down the sky, leaving behind it a trail of fire that threatened to destroy or engulf the earth. More terrifying than any of this was the great circle of cold light that moved periodically across the heavens, far bigger than any of the stars and with a path all its own. It came and went in cycles. The first night it would appear as a mere crescent sliver of light with a faint outline completing the disc; the next night the crescent would be larger and the darkened disc smaller until finally, no less than twelve times a year, it arose a fiery red ball, shrinking in size and turning golden as it approached the zenith. The phenomenon was an obvious sign from one of the gods; the priests called it Nannar or Sin, "the illumer," and in some regions it was En-zu, lord of wisdom. But regardless of what god was responsible for such a glorious display of power, it was clear that the heavens should be studied and if possible interpreted.

-Lloyd A. Brown, The Story of Maps

I'm a semi-regular at Sushi Tango now, averaging one visit every week or two. Sushi-love is something of a family trait, starting years ago with my father and sister, spreading more recently to myself and my brother. Also responsible for my obsession is my friend Jennifer, who introduced me to Sushi Tango in the first place. It may not be the best sushi in the city, but it's comfortable, close, and damned good. [Still, my buddy Bach and I always talk about which place to try next - Fuji Ya, Azia/Anenomi, Kikugawa, Nami, Origami.]

Sushi is simplicity. It is the freshest basic elements of food, almost as they exist in nature, sometimes isolated, sometimes combined with other flavors and textures which enhance its elementary properties, rather than mask them. I'm not certain I can ever eat another previously frozen, sterilized, fried and breaded whitefish fillet with lemon, because now I know what fish really tastes like.

I like eating sushi with different people, because many of them have their own favorites, which I in turn add to my sushi repertoire. Jennifer and I always get the Philly roll, a delicate balance of four complimentary flavors - lovely salmon, cream cheese, scallions, and sesame seeds. I've never tasted anything in which the lowly sesame seed plays such and important role. Bach likes the soft-shell crab [aka Spider], which is deep-fried and comes in a wide roll with cucumber and asparagus - a couple of the rolls are bristly with crab legs and veggie stalks sticking straight up into the air. I learned about salmon skin from the Weinhandl clan and Maisi P. It's got to be the least healthy item on the menu, but such a guilty pleasure is worth a few extra fat calories - imagine crunchy, greasy, grilled fish bacon, and you'll get the idea.

My brother was recently infected with the sushi bug, in a big way. [The poor kid is stuck in a sushi-less city, and went so far as to try frozen sushi from Wal-mart. I can't say I envy him that experience, but it shows his strength of resolve.] Now when he's in town, we eat at Tango. During his introductory experience, we pigged out. He's a fun guy to eat with, because like me, he's willing to try anything. We had a few of my stand-bys, and some new adventures, such as the raw scallop [hotate], which has since become one of my standards. We tried some octopus [tako], which I found to be rather bland. Another was the always-exciting salmon roe [ikura]; each egg is the size of a pea, which explodes when bitten, draining cool fish-oil down your throat. We also tried quail eggs [uzura] for the first time. Each was the size of one of those foil-wrapped chocolate Easter eggs, with the crown of its shell removed, and a variety of spices and other substances applied over the raw, liquid content. The egg is then up-ended, drained, and gulped down. My brother, especially, was quite taken with this strange morsel.

Last week he was in town again, so we ate at Tango. We presented ourselves late, after 11pm; closing time was midnight. In his book Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain talks about Tuesday being the best night for seafood, as the kitchen will normally have the freshest product from their post-weekend order. [For the same reason, inverted, never order seafood on a Sunday or Monday.] It happened to be Tuesday when we went in, and sure enough, as soon as we sat down, our waitress remarked that the kitchen had a large amount of fresh, inexpensive seafood. We pressed her for information, and the three of us had fun deciding what would shortly be appearing on our table. The only "traditional" item we ordered was the hotate [if I don't get a raw scallop fix every fortnight, I turn into an underwater werewolf]. Amazingly, the restaurant was offering toro for a pittance - a delicacy always listed as "Market Price" in the menu. [When I inquired as to the price on a previous visit, it was $15 for nigiri and $25 for sashimi.] Toro is the fattiest cut of tuna belly, and is revered at length in another Bourdain book, A Cook's Tour, so I was eager to sample it. One of the chapters in that book which refer to toro has Bourdain in some exotic land [I forget which country], at the docks at 4am, and as he watches a fresh-caught tuna is slaughtered, and he feasts on its raw flesh [including toro] right there. Visually, the toro on our table was spectacularly beautiful, well-textured, and lighter in color than most tuna. Its taste, however, was... subtle. Perhaps my brother and I are barbaric culinary philistines, but neither of us was particularly impressed with its flavor. Still, I'm not willing to give up on toro, but my next experience with it will be at another venue.

We were discussing the quail eggs of our previous visit, and our lovely waitress recommended something she called the Flag. It was a tall, wide roll, filled with small, dark green roe on one side, and another, bright orange roe on the other, topped off with a centrally-situated raw quail egg. We found the egg to be an important addition - the smaller roe, about the size of a pin's head, while delicious [the more tiny, juicy explosions, the better, right?] are much drier than their larger counterparts, and we found the co-mingling of the liquid Ornith-egg with the small Icthy-eggs to produce an agreeable consistency.

The pièce de résistance, however, was the Spanish mackerel [aji-something]. Apparently, the kitchen had only two of these fishes, and ours was the last. The entire fish, seven or eight inches in length, was filleted, and its carcass was then curved into a serving piece, upon which rested its raw meat, with wasabi, kale, carrots, and greens - and its intact head staring straight up at us. The meat was astounding - tender to the point of melting, with a light, not overly-fishy flavor. Our waitress brought lemon slices and an outstanding spicy sauce, floating with vegetation. When the meat was, sadly, gone, she took the carcass and deep-fried the entire body, and presented it to us again. We looked at this thoroughly eviscerated specimen, unsure how to proceed. After we joked about smuggling it out under my hat and discarding it later, our waitress clued us in that with the exception of fins and tail, everything was edible - including the head. We broke apart the poor fish's back, spine and all, and were happily surprised with what was essentially a crunchy, salty, oily fish potato chip. The body was quickly devoured, leaving only... the head. I'd heard of fish cheeks before, but this was insanity! I tentatively picked up the head, and broke off a piece. It turned out to be delicious. I found at least three unique texture/flavor combinations in this one small fish's head. Parts of it were like the body - crunchy and salty. Parts of it tasted very strongly of fish. And other parts of it, lower in the face, were fatty, greasy, and gooey - wonderful.

So, by chance, we had a fantastic and unique meal at this place I'd been to a dozen times before. We really enjoyed the collaboration with the waitress, and she enjoyed us - she said helping people discover new foods is the best part of her job. [Also, I left her a monster tip.] There's got to be a way of making this happen every time eating out. Maybe sitting at the sushi bar is a good start. Maybe it's all luck, or "knowing someone". Either way, we had an excellent gastronomic adventure, and have a few more potentially disgusting stories to tell.