When one steals another's identity, it puts one's life into disarray. They must cancel their credit cards, check their bank accounts, and make sure their savings are in order. Oftentimes, the person feels violated and taken advantage of.
That's why what I went through at a soup restaurant was far worse. Yes I, soup connoisseur himself, had not only an experience with identity theft, but identity theft in the setting of soup. On my own holy ground, in presence of flavored, piping hot liquid and meat, my name was defiled, my meal ticket filched. Never take a man's soup credentials from him — or feel my wrath as it boils over.
I begin with a day steeped in romance: my twenty-sixth birthday. While many celebrate as the day I came into the world, I celebrate as it was the first time I ever tasted food that was not the sickly soup of amniotic fluid. Yes, myself and my sister (who is no soup connoisseur) were thrust into this world that fateful day.
That day, I was given a name, but that matters not. I was even given a Hebrew name just days later. But I shirk my religion. For the only name I should be known by is Soup Connoisseur. That is my true identity. I shirk my Jewish name in favor of this title. This is my eponym, this is name I choose to bathe myself in.
Through the years, my identity only thickened, much like a broccoli soup after adding cheddar. As an elementary school student, I excelled, my first written sentence being "I like soup". It was all smooth sipping from there. My name grew stronger by the day, many praising my fluid swing in the game of base ball. In my middle school, I was given plaudits for playing the bass, an instrument I only chose because it reminded me of food. Once in high school, I gained a reputation as a jokester, even convincing many to move the senior trip to Applebee's, which I hear had a lovely soup as part of the disgracefully now-retired 2 for $20 deal.
College was all gravy. I specialized in the histories of India, learning about daal and mulligatawny. And curry excellence I did — graduating to much fanfare. I took on the world, moving to New York to slurp some of the world's best matzo balls. I came to Davis — and that's where it all went wrong.
For the celebration of my twenty-sixth journey around the sun, I chose to go to Shabu Shack.
I have spoken much on the various customs of soup in the islands that make up the nation of Japan. Of all their broth styles, I must say that shabu is where they got it quite right. Now, I do not support the Japanese Empire of the 1930s and 1940s, but if I had to say one thing regarding their superiority, I would say that the Japanese conception of hot pot is far better than the Chinese one. While Chinese hot pot often has a tomato-based broth, using a fruit brought over from the New World by the Europeans, isolationist Japan kept to their Tokugawa ways and opted against the tomato for a more austere, simplistic, seaweed-based broth.
Shabu Shack was opened to much hullabaloo in Davis. I was quite excited — this was a soup-centric restaurant. No more soup being relegated to a small portion of the front of the menu. Or worse, forced to share a section with appetizers, or God forbid, salad. No, here, soup would be the star.
Shabu Shack was also one of the final locations famed columnist and noted Chinese restaurant-hater Wendy Weitzel wrote about in her Davis Enterprise column entitled "Comings and Goings". While much can be said about Ms. Weitzel and her hatred of boba tea and restaurants that begin with "Tasty", I can also say that she has officially lost the battle of who is the best food reviewer in Davis. In one fell swoop, I have defeated both Wendy and the Davis Enterprise. I now reign supreme over all of Davis!
That is why the stealing of my identity is an even more serious offense. Do these thieves know not who they are stealing from? The resident soup king of Davis? Sadly, these mere peons must be ignorant.
My identity was not stolen on the day of my birthday, however. No, on this day, I sat surrounded by souply disciples, many of which would claim they are my friends, as we took our first foray into Shabu Shack. While the wait staff was quite annoying, I enjoyed myself. It was nothing to write home about, and some things startled me greatly, like the choice of broths on the menu. I remember a time when shabu only used the traditional seaweed broth. But this place had a miso option, a spicy miso option, and far worse, szechuan pepper and tom yum options. This Japanese restaurant would not admit its souply superiority over the Chinese and Thais. Very shocking and disgraceful to the Land of the Rising Sun.
The broth, however, was viscous, though I mainly used it for cooking. There was a strange amount of spinach for shabu, which I thought is something I must take up with the chef. But then I realized I was the chef, I was the one cooking, and the man in the kitchen was merely my grocer. Indeed, they were trying to make me shift the blame onto myself — for doing their work. Quite sad.
My birthday, however, was a success. Two weeks later, I gain dined at the Shabu Shack. I tried the spicy miso against my better judgement. It ruined the meal (though there was still viscous broth). My opinion of Shabu Shack only simmered. But nothing was to prepare me for my third time.
The day before, I used the Internet to make a reservation. This was a large party planning to see the movie "Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga" (a film which did not include soup or really much of any liquid). Thus, we would need to make a reservation. Since I was the soup-obsessed member of that coagulation of people, I booked the reservation under my given name. A worker confirmed the booking with me. I salivated in anticipation of the meal the following day.
My friends and I arrived on time. Immediately, something was not quite right. We stood and waited, our stomachs growling, waiting for a worker to notice our presence and place us in front of a steaming pot of broth. But no recognition came. We grew impatient. Then the unimaginable happened. My friend and I approached a waiter, asking them about the reservation and if our table was ready. They nodded, saying it would be a 20-25 minute wait.
One could not imagine our disgust, as if we were sipping a sour borscht. I was reminded of the television program Seinfeld, which I enjoy solely because it has an episode dedicated to soup. This place, it seemed, knew how to take a reservation but knew not how to hold that reservation. Indeed, anyone can just take a reservation.
I was dumbfounded. How could this happen to me, the soup connoisseur, the #1 food reviewer in all of Yolo County? But I am a reasonable reviewer. I told them we would wait, as some of our party was late.
Yet, time wore on. The clock ticked and tocked, until a table for six opened up. But just as my friends and I were to walk over, the waiter called another party's name — one that did not even have a reservation.
We immediately flagged down the nearest soup-server. Surely, this could not be the case. We reiterated that I had a reservation. Surely, they had noted my name.
The words then spoken by the waitress, I will never forget.
She said that another party had walked in and used my name to get a table. They said they had a reservation, but it was for nine, not six. They had invoked my name after the waitress had asked them if they were my party, and stolen my likeness to have soup.
That moment, my world came crashing down. What kind of a society am I living in? Any illusion of the good nature of man in my heart evaporated. Do we not live in a society, one where people are entitled to their soup? That is why we have soup kitchens so people can eat soup, as it is the most equitable and egalitarian of all foods. But these people had broken a sacred social and culinary contract.
They had stolen my identity. Only I get to be top soup connoisseur in Yolo County. Only I get to make viscosity scores. Only I get to best Wendy Weitzel and be the reason she resigned from the cheap rag Davis Enterprise. Only I get to be the arbiter of tastes for this town. This town needs a soup reviewer, and I am it.
I was practically steaming. I glanced at the table of nine in the back of the room, happily feasting on the soup that I was entitled to. And then I noticed something even more upsetting: none of them looked even remotely close to being Jewish. They had used my Jewish name, yet they all were of East Asian and Pacific Islander, and likely Filipino, descent. I have yet to meet a Filipino Jew. In fact, Filipino culture may be the exact opposite of Jewish culture, as the Philippines may have the highest consumption of pork per capita. My identity and my culture had been taken from me.
My friends somehow calmed me down. We resolved to go to the Burmese restaurant next door, and it was far better. I had a lactose-free curry. Viscous.
Soup Scores:
Shabus: 5.9/10
Curry: 7.9/10
This is a lawless town
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