I’ll be the first one to admit I find Japanese cuisine mystifying and would rather keep it that way. This is a good thing. I know little about it, and there’s so many aspects, nooks, and crannies. Hey, some things in life should remain shrouded in mystery. You can’t know it all. I first tried sushi when I was 26. Dragged into a local place in my hometown Burlington, VT by a friend. “Raw fish?” Yeah, late bloomer. For years, decades even, I thought that was it, then of course there was the revelation of good ramen and even later all the avenues sort of spread out before me. “What? You mean the sumos have their own type of food? Cool!” Give me some benefit of the doubt here, I grew up eating Spaghetti-Os with chopped up hot dogs.

Nowadays, in my advanced age, I crave sushi like cheeseburgers. A lust that must be quelled at least once a month. It’s clean. It’s simple. It’s also something I can’t make at home or have the desire to learn. If I crave a steak I know I can cook a better, cheaper one on my own range than any restaurant in the city. Sushi, on the other hand, seems like a major pain in the ass, especially if I want multiple types of fish, scallops, monk fish liver, etc.

We wanted to take Jo’s mom, “Nana” out for her birthday. But where? I had no ideas. When I think of actually eating out, the only two places on my radar are Found Oyster in Hollywood, or Birdie G’s (my favorite, also very kid friendly) but Found doesn’t take reservations, and only have outdoor seating for four people (it’s been sort of cold here in LA). We decided not to go to Birdie’s because that’s where we took Nana last time. I placed our fates in the hands of the beautiful wifey, who made the four and a half of us a reservation at Kappo Miyabi just down the road in Santa Monica.

Let’s preface this all by focusing on the “half” portion of this reservation adventure. My son, two and a half years old. Very energetic, finicky, limitless, boundless, an atomic reactor on a short fuse, basically an enormous pain in the balls to take into a restaurant or anywhere for that matter. I immediately volunteered to stay home with him so the girls could all go out and actually enjoy their time. Nope. My fate was sealed.

“I’m going to end up not being able to enjoy the dinner,” I said.

“It’ll be fun,” she said. “We all want you there. Don’t be so grumpy all the time.”

The place is on the corner of seventh and Arizona. It’s got all the typical accoutrements adorning the entrance to remind you where you’re going. There’s a small wooden bridge just inside, a fake cherry tree with plastic blossoms. We go in, find the other two, sit down. The clock starts ticking. “Where’s the damn waiter?” We all need alcohol, pronto. Our waitress finally comes by after an eternity (which was probably only a couple of minutes) and we fire everything at her in desperation. I go for a barley Shochu, to yet again try it out even though I think it’s not for my shitty American palette.

My son, the time bomb, immediately removes his socks and shoes, then finds one of the little bowls reserved for soy sauce and dashes it on the floor. All of a sudden, we’ve got a miniature Die Hard situation going on here. Bare feet and porcelain shards. My son, the junior John McClain, decides he doesn’t want to sit down. He squirms out of our grasp and wants to crawl on the floor between our legs.

That’s it. Time for a walk. I say my goodbyes, hoist him onto my shoulders, and I’m out into the night. He’s immediately less crazy and I take a smug satisfaction in knowing this was my duty all along and the real reason it was so pertinent that I come to the dinner.

At the end of the block, hallelujah, a fire station. For the childless masses following along, know this: children are drawn to fire engines like moths to flame. Maybe it’s the bright red? A power color. Anger, blood, angst, passion. Intense emotions. Basically, toddler energy bundled into a giant, expensive, life saving truck.

We pace back and forth outside the joint, a couple of fanatics. I was once very close to joining the force in Boston. A friend of mine was a chief but I declined going in for the trials at the last moment. It seemed cool at first. You hang out at the station, cook up some food, work out, sleep a lot, joke around with the boys. But, I thought, when the shit hits the fan you have to risk your life and run into burning buildings. Yeah, fuck that. With my rotten luck the whole thing would fall on me and I wouldn’t die but have massive burns. I like scars, love them, but fire hurts, especially on the face.

After loitering around for several minutes, my prediction rang true. A fireman saw us and opened the doors. Oh, the jubilation. When you become a parent, the joy you see in your children usurps your own because by having children you have no more real joy of your own. It’s forever a shared experience, at least until they ship off to college or the Marines.

We spend some time hanging with the boys. I check out the pole and can’t help but think of Ghostbusters. My son is gifted a red plastic junior fireman hat. Shit, the restaurant. In the scrum I forgot my phone, so no videos, and they all probably think I just hightailed it and walked home. My son protests, but I hoist him on my shoulders and we make it back. Their eyes light up as they see us coming in, Auntie M, my bright eyed Wifey, but especially Nana because my boy is wearing the hat. It’s all about a big entrance. Plus, the boy’s mellowed out a bit and there’s a bowl of rice he can half eat half distribute onto the table and floor.

Ah yes, and Daddy’s treats await him. A tall glass of booze (great portions!) and three skewers I ordered because I know the girls won’t eat them. Beef tongue, chicken gizzards, and some chicken hearts. Cold as death, still pretty good nonetheless, especially the tongue.

Stuff comes to the table. I eat everything that no one else wants after they fill up. That’s another daddy move. Order nothing knowing there will be plenty to vacuum in the aftermath when their small stomachs fill up. The shochu is pleasantly disgusting. It seeps in and tells me life isn’t so bad after all, reminds me of the times when I was young and thought beer tasted nasty. It’s the same sort of thing. Drink it until it’s palatable and then show up your buddies later. “What, you don’t like shochu?” Yeah, men train themselves to do a lot of things to make other men they know feel bad about themselves.

The sushi is typical of a place like this which I think is a chain. It’s fresh, somewhat expensive which is a good thing. You don’t want to eat cheap sushi, trust me. The rice is above mediocre. For me, it’s less about the food than the experience itself and spending time with all of us out. The server is warm and the place is kid friendly which matters because the tables are tight knit and the other diners shoot us mean looks for taking a small child to a restaurant.