On Super Bowl Sunday nearly everything was closed.
The streets were as bare as those of a ghost town and all was quiet, save for the muted cheering and yelling of fans holing up in houses.
Passing restaurant after restaurant to find only dark windows and empty parking lots, finally there was a light on in Koto Japanese Restaurant and Sushi Bar on South Howard Avenue.
The neon sign read open and I whipped in, giddy to have finally found something.
It was 9:30 p.m. and their sign stated they closed at ten.
I stepped in to find an empty restaurant, with employees sitting at the bar, waiting for their shifts to end.
“Are you still serving?” I asked.
“Sure, sure, sit anywhere you like,” replied the hostess.
The sushi bar looked appealing.
All the food had been put away, but the granite counter tops were gleaming under the red glow of hanging lights.
I sat.
A young, nervous man appeared, informing me that his name was Jim and he would be my server.
I requested hot green tea, thinking it would be suitable to the cuisine and atmosphere.
He quickly brought it out — a ceramic, handle-less mug accompanied by a traditional cast-iron tea pot in the Japanese style, the type carried by Teavana stores in most malls.
Being a tea enthusiast myself, I also own a teapot like that, and I could not have been more thrilled.
The tea had an earthy, grass-like flavor that is unattainable by merely steeping tea bags.
It was clearly a quality loose-leaf. With such an excellent first impression, I pored through the menu, anxious to see what else they offered.
I felt bad making them bring out all the sushi preparations for just one guest, so I turned to the grilled section of entrees.
Under the Hibachi section, the menu stated each meal was served with clear soup, salad, shrimp appetizer, fried rice, vegetables and noodles.
I was sold, and settled on the chicken and salmon combination.
While I was ordering, a second guest walked in, and she requested a sushi entree of some sort.
The chef appeared, lugging all the accoutrements of his craft.
He was entrancing to watch, delicately laying out the seaweed and rice, filleting the contents, and finally rolling and chopping the items into perfect spirals.
I asked him how long he had been doing this.
“Ten years,” he said with a smile, clearly pleased I had taken an interest.
Jim quickly brought the soup and salad.
The soup was a tasty broth, with a few small pieces of mushroom, onion and scallion mixed in for flavor.
The salad was a decent size, with a delicious, but strange orange-colored dressing on it.
When I asked what type of dressing it was, Jim told me it was mayonnaise.
“Like Thousand Island?” I asked.
“Um, yes, like Thousand Island.”
I think the different flavor I detected was soy sauce, but I couldn’t be sure.
Whatever it was, it was pretty good.
Jim quietly and unobtrusively removed the soup and salad dishes as he presented the gargantuan dish containing my dinner.
It was all there, on one round plate at least 15 inches in diameter.
Two mountains of fried rice and noodles took up half the plate, while the other side was just as covered in vegetables, shrimp, a salmon fillet and cubes of chicken.
Almost everything was right. The rice, noodles and vegetables were nothing exceptional, but were hot, fresh and had the same Asian-style flavor that one expects of such items.
The shrimp and the salmon had been grilled to their prime and were still tender and juicy.
The chicken, however, was tough and dry, leaving something to be desired.
Still, overall, it was tasty and exactly what I expected from a Japanese steakhouse.
Nothing fancy, but most things were done quite well.
I gave up on conquering all the rice and noodles, opting to save room for dessert.
I asked Jim what his favorite was. He pointed to a raspberry cheesecake brulée.
Intrigued, I asked for one to finish up the meal.
The cheesecake was good, for cheesecake.
I didn’t understand the brulée part, though.
I saw a few burnt marks on the top, but it had clearly been done before the cake was chilled, so it was not crisp, like creme brulée would have been.
The raspberry aspect was good, however, and the vanilla ice-cream on the side was a nice touch.
Full to the brim, I requested the check.
Jim brought it, asking how the meal had gone. I told him I was delighted and that everything had been great, including the service. He looked pleased and a bit relieved.
“It’s my first night,” he said.
I never would have known.
Morriah Parish can be reached at mparrish@spartans.ut.edu.