Eating Japanese

Last night, Jenn, Helen & I went to a Japanese restaurant that opened just a few weeks ago. It is a teppanyaki restaurant–called hibachi in this neck of the woods–the sort of place I’ve never been to in Japan. I’m sure they exist, but maybe only for an expense account budget.
I felt strangely out of place and homesick. The restaurant was pretending to be Japanese and it was close, but it wasn’t quite right. The decor was inspired by Japan, but the wainscotting and dentil molding didn’t quite work. There was entirely too much space between tables. The food was delicious, but it wasn’t Japanese, though it had a Japanese style. The quantity alone pegged it as not Japanese–my meal was piled high on platter the size of an LP.
On top of that, I was the only person in the restaurant who could speak Japanese. I found this out because our waiter asked me if I’d lived in Japan (maybe he overheard me telling Helen about Japanese things or wondered why I asked him what brand the sake was) and confided that all the staff were Chinese.
One week down, three weeks ’til I can go home. Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying my trip. It’s great to see everyone and I’m amused by America. But I miss home. Tod, darling, could you please bring me some mochi, senbei, and Lemon Water in your suitcase? Onegai shimasu