"No Bean Sprouts, Please!"

I hate sushi. It’s my greatest fault as a Japanese culture fanatic. But my friends insisted that I go with them to the new sushi restaurant down the street. Of course, they neglected to make a reservation, so we were forced to sit at the community table. The girl on my left seemed timid, so I sat on the far right of my chair as not to intimidate her––I’ve been told I can be a bit overbearing when I get excited––is there anything wrong with that?

Laura and her boyfriend Raymond ordered a beautiful platter of California rolls and Edamame and Rainbow Trout. And whatever else normal people have at sushi restaurants… I ordered my ultimate favorite food, the classic Chicken Ramen – but no bean sprouts! I always get embarrassed when I order something that isn’t part of the restaurant theme––mostly because I used to be a horribly picky eater, and I know it bugs my friends and family when I nitpick every item. When I consider editing an item, all the repressed memories of my mother and stepfather cringing and sinking into their chairs, lecturing me to suck it up, all comes flooding back into my mind and gives me an intense sense of anxiety. At least this time I chose something on the menu, and only asked them to omit one little detail. Is that so bad?

We chatted about my dating life and I explained that no guy or girl wanted to date someone as weird as me––some half-British, half-American chick who can’t fathom simple bean sprouts in her ramen. Laura, my best friend, after exhausting every positive thing she could say about me, asked if I ever tried Tinder. I laughed, “I haven’t looked at Tinder in a very long time. Do you think there are any cute, new bachelorettes up for grabs?”

I hadn’t been paying much attention to her or her friends, but the girl next to me seemed to be itching in her chair. Laura and Raymond were talking amongst between themselves. For some reason, I just couldn’t stop staring at her. She hid big, bold eyes behind black, square-framed glasses. Her complexion was a light caramel brown that reminded me of a Hawaiian’s sun-kissed skin. Her hair was jet black and pulled up into a bun. And, my favorite part, she was wearing this 90s red flannel shirt that caught my eye.

While Laura and Raymond got the San Diego aquarium delivered to them, I sat content with my big hot bowl of soupy noodles.

The steam rose softly and filled my pores with its chicken scent. The white Naruto ebbed in the vibration of the table, its pink swirl disappearing in the light brown broth. Flawlessly sliced chicken caressed the edge of the bowl like a beautiful lady hanging out of a jacuzzi, relaxing and taking in the heat. Half an egg–hard-boiled to a perfect consistency–allowed the bright yolk to run over the soft cluster of noodles.

I watched The Mind of a Chef’s first episode about an American ramen chef in Japan. He explained that the Japanese took the original Chinese noodle and soaked them in an alkaline substance to allow the noodles to absorb the flavors of the broth without deteriorating.

As I look down into my wide bowl, I imagine the hard work and dedication that must have gone into this one dish. The immaculate design, the artistry, and the science behind every element.

I dove in like a starving fish out of water while the rest of the community got their food delivered. I heard the friend of the girl next to me shout over the busy noise of the restaurant, “I thought you were going to order sushi with us?”

The girl in flannel replied, “Eh, I felt like ramen.”

Wait, did she order ramen on purpose? It looked delicious. I was almost convinced she ordered the same thing as me, but something about it seemed different, and exciting. Something I needed that would elevate my life.

I shifted my focus from my ramen to hers–eyes darting back and forth like I was watching an intense tennis match. I debated asking her about it, but I didn’t want to seem like some weird girl prying over some stranger’s food, but then I realized–what’s the worst that could happen? She ignores me? “HEY! Sorry to be annoying,” I shuffled to my left, “but that looks AMAZING. If you don’t mind my asking, what did you order?”

Flannel girl replied like I scared her, “Oh! Um, I ordered the Spicy Chicken Ramen…”

“It looks scrumptious! Does yours not come with bean sprouts?” I felt obligated to ask since I noticed she didn’t have any, and I was convinced it had to have come with them.

“I don’t really like bean sprouts,” she shied away–almost as embarrassed as I was when I asked them to take them off.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude–personally, I hate bean sprouts, I’ve always thought it takes away from the texture of the noodles.”

Her eyes lit up–as if no one else has ever agreed with that idea before. At first, I thought I said something wrong, but then she turned to face me and flashed the most beautiful, stunning, magnificent smile I ever saw.

We both stopped and stared at each other for what could easily have been an eternity. No one around us said anything. We just gazed into each other’s eyes and passed a “check yes or no” note to each other through telepathy. At least that’s what I was doing, I’m sure she just thought I was nuts.

This tiny Japanese waitress, trying not to interrupt the awkward pause, but wanting to do her job, came around to fill both our water cups. We both laughed our way out of the trance and noticed we were the only ones with water.

“Are you copying me?” I asked jokingly.

As if her eyes weren’t big enough already, they got even larger when she thought I was being serious!

“I’m only kidding! Sorry, again, to interrupt you and your friends!” I smirked and went back to my ramen.

“It’s okay! My name is Maile,” she smiled back.

Before she turned back to her ramen, I introduced myself, “I’m Renie, but most people call me Ray since it’s easier to remember.”

“Renie? I won’t forget a lovely name like that.”

And I’ll never forget those eyes…

My spine was filled with pins and needle–trying to act cool, even though I was so flustered. Laura looked at me and I shrugged

I awkwardly shoveled as much ramen in my mouth as I could. I admit it wasn’t a classy move. I tend to get clammy and lose my cool when I get flustered! Laura and Raymond just kept laughing to themselves.

“It’s good, huh?” Maile smiled, playing with the spicy chicken slices in her bowl.

I cringed harder than imaginable, “Um…” I gulped, “The best I’ve ever had.”

And then something happened, something I didn’t imagine the once-timid girl would say. She asked, “You seem really fun, I hope this isn’t too bold of me to ask, but can I have your number?”

Sure! Call me anytime at (818) TAKEMENOW! I wrote my real number down on a napkin and drew a heart. I hope that wasn’t too bold of me, either…

Apparently, it wasn’t, because that evening, she texted me and said she had a great time meeting me and wished we’d meet again. Well, call me the Genie ‘cause I granted that wish! And now we are happily together. United by the hatred of bean sprouts–a true love story.

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Prompt, "food". During the workshop, I shouldn't have been surprised to find half the group had written about their coming out stories and I struggled to relate as I never had to come out. I guess the better query is...why do they all come out during dinner?

Although we are no longer together, and I am no longer a full-fledged lesbian, I still hold the memory of our first ramen date close to my heart.

What was your most memorable date?