The Great Parisian Plate Debate

Higuma isn’t a swank sushi place; it’s a dive noodle shop. In a plot twist that many Americans might find hard to believe, they don’t even serve sushi. There’s always a quickly moving line out the door and while there’s a dining room in the back, we requested stools at the counter.

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The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the odd mix of cool posters on the walls. I quickly realized they were all emblazoned in some way with the name Willi’s. Gimmicky? Sure, but it actually kind of worked. But then over in a corner, I saw a vase with a stack of the posters for sale. All of a sudden it took a dive towards the commercial. Where was I, Planet Hollywood?

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Hot days in Paris can be exceptionally torturous for American males. Most of us are handicapped by the irresistible urge to wear undershirts beneath our unfortunately long sleeved professional attire, which, when combined with the teeming mass of Parisians rubbing on each other in a skinny metro car, makes these warm days feel particularly hellish. In a failed effort to cool down, the waiter was duly directed to bring us his most stylishly chilled bottle of white wine.

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