Airborne Shrimp

Airborne Shrimp

You want an experience with that meal?

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Glancing awkwardly at nearby strangers.

Fiddling with the line of demarcation between your space and theirs.

Eavesdropping on their conversations happening well within earshot.

Deciding on when to break the ice.

At some point, the 10 of us gathered together, whether we’re old friends or new strangers, will be sharing a show and a meal.

Welcome to the teppanyaki restaurant.

A young Japanese man invented the word “teppanyaki” in 1945. Using an iron plate from the local dockyard as a grill, he opened up the first teppanyaki restaurant.

His intention was not to just serve food, but to entertain guests with food preparation and diversions like juggling ingredients, demonstrating knife skills and performing tricks with the flames from the grill. Kind of like a Swiss army knife of restaurants. 

Most people go to Teppanyaki restaurants for the onion volcano and to practice their long-distance shrimp-catching skills. I prefer to slide back and watch my neighbors enjoy the show (I had a self-induced eyebrow-singeing incident, so there’s some residual fear of that memory being recreated).

I am mesmerized by strangers coming together. Watching a vat of rice go onto the teppan to become a communal pile of fried rice from which we all get served.

I love the playful spirit of our personal chef who can spin an egg, toss it up and crack it with a spatula then deftly flip the shell into his hat.

I admire the chef’s ability to read his audience, knowing who will be game for a quick round of shrimp-hole.

I enjoy the squeals of surprise and the glow of flames when the chef ignites an almost-unsafe amount of flammable liquid right in front of us.

And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I love having the food continually and steadily coming off the grill and right onto my plate.

And it’s hot (the food) … I know for a fact because I’ve seen with my own eyes that it hasn’t been in the kitchen sitting under a heat lamp while the servers take a smoke break. Which makes it an ideal restaurant for control freaks since the food never leaves your sight.  One step away from being a moo-to-mouth meal (assuming you ordered beef…which does NOT taste like chicken).

I enjoy the company of strangers, the skills of a professional and the thrill of the interactions.

It might be a chicken and egg sort of conversation, but I suspect people who are in an extreme introverted mood may not slide up to a teppan to be surrounded by strangers and force-fed airborne shrimp. So, assuming you know what you’re getting into, there’s an expectation for some engagement, even if it’s just saying “ahhhh” when the shrimp heads toward your mouth hole (the whole shrimp, not just the head).

If I want a meal, I can go to a restaurant.

If I want an experience, I go to a teppanyaki restaurant.

If given the choice, I choose the teppanyaki experience, a meal enhanced by strangers sharing a collective appreciation for our chef’s talents.

I think about the teppanyaki restaurant experience with nearly everything I create. 

I can create a meal, or I can create an experience.  

I can create something to be devoured by one, or I can create something to be shared by many.

If I can create an experience, why would I only create a meal?

I may not be able to (deftly) spin a spatula.

I may not be able to (neatly) crack an egg.

I may not be able to (safely) light flammable oils on my stove top.

But I can find a way to leverage my particular set of skills to produce something to be shared as an experience.

What experience will you create?