On a breezy Thursday night; my mom, my sister Sydney and I went to a restaurant by the name of Kobe.
Entering the Chinese Sushi Palace, we sat at a a table. The table consisted of six piercing black chairs with chinese characters inscribed on them; bloodred velvet cushions for us to sit on. A black granite tabletop appeared to engulf a stainless steel cutting board residing peacefully at the center of one of the table’s ends. Our chef swooped into our view, wearing a brilliant white Chinese chef-hat; the name of the restaurant was printed at its front in cherry-red fabric. We ordered our meals and he vanished as if he was running late to his wedding. My family and I marveled as we surveyed the decorateive walls boxing us in.
Various Chinese itmes were strewn across the room. Chinese lamps hovered above every table, like vultures studying dying rabbits. Silver chimneys floated above every curring board; the celing showed the infinite outer space, stars scattered here and there twinkling brighter than diamonds. The walls and floor mimicked this spacious design. Chinese art pieces on walls were trapped by gleaming, golden frames.
Endless Chinese characters in a violent red color were neatly organized, comparable to a company. As our chef strode through the memacing kitchen doors, he commanded a stainless steel two-layered cart, which rested upon four sturdy wheels. The cart itself carried many items such as; fish, lettuce, steak, rice, noodles, carrots, pineapple, and seaweed on the top layer whilst the layer under was burdened with exquisite fluids of many colors. Hangin on the side fo the cart, like mountain climbers, were cooking utensils and a box of matches, which were astoundingly not made in China. The chef halted his cart next to our table’s silver cutting board. He then strode to behind the board.
Following that, he whisked out an onion, knife, a bottle of clear fluid, and the box of matches. He placed the onion on the cutting board, and halved it with one swing of the knife; he arranged the onion rings to resembe a volcano. Our chef poured the clear liquid in the center of the onion tower and struck a match. The flame was cast at the base of the volcano and crept its way in; the volcano sizzled when all fo the sudden-WHOOSH! Scarlet gas jumped up from the volcano, clearing a few feet up into the mouth of the vent above it. My trio and I applauded our chef. He then set food on our table, and set to making our meals.
Merely ten minutes later, our mealse were almost done, lacking vegetables. It seemes as if a frand finale had descended upon us. Grabbing a handful of carrots, lettuce, and clery, our cheft set them in a pile on the curring voard. He then reached to the cart; two double-edged foot-long knives appeard in his hands each three inches broad. He sat them touching on the board, and put as many vegetables on hem as could fit. He grasped both knives and flung the vegetable in the air.
All in slow motion, the chr’s eyes those of a hunter’s watching its prey; he made chopping motions continously with the knives throught the vegetables; slicing and dicing them into bite-size bits. CHOP! SKUCE! SWISH! The chef had cut all the vegetables in midair. He bowed, finished preparing our meals, and served us. We thanked him, awestruck, and dug into our meals.