He cuts the nori into tiny pieces. Not like mincing garlic; it’d leave the sheet in assorted flakes sizes and shapes, a confetti of seaweed. Michael wants order.
He slices the seaweed into strips first, turns, slices again. He doesn’t rush, his expression neutral as he works. He imagines the taste and look, the visual balance between nori topping and garnish.
He wants to build his vocabulary and improve his grammar. So we don’t say much in way of conversation as I stand to his left, his wakiitai, his side-cutting board. Instead, we practice expressions while taking turns scooping rice from the Zujirushi rice warmer, pressing fluffy mound onto nori.
Broke, I say.
“Bloke.”
Broke, I repeat.
“Bloke. Bloke down.”
I nod my head. But broke down, you can only use that when you’re talking about your car. Everything else, you just say broke, I say in Chinese.
“Yeah, car bloke down,” he says. Then he points to an imaginary object on the table between us. “This is bloke.”
I nod again. I look down at our cutting boards, comparing my nori to his. On one, the rice is pulled across unevenly, with miniature mounds and valleys extending across the green plain. That one isn’t Michael’s.
His long, unconditioned hair lies flat against his bowed head as he works. The way he parts it – straight down the middle – makes his oval shaped face appear even rounder. Small, squinty eyes peer at the roll that’s quietly emerging from his gloved-handiwork. He starts piling on thin slices of cucumber.
“‘What do you think?’” he says to himself, slowly. His teeth are jagged, and there is plenty of space in between to work with. “‘How do you like it?’” He has an accent, but the meaning is clear. We focus on phrases he can directly apply while behind the sushi bar. The better he communicates to patrons at the bar, the better tips he’ll make.
Peering through the glass and rows of raw fish filets filed neatly one after another, the whole restaurant looks different. Facing out from behind the cutting board puts you on stage, an actor in his craft. Suddenly, you’re conscientious of your every move.
Everyone’s staring at you, the voice in your head reminds you.
Don’t pick your nose, it says. Don’t scratch your ass.
The attention doesn’t make learning any easier. Fortunately, Michael’s a patient teacher. He watches carefully, correcting the ingredients you’re placing in the roll when necessary, adjusting your form when it’s incorrect. Most importantly, he lets you make mistakes. It might be solely to give himself a good laugh, which he does nothing to hide: it’s open mouthed and barking, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes. It never feels like he’s laughing at you, though, only with you. You smile because he’s smiling. His laughter never makes you want to quit. He never laughs to flaunt his superiority.
“Inside out,” he says when he sees me building the roll with the seaweed oriented in reverse; placing the kani, avocado, and cucumber on the rice, instead of flipping it over and putting it on the seaweed. What the hell? I mutter to myself Fukinese, an expression he taught me. He chuckles.
“No no no,” he’ll scold when he watches me hack at the completed roll, butchering them into eight pieces. He pushes me aside. He shows me how it’s done; back and forth like a saw, but using speed to make the cut clean, crisp. It’s three quick movements: slice forward with knife tilted up, slide back with knife tilted down, then flat and pulled backwards as the knife strikes the cutting board.
After three sessions of practicing rolls, I ask him to show me how to do sushi.
“Qi sing,” he says in Chinese, with an incredulous look. It means “crazy.” When you train to be a sushi chef, he says, you spend weeks just doing side work, and if you’re talented, maybe rolling California rolls. Only when you master California rolls are you allowed to make rolls with fish, then after a few more weeks, the more difficult rolls – seaweed-outside and Chef Special Rolls.
I remember Danny, our previous sushi chef, saying something similar – except his training was underneath a Japanese chef, and more rigorous. For one month, Danny only cut cucumbers. They were the only things he was allowed to take a knife to, but he did it for 2 or 3 hours a day, everyday. He cut around the circumference, opening up the vegetable into one long sheet. Then he piled 5 or 6 of the sheets atop one another, and sliced them paper thin for the head sushi chef to use. That was it for the cutting for the rest of the day – then back to standing on the sidelines, watching, or washing dishes.
Yet here I was, asking Michael to teach me despite barely being able to cut properly; or knowing all the ingredients in all the rolls; or still forgetting, at times, which rolls were seaweed-inside or seaweed-outside.
For whatever reason, though, when the next order for sushi came through the printer, he signals me to follow along with what he’s doing. He cuts two pieces of fish – mackerel – and puts one down on my cutting board. With one hand, he reaches into the warmer and plucks out a small morsel of rice. His fingers deftly roll the morsel into his palm, around and around, until it’s spherical. He hands it to me. “This much,” he says, then tells me to try.
I pick up what I imagine is an equal amount.
“No,” he plucks a chunk of rice from the amount I grabbed. “Too much.”
I try again.
“No,” he repeats. He removes another chunk.
On the third try, he approves, and I start rolling the rice between my fingers. I resist the urge to put the morsel on the cutting board to shape it into a ball, like Play-Doh.
He shows me how to hold the fish gently in the left hand, then press the rice onto the bottom, using two fingers to flatten the base of the rice, nestling it into the fish. “Gentle,” he says in Chinese. “Don’t use too much pressure. Very soft.” I imitate his motions. His left hand cupping the fish gives the sushi its rounded figure.
He flips the product over in his hand, with the rice pressed into it. Using his thumb and index finger, he squares off the fish, ensuring every grain is covered evenly, save a thin white line at the very bottom.
He pulls out a dish and plates it; the mackerel looks pristine on the clean white, perfectly sized and proportioned, a gentle, gleaming curve hugging the rice.
I follow suit, and put my mackerel sushi next to his. He laughs – no attempt to hide it. It’s lopsided, the fish slipping off the rice on one side. There looks to be enough rice to engulf the entire fish. The symmetrical culinary masterpiece next to it magnifies the sloppiness.
“No good-uh,” he says. He picks it up, and starts fixing it, laughing as he does so. “Qi sing.”
Photo Credit: frank_breech
He wanted to say something. I could feel it in the air – that tension tingling in the space between us. I put down my tray.
He waited.
I took off the three tall soda glasses, and fit them snugly into one hand. My other hand reached for the soda gun. My thumb fired off two “D’s” and one “P.” Besides the fizzle and pop of carbonation striking soda mix, it was quiet.
He waited.
I handed my patrons their respective refills. When I returned to the bar, I put him out of his misery.
What Martin? I asked him.
Chen Sifu crossed the intersection, between the supermarket and the house-turned-dormitory where local restaurant owners rented rooms, to house help they hired from The City. The October air was cold. The wind cut. Chen zipped his jacket up to his chin, and burrowed his neck deep into the thin cotton. He hustled towards the supermarket. His pace gave away the discomfort that his facial expression didn’t reval. It was impassive, as always. Closed, wide lips. Round eyes that registered surprise or excitement only after a 2-second delay, as if hooked up by loose connections.
He wore that same expression while he battered chicken tempura in the deep fryer, rolling the thin pink strip of poultry into the tempura bits floating on vegetable oil, like snowflakes atop an ice rink.
Nor did it change when Big Chef scolded him for being stupid or incompetent. His glassy eyes absorbed the brunt without blinking, like they couldn’t fathom the situation – or didn’t want to. It was the same when Alan – skinny, Sushi Chef Alan – bullied him for the Chinese newspaper or for his seat on the empty soy sauce container. Chen’s wrists were thicker than Alan’s neck, and he could wring him out if he set his heart on it.
Instead, he acquiesced, but not without that unwavering stare, which forced Alan’s glare to the ground, his mumbled words directed at the floor as he snatched the inky paper or assumed his position on the makeshift chair.
Chen sang while working, the expression pouring from his voice compensating for its absence in his face. You often heard Beijing opera from the basement, while he wrapped large scoops of green tea ice cream into fluffy, yellow pound cake, but mostly he sang contemporary songs, while cutting vegetables or scrapping burnt scraps off the stove.
Allison asked me once, bemused, “What is he singing? Like, Chinese folk songs?”
I pictured the accompany music video to the particular tune; one of those videos with shaking bottoms and bare mid-riffs. I shook my head.
Not really, I told her.
It was Tuesday, though – his one day off a week – which explained why his blank slate of a face bobbed its way to the supermarket. As far as destinations went, he didn’t have many other options in Slingerlands, during the middle of the week. Especially without a car, and armed only with vegetable names and versatile English expressions like, “No good,” “Thank you very much,” and “What the hell?” These days, all the chefs from The City owned laptops, so they could stream Chinese programs or movies, but realistically that kept them occupied for only so long. Even after sleeping in late and the luxury of a long, hot shower, they needed something else to occupy their time besides staring at a laptop screen with a viewable size of 12.35 inches and pixel pitch of 0.25mm.
Hopping on bus line 86 took them to the mall, but that got old (and expensive) after a while.
So besides heading to the supermarket – which lacked temptations like the Express store and the fancy gadgetry of Brookstone – what else was there to do? He’d rather work, honesty, to earn more money. Boss already told him no, though, he couldn’t work seven days a week. He wanted him to rest.
Inside the supermarket, he wandered through the bright, clean aisles. He stared at row after row of cereal boxes, canned soups, bottled Spaghetti sauces, salad dressing, and ice cream. Dessert boxes with pictures of sinful chocolate cake. Packages of uncooked chicken, categorized in seemingly infinite permutations: bone-in or boneless, skinned or skinless, thighs or breasts or drumsticks, farm raised or local or all natural – it all extended far beyond the way he used to buy his poultry (“dead or alive?”)
Every English word, every recognizable brand and vibrant packaging, the wealth of it all, reminded him of why he was here, in upstate New York. It reminded him why a 14-hour plane ride and a $1200 ticket separated him from his wife. Why 95 percent of his pay, earned through 12-hour works days, he wired across the ocean, where he’d never see it again. Why when his son married a few weeks ago, he was absent from the wedding. Instead, he was working two skillets, trying to catch up with the dinner rush.
He certainly wasn’t here because they needed his valuable cooking skills. He wasn’t a talented chef; he knew that. The first time he cooked them dinner, pork loin with bok choi in oyster sauce, the dish came out so salty, it was barely edible. The other cooks ruled it out to differences in style. He probably wasn’t used to the southern style of cooking, they figured.
For lunch the next day, he made wheat noodles in a peanut sauce – a distinctly northern dish. He spent an hour pulling and cutting his own noodles, then another 30 minutes refining his sauce, tasting it with his index finger after every ingredient, trying to get it just right.
The finished product tasted like plain spaghetti noodles doused with watery peanut butter.
He wasn’t getting paid for his culinary talents. So he compensated for it by doing anything you asked him to do.
Start keeping inventory of all kitchen items? No problem.
Wash dishes and scrub the walls? Absolutely.
Get on the 8-foot ladder and hang Christmas lights around the building in 15 degree weather? I’d love to.
He compensated with his good temperament. By never getting upset. By singing.
Chen picked something out of the grocery store – something for dessert, something foreign that looked deceptively delicious, like a chunk of Angel food cake or sweet cherry pie. He braved the cold once more, and crossed the intersection back to the unheated dormitory, where he prepared his dinner, and grimaced as he downed his own cooking. Then ate his dessert, and grimaced at how sweet it was.
He watched his second movie for the day.
He sang a little.
Then, more out of boredom then exhaustion, he laid down on the mattress with the sagging middle. The mattress where countless other chefs before him had laid their tired bodies. He pulled the sleeping bag he used for a blanket over his body, and tried to sleep, eagerly awaiting to return to work in the morning.
PhotoCredit: Lana L.
Introduction
Overabundance of option and choice make slaves of us all. Cutting to the “core” of your closet, then building from those essentials, simplifies traveling, moving, and living. The challenge is whittling down to your core closet.
Core closet – 1. the attire an individual wears 90 percent of the time. 2. the attire selected under an extreme quantity constraint that allows an individual to perform 90 percent of his day-to-day activities at 90 percent comfort level.
Even when running on a skeleton of a closet, we’re assaulted with a multitude of options: colors, cuts, sizes, materials, brands.
The purpose of this guide is to assist in the creation of the core closet.
Disclosure: All links are non-affiliate links. Most link directly to either Backcountry or Moosejaw; please support these companies with your business. All costs are approximate.
Base Layer
[from right to left: 140 Tech-T, 200 Hopper, Long-Sleeve]
The Icebreaker Line
The following Icebreaker products are 100% Merino wool. Merino wool surpasses cotton in nearly every aspect. It traps heat, wicks sweat, and dries extremely quickly – three to four hours, hanging. (To extend the life of Merino wool garb, do not dry by hand wringing. Instead, lay out garment on a towel, and roll into a tight cylinder. Do not stick Merino wool into the dryer).
Merino wool is also antimicrobial. After a rinse in cold water, there is close to no odor.
The Bodyfit150 Ultralite Short Sleeve Atlas T-Shirt ($45 – not pictured) as the name implies, is a fitted, athletic-cut shirt (short on the arms, short on the torso.) Out-of-the-box, Bodyfit resembles more of an undershirt than a t-shirt.
The SuperFine140 Tech T Lite($50) fits more like a casual t-shirt. A size small fits comfortably fits a frame of 5’7”, 140 lbs.
The SuperFine200 Hopper T-shirt ($65) also possesses a casual t-shirt cut. The weight of the t-shirt possesses substance, and unlike the above shirts, does not feel like it’ll rip after mild wear.
The Bodyfit200 Oasis Crew ($70) has an athletic long-sleeve fit. Think Under Armor, without the feel of a synthetic fabric against the skin. The Oasis Crew is nearly a perfect base-layer for cold conditions (sub-40 degrees.) It suffers the same sizing issue as much of Icebreaker apparel – snug fit on top, but short on the length.
Save for the SuperFine200 Hopper T-shirt, there’s been the unfortunate experience of ripping in all the Icebreaker products mentioned above. Ripped articles were worn strictly under casual use and light athletics (running, weightlifting.)
The Stoic Line
The Stoic brand is the exclusive brand to Backcountry. Shirts tried on typically have a looser fit, and none exhibited the next-to-skin (NTS) quality found in Icebreaker or Under Armor brands. At first touch, the quality of merino wool feels cheaper than Icebreaker; though it still wicks sweat, holds heat, and is antimicrobial.
As a whole, the Stoic brand is less expensive and offers a greater variety of colors. The back of the shirt “tails” at the end, and fits more comfortably than Icebreaker during casual wear. The sleeves are extra long, and stay in place when pushed up the forearms.
Stoic Merino Bliss ($80)
The Merino Bliss has three noteworthy features: thumb holes at the end of the sleeves, a zippered chest pocket, and a zippered half-collar. The former two are welcome additions to the Stoic brand. The style of the latter, however, feels strange. Unzipped, the shirt opens just north of the solar plexus, and wearing in this fashion produces odd looks. (The functionality of the zipper length can’t be denied, though; there’s an immediate cooling affect when unzipped.)
The Stoic Merino Crew ($60) is an alternative to the Icebreaker Oasis Crew. While the Oasis Crew has a heavier, warmer feel and is NTS, Stoic Merino Crew is longer in torso and arm length, and the sleeves have thumb holes.
Other Base Layers (in brief)
SmartWool Sport NTS Crew – Long-Sleeve ($80)
Looseness around the wrist “cuffs,” lightness of the material, and price make the SmartWool Sport NTS Crew inferior to its Icebreaker and Stoic counterparts.
SmartWool Men’s NTS Lightweight Bottom ($70)
A comfortably snug, lightweight bottom that discretely keeps the legs warm beneath jeans and slacks.
EMS Techwick ($20)
Techwick pills and doesn’t battle odors well, but at less than half the cost, it’s a noteworthy Merino wool alternative.
Ex-Officio Men’s Wicking Boxer-Brief ($25)
A nylon-spandex blend boxer-brief that’s antimicrobial, stretches, and dries in a few hours.
SmartWool PhD Outdoor Light Cushion Micro Sock ($13)
Merino wool blend makes it an excellent athletic sock.
SmartWool Diamond Jim Sock ($18)
Merino wool blend and three-color argyle makes it an excellent dress sock.
Mid Layer
Icebreaker Sport 320 Nomad ($160)
The Sport 320 Nomad is one of Icebreaker’s heavier products, weighing in at 320 g/m2. It’s a quarter-zip, pull-over hoodie. Unzipped, the hood has a triangular look sitting atop your head. Fully zipped, the hood sits snug on the skull, creating a “speed skater” appearance.
It’s an extremely durable product, with double stitching at the bottom hem, at the end of the sleeves, and inside the thumb loops.
Like other Icebreaker apparel, sizing fits slightly small.
Icebreaker GT Quantum Hood ($170)
The GT Quantum Hood is lighter than the Sport320 Nomad (260 g/m2) but what it lacks in weight, it makes up in style. It’s a sleek full-zip hoodie with a plethora of features: drop tail hem, two zippered stash pockets (one on the chest, a second at the small of the back) and a reflective zipper. The most prominent detractor is lack of hand pockets. For casual wear, size-up.
Coolibar Shirt ($60)
A lightweight long-sleeve with a 50 UPF rating. The material feels like cotton but dries as fast as nylon or Merino wool. Gusseted sides keep you cool, a tri-fold collar keeps the sun off your neck, and solid construction means the Coolibar shirt is built to last. Size small fits a 5’7” to 5’8”, 14½ – 15 inch neck.
Pants
Ex-officio Nomad Pant ($40)
This pair of pants deceptively looks like an ordinary pair of cotton trousers. Only closer inspection reveals its versatility: nylon-material brushed with Teflon makes it stain and wrinkle resistant, light, and fast drying. It features an “indestructible button,” an elastic waistband and belt loops, two hip pockets, two zippered back pockets, and a discrete security pocket on the right leg. Sizing on the length runs about an inch long – may require tailoring.
EMS Profile Convertible Pants ($40)
The Profile Convertible Pants is an ideal model as far as convertibles go. It possesses all the properties of nylon material, has a built-in belt, and cargo pockets along the thighs. Overall it’s a loose, casual fit; the zip-off attribute of the pants isn’t unnoticeable, but it is discrete. As shorts, the length of the cut falls at approximately mid-knee. Sizing on the leg length runs about an inch long – may require tailoring.
Footwear
Footwear is the natural enemy of any core closet – in no other attire form does your environment, activity, and company so greatly affect your selection. Unlike a base layer, it’s unlikely to come across a “one-shoe-fits-all” product. Function varies widely, and few articles of clothing communicate personality better than footwear. Even after selecting a brand, the magnitude of models, colors, and styles could submit even the savviest of shoppers into choice-paralysis.
The following link to brands/models of Core Closet footwear: Crocs, Keen, Vibram Five Fingers, Rainbow Sandals, The Northface Ultra 104 XCR, The Northface Hedgehog, The Northface Ultra 103 XCR
Dress Layer
In reality, the Dress Layer isn’t part of the Core Closet, but rather an extension of it, naturally bridged by your profession, personality, and desire to accessorize. It does not lend itself to mobility, but may be essential in day-to-day operations. It’s where the Core Closet exhibits the most variance. Here are some components of the Core Closet Dress Layer of an urban professional:
(2) Suits
(3) Dress Shirts
(3) Ties
(2) Pairs of Dress Shoes
(2) Belts
Summary
The Minimalism: Attire Guide should be used as that – a guide. It’s not an attempt to start brand wars, or to trumpet one brand, model, or style as the premiere.
Insights in the Minimalism: Attire Guide inspired by authors like Tynan, Tim Ferriss, Kareem, and Taylor Davidson.
Author’s Selection:
(2) IB Hopper T-shirts
(1) Stoic Long-sleeve
(1) SmartWool Bottom
(2) Ex-officio underwear
(1) Ex-officio nomad pants
(1) Nomad hoodie
(2) SmartWool Socks
(2) SmartWool Diamond Jim Socks
(1) Crocs
“It looks easy,” Frank told me as he moved the circular, steel mesh strainer through the vegetable oil, scooping out the tempura flakes clumped together like bunches of oats. “But tempura takes some of the greatest skill in Japanese cooking.”
Cold water poured from the faucet. It struck the steel strainer filled with mi, uncooked rice, below. Drops scattered and jettisoned as they hit individual grains sitting at precarious angles. Silently, we watched the water level rise. Clear turned to an opaque, milky white after a few moments, like mayonnaise on Wonder bread.
“When Old Man cook, it more tasty, right?” Danny glanced at me. We sat at the bar. He was hunched over his dinner: white rice, beef cooked in oyster sauce and Chinese cabbage.
I took another bite. I was sympathetic to Chen Sifu’s cooking, since I’d been told my own cooking was pretty bland. But Danny was right; whenever Chen Sifu cooked, it required hibachi hot mustard to make it an enjoyable experience. I nodded.
“Yeah. See, this guy, no good.” He shook his head, then glared at the contents of his bowl. “I think no one teach him. He just learn by watching. He…” Danny paused, and struggled for the word. He barked something at Tracy, the server, in Fukienese.
Tracy’s eyes didn’t stray from the flat screen television mounted against the wall. “Like a job. He cook like a job,” she mumbled. Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations was on. He was eating clam testes or snail gizzards or something.