Sugarfish surprised me

Let’s cut to the chase: I enjoyed my dinner at Sugarfish. Yes, I was invited to dine there on the management’s dime, and yes, there were certain elements of the dinner that I could have done without. Like, the extraneous use of ponzu or the douchebag in shorts who, despite being instructed (as we all were) of the policy on minimum orders, sleazed his way out of it and then sported a weasel-y grin for the rest of the evening. I overheard him say to his date, "I usually eat sushi with my fingers." Ew. Go away. 

It was the uni that won me over. I don’t usually order it—one really bad experience can do that to you—but I’ll gladly sample it as part of an omakase or, as happened in this case, the “Surprise Me” menu. And at Sugarfish, uni rightfully deserves to be called a delicacy, so subtle and silken is the balance of flavor and texture.

My endorsement might be controversial, considering some of the backlash that Sugarfish is getting: It’s too bright; it looks like a Pinkberry; service is too quick; it looks like a Pinkberry. In other words, Sugarfish in its high polish and streamlined efficiency doesn’t meet people’s expectations of “authentic” sushi. Which, I expect, involves an aged wooden bar with an equally wizened sushi master behind it—unless, of course, he’s buddy-buddy with Robert DeNiro.

Such plaints for authenticity aren’t unlike the grievances that swirled around the opening of Jian BBQ a few weeks back—and the skepticism I personally endured for Metromix’s favorable review of the high-end Korean restaurant. Is it for real? I’d be asked. Because how could a Korean BBQ with an address so far west of Western and Olympic, a full cocktail menu, and robots be “for real”?

For all of L.A.’s wonderful diversity, there are also persistent—and pernicious—ideas of what makes authentic ethnic experience. It’s expected that hounding after ethnic cuisines involves unfamiliar geography, language barriers and that perfectly ramshackle little spot. Not that this isn’t admirable. Without it, Koreatown or Monterey Park or Artesia wouldn’t have the following that they do. But what happens when Peking duck comes with a moody techno track and a martini glass? Quick, peg it back into its hole-in-the-wall. (For the record: Dining in much of Seoul feels more like a night at Jian BBQ than it does along Vermont Avenue.)

More doubting Tommys, I’m sure, are coming my way, what with Gyenari—a Korean restaurant that bills itself as both California-influenced and a lounge—opening in downtown Culver City late last week. Is it for real? I’ll let you know, but I suspect it’ll be as authentic as grilling meat over an open fire is central to the daily Korean diet.

—Jiyeon Yoo