Japanese raw death with a guarantee

Fugu, a fish both deadly and delicious

Fugu, a fish both deadly and delicious
Newsday.com,—-Last week, I ate the deadliest fish in the world.
Fugu, also known as blowfish or puffer, can kill within the hour if it is not properly cleaned and prepared. Despite its reputation for peril, it is highly prized because it is a sweet and delicious fish.
On Long Island, only one restaurant is licensed to sell fugu, Shiro of Japan in Carle Place, owned by Hiro Ishikawa and partners….
“There is a money-back guarantee,” Ishikawa said with a puckish grin, before I sampled Shiro’s five-course, $150 fugu menu. “If you die, I give you money back.”...more…

I’ve eaten fugu many times and I’ll even go for the more dangerous bits like the liver. Love it. Read my tale of Fugu fun here in the comments: Dinner of Death VS Death for Dinner

And of course, all of us we the 3yen.com love FU-GU.com where you can get your own blog in less than 2 minutes…. easy (and free).
Also refer to my previous report, Sushi is poisonous.

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Taro

I'm a pale, alien, quadruped who has worked for 25+ years at "Maybe-the-Largest Inc." in Tokyo.

2 thoughts on “Japanese raw death with a guarantee”

  1. That reminds me of my best
    encounter with getting: FUGUed!
    It ended as just every gray day at Japan Inc. —a gray Monday morning for moaning, stretching and staring at battleship gray metal desks and concrete walls while wearing my gray uniform. Ah, but the night night before…

    I was thrashing in the middle of Roppongi crossing baying at the moon.
    Two hundred and fifty thousand yen flopped out of my back pocket and whirled about in the wind as my date was hobbling about in her red miniskirt trying to fetch the bills. I was howling – laying flat on my back I could see her see-through pink lace panties. I definitely had found a friend in fugu.

    An interesting fish, the fugu …

    The CIA uses its poison for dartguns. Japanese girls feed it to their men to get them “inspired”… sliced up to be eaten raw at a neighborhood bar. The painfully charming Emiko had taken me there for a little hot sake and “conversation.” Between her giggles and my gropes, she ordered the night’s adventure, sliced-raw-death fugu. Damn if the knife wheedling chief didn’t give a gay little smirk when he then took control over my life. I
    But what the hell—if I died from those little rubbery fish hors d’oeuvres, it’s the chief’s legal right under Japanese law to commit suicide. It seemed like a fair deal to me.

    After fugu, she poured four bottles of hot sake into me, poured me into her husband’s SUV and sported me down to some deeper bowels Roppongi to have her way with me. We were downing a third bottle of red plonk while watching a Hamasaki Ayumi video when the fugu took hold. I felt hot flashes and then full-blown menopause followed by metamorphosis and a big blur. I think she got me pregnant.

    I was certainly Fugued!

    Who needs drugs when you can eat little slices of raw death?

    Well there you have it — fugu fun. Now I’ll have to prepare myself for tonight’s evening’s meal of more sake and something safe like shirokarai, fermented raw squid guts.

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