Sushi, sex, and the conundrums of logic

Sushi, or in the properly honorific Japanese tongue, o-sushi, is quite probably my favorite culinary delight in the world. There is no gustatory presentation quite so artful or appealing, and no cuisine quite so delectable, in my opinion, as o-sushi. The combination of flavors -- the faint tangy scent of sweetened rice vinegar in the rice, the slight green rub of grated wasabi root (somewhat reminiscent of our horse radish) between the rice and the raw fish, the touch of Kikkoman shoyu (soy sauce) in the dipping saucer, laced with a light suspension of (yet again, more!) grated wasabi, followed by a pinch of pink, gossamer-thin sliced, sweet, pickled ginger root, and a chaser of gently warmed o-sake (rice wine), is almost enough to induce something close to orgasmic delight. There is an art, of course, to dining on o-sushi. Fingers are permissible, though only philistines would think of using silverware. The preferred utensils are o-hashi (chopsticks). One who has mastered the art of sushi-eating is expected to pick up a piece of nigiri-zushi (the kind of sushi that consists of a hand formed morsel of rice with a slice of raw fish on it), dip it into the small saucer or soy sauce, then deftly place it into his mouth, yet maintain his composure at the moment when the combined sensations explode within his oral cavity to induce such a paroxysm of pleasure that any lesser person would be unable to contain himself. Under no circumstance must he allow himself to lose control, lose his composure, or fall out of his seat and writhe upon the floor in an uncontrolled exhibition of delirious ecstasy. That is considered altogether unseemly.

In fact, there is a logical syllogism that has long puzzled epicures, who happen to be acquainted with the delights of both sushi and sex, which goes like this:

• Nothing is better than sex.
• Sushi is better than nothing.
• Therefore, sushi is better than sex.

Think on that one for a while, you liver-mush lovers!