near the sushi place.

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Not far from my parents’ place is a wee sushi place called Taihei.  It’s a pretty popular, but unpretentious, place that caters both to families — whenever I’m there, at least two tables order those giant sushi boats — and to more intrepid eaters, like my parents.  They always sit at the sushi bar, in front of Chef Nakamura, who will tell them what’s good that day — and he knows because he’s the one who gets up every morning at 5:30 to head to the fish market to pick out the fish himself.   Every trip home involves a drive over to Taihei, and it is an excellent time.

The restaurant is on the corner of a block that includes a beauty salon, a gas station on the other end, the Don Johnson Insurance Agency (pretty sure not that Don Johnson), and a few other random shops.  Right next to the restaurant is — or was, I guess — a shabu shabu place that did not last very long, alas.   The past Sunday evening, after we parked the car in front of Taihei for one last meal before I was to head to the airport, I snapped a few shots of the abandoned shabu shabu parking lot and the alley ’round back.  Afterwards, as my father and I joined my mother at the sushi bar, she asked what we had been up to.  “I think she took photos of … poles,” my father replied, scratching his head.
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