The Sushi Barge

Yeah, I love raw fish.

I gave up trout fishing a long time ago because my friends were always horrified to watch me snatch up a freshly caught rainbow, bash its little head on a rock and then bite off a huge hunk right there at stream side—chewing with my mouth open while fish juice ran down my chin. It was such a disturbing display that one buddy even took to calling me Smeagol, and this was long before Peter Jackson ever made The Lord of the Rings popular.

Just to be clear, I didn't do backflips on the rocks and sing fish songs after gnawing on some fresh catch or anything like that. But in these modern days, people get turned off by such atavistic displays. Here in robust America, with its ample waistlines and fingertip conveniences, there is no need to gnaw on raw fish, unless such is purchased at a reputable restaurant in the heart of civilized country.

Having said that, I have a very loose definition of what passes for civilization, and if I had to swear, I'd say I am on the fence of assigning that label to Pinetop-Lakeside, a community in Arizona's White Mountains that hosts a strange mix of the ultra-rich and total down-and-outers. This is a community of no middle class. This is a playground for Phoenix power brokers with second homes or a place where a largely industrial class of people hang their thread-bare hats on pegs hammered into the prefabricated walls of trailers tucked here and there in the woods.

But away from these trophy homes and shotgun shacks, we stumbled upon an excellent sushi restaurant here, far away from salt water and skilled commercial fisherman.

At the Kabuki restaurant—established by the same entrepreneur who reportedly brought the Goodwill Games to America—you can order the sushi "boat," described as being a meal for two. If you're in the White Mountains riding bikes with the same fervor as mosquitos have for feasting on the flesh of the warm-blooded, and you happen to stumble into the Kabuki, who are you to argue with the suggestion of ordering the signature entreé, particularly after downing a couple of Japanese beers?

The meal arrived in an actual boat—a three-foot galleon swamped to the yard arm in all manner of fresh fish and seafood. An entire Aji lay posed at the bow, expertly cut and ready for eatin'. One look at the little buggger's glassy eyes and fishy face, and I was ready for some backflips and head bashing. I let out a little screech and the other diners looked up with alarm.

The waiter assured me the delicious fish was already dead, so no tabletop whacking was necessary, and the entire restaurant breathed a sigh of relief.

In all, our schooner held about 10 pounds of sushi and sashimi, and the only offering that was a little too hardcore for our sensibilities was an entire tempura-ed shrimp head, whiskers and all, that laughed at us from atop his cushion of sticky rice.

Still, this far inland, in such a strange backward locale, a small hint of doubt lingered in the back of my mind that our feast would mutiny the next morning and we'd find ourselves doubled over the chamber pots instead of out on the trails. However, a quick taste of the banquet and the total absence of fishy flavor made me instantly realize that this food had been prepared by professionals and was fantastically fresh.

Indeed, our order was accompanied by the owner, who seemed interested in finding out who had ordered the house special. One look at our ruffled appearance and empty beer glasses, and he was instantly satisfied that we weren't millionaires or real-estate developers worth knowing beyond a warm smile and a genuine "Bon Appetit."

The next day on our ride, we rocked along the trails with sushi legs that allowed us to squirm though the technical sections like engergized salmon through a rocky stream bottom at the height of spawning season. We had boundless energy and we beat the rains. A beautiful rainbow descended from the clouds and we were glad to be alive.

Our tour through dusty ranching country on two wheels was a stark contrast to the fancy Kabuki restaurant the day before. But here in these mountains, we've grown accustomed to contrasts, and we look forward to them like bites of fine cold sashimi in a realm of stocktanks roiling with warm brackish waters.