Oh, dear lord, Bunrabs, how you mock us. But you couldn’t know: A million years ago, we put in something like seven or eight months (a semester and a summer) as a waiter at a Hahn’s Hibachi in Oakland, before school schedules forced our oh-so-welcome departure.
It’s not a good place to work. Food like that is heavy, and comes drenched in this sticky sauce that gets everywhere and sticks seems to cling to you when you leave. Gross. Mostly, though, the smell of that barbecue haunts you. It never comes out of your clothes, and now, years later, we can recall it exactly.
Then, today, Gutenberg sticks a photograph of that greasy mountain right up on his website, and it all came flooding back. This thing is like a meaty Madeline, Proust-style:
To Hahn’s credit, though, the food’s pretty good in normal doses. You just don’t want to have its smoke blown on your for six hours a day.