Yoshi San, Zippy’s Sushi Chef

Zippy’s Restaurant is a Hawaii franchise that specializes in local favorites like saimin, golden crispy chicken, oxtail soup, and President Obama’s favorite - the Zip Pac, a bento box that includes fried chicken, teri beef, fish fillet, spam, and rice. So, when I found out that Zippy’s in Pearl City, about ten minutes from where I live, had a sushi bar, the first thing that came to mind was, “Really?” I just had to check this out! So, on a Friday evening after work, I convinced my wife for a sushi night, and off we went.

Zippy’s at Pearl City, located on the mountain-side of Kam Highway next to a steep road, is a red two-story building overlooking Pearl Harbor with a parking garage on the ground floor. It has all the three standard features of a Zippy’s - a Napoleon’s Bakery on the front, a fast food area on the right, and a dining-in area on the left side; and, as I now know, a sushi bar. We  were greeted warmly by the usher and the sweet smell of baked goodies. As we were being led to our seats on the bar when a loud booming voice startled us with, “Irasimasé!” The voice came from a smiling sushi chef dressed in immaculate double-breasted whites. His name tag read, “Yoshi.”

Drawing from my small arsenal of Japanese, I replied, “Konnichiwa, Yoshi San!,” as we took our seats. “Hai!,” he said, “Irashimasé is traditional Japanese welcome. Here in Hawaii, we should say, HMSA!,” and he started laughing. (HMSA is a healthcare insurance company).  We laughed, too. Don’t ask why; I guess one has to be local to find the humor. He then asked, “You like to start with miso?” We said yes and he motioned his sous chef who filled two bowls with the hot soup.

As we were enjoying our miso, he said, “I have best view of sunset. This time of year, sun sets in Makaha. Soon it will set in Nanakuli, then Ewa.” As he was talking, he was squinting his eyes, presumably from the sunlight, and pointed from northwest to southwest with his hand in a chopping motion like he was cutting fish. We, including the only other customer at the end of the bar, turned around and witnessed through the bare glass windows the last rays of the sun piercing some low-lying clouds, providing a spectacular tableau. We all nodded in agreement.

I ordered maguro sashimi after we finished our soup. The chef pulled out a slab of nice, firm bluefin tuna onto his chopping board. With his razor sharp knife glistening under the track lights, he methodically sliced eight equally thin cuts, shiny and red in their freshness, and neatly arranged them on a plain white rectangular china. He then placed small amounts of wasabi paste and pickled ginger, completing the art piece.  He handed it over with a grin and a bow. I returned the bow and said, “Arigato guzaimasu!” (Thank you very much!).

The sashimi was delectable! The freshly pounded wasabi had an extra kick to it as the strong aroma permeated through my nostrils and momentarily froze my brain. I loved it! I next ordered nigiri sushi - uni (urchin roe) and amaebi (sweet shrimp). Yoshi San moistened his hands with vinegar water then scooped just enough rice on one palm. He then expertly formed the rice into a lump with his fingers before wrapping it with nori (seaweed), making sure the nori extended a tad over the rice to keep the slippery roe in place. Using a long pair of chopsticks, he picked a generous sliver of uni from a bowl, laid it expertly on top of the molded rice, then started a row on a wooden serving block. The amaebi heads were expertly pulled, passed to the sous chef who dipped them in a batter, then deep fried them. Leaving the tails intact, the shells were peeled off before the plump, naked shrimps were laid onto the molded rice minus the nori, forming the second row. This masterpiece was garnished with the crispy shrimp heads pointed up, whiskers and all. They looked deceivingly prickly to the touch.

While we were enjoying this luscious array, I had a chance to observe our chef. Yoshi San is in his mid-sixties, a little on the heavy side, well-fed, undoubtedly a job benefit. He has a perpetual smile and he wrinkles his thick eyebrows and squints his already squinty eyes when he talks. I’m not sure if this is a mannerism or maybe that he just needs glasses. I guess the squinting wasn’t from the sunlight, after all. He said he was originally from the Japanese island of Kyushu. He moved to Hawaii in the mid-80’s, worked for a restaurant in Maui for about ten years, then moved to Oregon. Missing the warm Hawaii weather, he came back, this time to Oahu, in the mid-2000’s, and has been on this job since. He said he lives just a few blocks away and walks to work. Obviously, a very contented man.

As more customers shuffled in, the sound of lively chatters steadily rose. Through the cacophony of voices, Yoshi San asked us if there was anything else. I said, “Omakasé shimasu, kudasai.” (Please choose for us). He went back to work with the precision of a surgeon, molding rice and slicing fish. This time the fish cuts were so big they were dangling on both ends of the the molded rice. As he handed the plate of sushi over, he said with his biggest smile of the night, “This is my favorite.” I immediately recognized the pink colored and rich textured fish - hamachi (yellowtail amberjack), my favorite, as well.

Soon, Yoshi San was consumed with other customers, food servers, his sous chef, and the rapid yet orchestrated art of sashimi- and sushi-making. Like a painter delicately running his brush on canvas, he doled out his masterpieces one after the other. Before we left, I managed to grab his attention to say goodbye. He gave me a deep bow and said, “Arigato guzaimasu, ja mata!” (Thank you very much, see you again!) A new couple sat in our place and as we were walking out, we heard the now familiar loud booming voice, “Irashimasé!”

Remembering Mount Pinatubo

I was in the US Air Force and stationed at Clark Air Base, Philippines, when on the early Wednesday morning of June 12, 1991, we were ordered to immediately evacuate. Following instructions from the US Armed Forces Far East Network (FEN) radio, my family, including my wife, Tess, our three small children and I, got in the car with a few personal items. We drove out fast from base housing and joined a long line of vehicles, all anxious to get away from a steaming volcano that was eerily visible in our rear-view mirror. That volcano is Mount Pinatubo and it was about to explode and change our lives forever.

Our convoy, moving at a snail’s pace, was escorted above by helicopters like hawks looking for prey. We were headed to our designated safe haven - Subic Naval Base, about 50 miles southwest. Both Clark and Subic were US overseas bases. After driving all day,  we arrived tired and haggard-looking at Subic. We registered and got assigned to stay with a Navy family in base housing.

It was late when we met our host family - a quiet Navy man with a pencil-thin mustache, his wife, two chatty teen-aged girls and a hyper-active 10-year old boy named Maloy. They were all very friendly, the women - inquisitive. Mattresses and blankets were already laid out in the living room for us. Exhausted, we went straight to bed.

Other than a looming volcano ready to blow up, the next two days were uneventful. Then, on Friday at about 10 AM, as we were driving to the beach, the sky became ominously dark. I pulled over, got out and looked up where everyone was looking - a huge ash cloud that covered half the sky! Shaped like an anvil with a plume, it looked strikingly beautiful. The cloud eventually dispersed, giving everyone a big sigh of relief. Little did we know that this was just a prelude to our nightmare.

That night we had a sumptuous potluck barbecue dinner with our host family. Convinced we’d seen the worst and should be going home soon, Tess and I started making plans for family activities. We went to bed with happy images of our kids playing in the park near a picnic table. We woke up Saturday mid-morning in pitch black darkness with sounds of raindrops coming from outside. The power was out. I lit up a candle, turned on FEN radio and learned that Mount Pinatubo had begun to erupt, wreaking havoc. We also learned that a typhoon was hours away and heading west toward the volcano! What are the odds? The rainbands ahead of the typhoon were already spreading the ash indiscriminately like a loose garden hose.

As the day progressed, the pitter-patter of rainfall got heavier. We ventured out into the carport and aimed our flashlights into the dark. We were able to make out not only raindrops, but also ash and tiny rocks. We stuck out our hands and the sensation of the particles hitting our palms was tingly, but it didn’t hurt at all. The kids were actually enjoying it! “It can’t get any worse than this,” I told Tess. And then we saw a flash of lightning followed by a loud thunderclap. “Kaboom!”

The kids, followed by Tess, ran inside, frightened. I’m not sure what I was thinking but I lingered to watch and record this amazing phenomenon with my video camera. The thunder and lightning became more frequent. Being a meteorologist, I assumed that thunderstorms embedded in the typhoon’s feeder bands have made landfall and have closed in. But then the lightning started streaking in different colors: red, magenta, green, and blue - an electrifying kaleidoscope.

I learned later that Mount Pinatubo had what volcanologists call a phreatic eruption, the explosive type that granulates rocks and shoots them up along with incendiary gases like phosphorus and magnesium, hence the colorful discharges. They looked spectacular but scary.

Coming to my senses, I went indoors to join my family, who by now had become more agitated. Tess and I tried to calm our kids, reassuring them that everything would be okay. They seemed to relax a bit. Then the ground began to tremble. Our host family, who up to this point were all upstairs, came scrambling down, asking, “Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake?” Then the quakes became stronger and more frequent. But, thank God, not strong enough to topple down anything in the house. We were all scared! Everyone was quiet and huddled together with their family. Everyone except Maloy.

Maloy was amusing himself by making shadow puppets. He even had sound effects for the objects he projected on the wall with his hands in front of a candle. When he got tired of that, he put on a pair of pillows on his feet and started jumping from one piece of furniture to another growling and flexing his arms, like the Incredible Hulk. He was so funny, my kids forgot their ordeal and began giggling! Unfortunately, his dad, looking annoyed, made him stop.

So we went back to our somber selves. Then we heard one really loud clap of thunder followed by a big thud. It sounded so close we all rushed to the front door. There, across the front yard was a big branch. It had broken off from the tree due to the weight of the wet ash! That explained the numerous thunderclaps.

Finally, just before midnight, the shaking, the lightning show, the thunderclaps, and the peter-patter on the roof all tapered off and a sense of calmness ensued. We waited. Then waited some more.  Dead silence. We put the kids to sleep. Tess and I stayed up, mostly in silence, until the morning came. Sunday, June 16, 1991, the sun came up bright with a promise of a new day.