The film introduced us to Judd Nelson, an actor skilled primarily in the (supposedly) menacing, racehorse-like flaring of his nostrils. It presented the debut of fellow Brat Packers Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy and what's-with-her-hair-anyway Molly Ringwald. And it gave us one of the decade's sappiest, stereotypical-character-infested flicks -- a film that, when paired with the Duran Duran and Culture Club music of the era, illustrates why the '80s were such an embarrassing time for pop culture.
Worst of all, The Breakfast Club humiliated sushi. Who can forget the scene when, as the group breaks for lunch, the prissy Ringwald unpacks a cute little lacquered box. Under Nelson's flared-nostril sneer, she arranges soy sauce and chopsticks, picks up a piece of raw fish and rice, and in one bite turns a gorgeous food into a yuppie joke.
Adding insult to injury, she doesn't even do it right. Everyone knows that the secret to sushi is its exquisite freshness. The fish, only of the finest caliber, must be trimmed just before consumption. The rice, vinegared and sticky, must be both fluffy and moist. Prepared pre-breakfast and left to sit around in a painted box until lunchtime, the fish would have grown flabby and bland, the rice dry and reminiscent of plastic. If you've ever picked up one of those packages of pre-made sushi available at grocery stores these days, you know what I mean.
Or if you've dined at Temari, a Japanese restaurant plunked in the middle of a strip mall in Gilbert. In a cruel fit of culinary taunting, the menu reads well, with sexy-sounding dishes such as hiya-yako, cold tofu with fresh ginger and scallion; and salmon fillet grilled with sea salt. The food here looks appealing, too, with pretty colors and attractive presentation. Flavor, though, rarely makes it to the plate, and in a few spectacular performances, the taste actually offends.
Like any glitzy ordeal, things start out well as we take in Temari's vibrant setting. Named after the Japanese temari balls, beautiful, silk-embroidered orbs that line one wall of the restaurant, the eatery is rich with details. A stunning silk kimono hung on a wall is eye-catching, and little Japanese curtains hanging above the sushi bar lend a human scale to high ceilings. But jazz music is playing too loudly, and it's from the radio, we realize, as a Sleep America jingle brings our table conversation to a halt.
Though I've long given up the dream of finding complimentary edamame anymore (Shogun in Phoenix used to offer them gratis, like chips and salsa), Temari's offering is great. Soybeans have been boiled just to tenderness and glisten with sea salt, to be sucked between our lips until the firm seeds pop to our tongues.
Service is topnotch, too, quick, efficient and friendly, in a gentle hovering manner that keeps our water glasses full and finished plates whisked away to clear space on our quickly crowded table. We've ordered too much, seduced by the menu descriptions.
Gyoza, on a chilly winter's night? It's a good choice any time of the year, but particularly luscious when the steam from the tender bundles releases under our noses, fragrant with the perfume of chopped pork and bits of cabbage. A dance with the pan has left the edges expertly browned, ready for dipping in zesty Gyoza sauce. An appetizer of oysters is equally irresistible, cloaking four fat bivalves in panko batter, deep frying them and serving them up with a tonkatsu-mustard sauce. These sea critters are impossibly juicy, mellow-flavored and meltingly tender.
From there, the temari ball drops with a resounding thud. I've been anticipating a starter of agedashi tofu, swooning over the description of lightly deep-fried bean curd floating in a tempura sauce and scallion broth. But this dish has all the appeal of chewing on wet mittens. Fried tofu tends to get chewy, and this quartet of golden battered cubes tastes like Styrofoam. After soaking 10 minutes or so in the sauce, the tofu relaxes a little, but for almost four bucks, I'd rather order another plate of Gyoza instead.
There are few foods in this world worse than Temari's calamari, however. On a blind taste test, I'd never have guessed that the filling in eight fish-stick-style rods was squid -- as one dining companion so aptly put it, they are perfect matches to rubber sneaker soles. This isn't just poor preparation, but inferior ingredients, right down to the tasteless, mealy battering that's supposed to be crisp panko.
Sushi, too, the backbone of any Japanese eatery in the U.S., isn't cut out for the job here. I question whether the fish we receive is true sushi grade, and if it is, just how fresh it is. There isn't a single piece on the rainbow roll, after all, that has sushi grade's signature silkiness or brilliant flavor subtlety. Instead, strips of tuna, yellowtail, shrimp, whitefish and salmon are distressingly chewy over a damp rice tube stuffed with salty crab and avocado. The fish never improves over several visits, including solo pieces of mushy maguro nigiri (tuna) and lackluster hamachi (yellowtail). The best sushi, ironically, is the Santa Fe roll, which includes no fish but cream cheese, asparagus, crab and mild green chile wrapped in tempura batter.