August 19, 2003
I am not sure what it is about the Ichiban Japanese Steakhouse in downtown Reno, but every time I go there, something distinctly memorable happens.
It really has nothing to do with the actual restaurant itself, located above Metropolis, formerly Reno Live, formerly Eddie's Fabulous 50s, on Sierra Street. It's always something peripheral.
There was the company Christmas party I went to a few years back there that took an odd turn when one of my fellow employees essentially let her boyfriend get to third base with her, and vice-versa, in full view of everyone. It was a stunning display of PDA (Public Display of Affection) that I won't soon forget, no matter how much therapy I have.
Then there was the time I went there about a year later and saw one of the most hilarious signs ever. You have to go up a set of escalators to get to the restaurant, and a sign on the ground floor said something to the effect of: "FOR HANDICAP ELEVATOR ACCESS, SEE HOSTESS SECOND FLOOR." I understand there's an assumption that someone in a wheelchair will be accompanied by someone who can go up the escalators, but otherwise, that sign was just stunning in its insensitivity.
Well, to my delight (in a fairness sense) and disappointment (in an appreciation-of-irony sense), that sign was gone last Saturday when I (in town for a weekend visit) again visited Ichiban with five good friends. We didn't intend on going there; we couldn't decide on anywhere, and one of our friends works there, so we figured, what the hell?
The meal itself was somewhat uneventful -- our teppanyaki chef was either new, off his game or in need of a refresher course, as he had a serious case of the dropsies. While a klutzy teppanyaki chef is somewhat disconcerting because of the flying knives and flames and whatnot, nobody was injured, so that was all water under the bridge.
Anyway, I was walking back to The Parking Gallery after dinner with two of my friends. (The other three, all smokers, were dragging a bit behind.) The walk from Ichiban to the garage is a mere block and change, but in that short walk, we encountered two interesting people.
The first was a woman, dressed in a shiny dress, rambling and yelling as she walked down Second Street across Sierra. She was pissed about something -- The Bush economy? A run in her pantyhose? Trouble communicating with the mothership? Who knows? -- and, well, she wasn't making sense.
A group of young women were near her, laughing at her. This REALLY upset her, and as our groups crossed in the intersection, she turned around and threatened to kick all of our asses. She looked straight at me, with a crazy look in her eyes, and raised her left arm as she grasped: a lint brush.
Thankfully, I avoided an assault, and she resumed muttering as she stomped west on Second. Garrett, Steve and I kept walking down Sierra, eagerly looking forward to getting in the car and getting the hell out of downtown Reno.
Anyway, we reached The Parking Gallery, where we encountered a man, dressed professionally, sitting on the stairs heading up the parking garage. As I reached him, he reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a can of Chef Boyardee, along with a can opener.
This was certainly interesting, but I had no interest in staying in downtown Reno any longer. Thus, I squeezed by him, followed by Garrett and Steve. He screamed, "Wait!" Apparently, he was concerned we'd knock over his can of pasta or something. He glared as we walked up the stairs.
We then got the hell outta there.
It was an interesting evening, for sure. But from now on, when my friends can't decide on where to go for dinner, and we end up going downtown, it'll be downtown SPARKS.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan in exile in Arizona who thinks this whole rafting thing in Wingfield Park is idiotic. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.