in Colorado Springs.

Musashi is a Japanese teppan-table restaurant in town.  I’ve seen it hundreds of times (it’s right on Academy), but I’ve never gone.  A group of women from work got together and went.  During the daytime, the place is abandoned.  But at night, it’s packed.

I’m glad I went (and not just for the company), but I don’t know that I’ll go back.  I don’t know.  Maybe it’s just the PMS talking.  They wouldn’t seat us until everyone had arrived, and then we were packed around that table like sardines, and it was so, so hot.  I wasn’t very comfortable.

Imagine a family diner, not a chain, that was built in the late seventies.  Now imagine it’s Japanese.  Everything is homey and old fashioned, just in a different culture.  The older waitresses wore kimonos and geta.  The younger ones wore black pants and hapi coats.  The lighting was dark.  The knickknacks were plentiful.  The food was simple, plentiful, and good, Japanese diner food.  The paper lanterns were decorated with beer names.  The vents over the teppan tables were fragrant with grease.  The everclear burned brightly from the stacked onion rings.  The only thing missing was the chef hiding an egg in the folds of his chef hat.