The slanted sushi.

A few years ago I was at a sushi restaurant in Tokyo with my boss and another coworker.

We were sitting at the bar with the sushi chef in front of us. Though not quite as dramatic as those Netflix food documentaries, the chef worked like a thoughtful craftsman creating food art. When he assembled a pair of sushi, he would delicately place it on the plate in front of us.

It would always be placed at an angle. Slanting from the top left to the bottom right. Sushi chefs place sushi like this because it makes it easier to pick up with the chopsticks in your right hand.

Except I'm left handed. Having the sushi slant towards the right actually makes it harder. But we lefties are used to these inconveniences. We adapt and we carry on.

After a few pieces of sushi, I noticed something peculiar. The pieces of sushi placed on my plate were slanting the other way. From the right to the left.

What was this? Did the chef notice? Indeed, he noticed that I was left handed and it would be easier if the sushi were slanted towards the left. This was an unusual experience. One that stuck with me.

I ponder why. Why did this moment stick with me?

Sure it was a thoughtful touch. Delightful, you could even say because it made my dining experience better. (Not to mention letting me experience how most people get to enjoy their food at sushi bars in Japan.)

But I suspect there was something more.

I think. I believe it's the act of seeing me. Seeing that I'm left handed. Seeing the difficulty and trouble I had to carry those pieces of art with my chopsticks.

Seeing. But not just seeing. But also taking action. Being willing to change what he's doing to make my experience a bit better.

That night as I stood up to leave the restaurant, I thanked the chef for noticing and his thoughtful sushi placement on my plate. He smiles nonchalantly, and, as if it was part of his craft, he humbly replies, "Not at all."