Dunno about you, but some days it seems like it should be enough to haul our sorry ass out of bed and drag it to the office. Showered and presentable and on time? Are you kidding? These are days when we know we're unqualified to make even the most trivial decision. (Answer the phone, or wait for it to stop ringing? Is that even our phone?) In other words: Seki's days. For one thing, sushi's got an uncanny way of cutting through even the most horrendous day-after. And for another, once we resolve to venture the 187 steps (yes, we've counted) from our cubicle to the only slightly more spacious Japanese confines (newly redecorated!) across Delmar, the decision-making's all done. See, the servers at Seki's make a point of getting to know even their semi-regular clientele. So we don't even have to order. In fact, it's gotten so we hardly have a chance to sit down before our server tells us what we'll be having
. Why argue? We ordered it (once). If it was good enough the last time we ate it (and it was), it'll be good enough this time. It's a heady mix: the super-polite service that's a hallmark of any good Japanese restaurant, combined with a streak of we-know-what's-good-for-you tough love. Kind of like going home to your parents' house to eat -- if your parents served sushi and gave you a verbal slapdown if you attempted, however meekly, to stray to a new part of the menu. C'mon, admit it: You could stand for a little discipline in your life.