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You See Sushi










You See Sushi


Living in S.F, you’re afforded many opportunities to sweat your balls; Russian Hill, Nob Hill, Diamond Heights, Twin Peaks; bike or run up any of these rises and, if you’re not in good enough shape, you’ll find the testicular membrane which happily encases your testicles fast sticking to one or both of your legs. Unless you’re a woman.  Anyway,  The past four years has seen me taking various bicycler routes up and around the hills surrounding Twin Peaks, one of which often takes me up Parnassus Street, the arterial by which a multitude of students is brought to and from UCSF vis a vis shuttles, buses, taxis, or their own two feet.

On Parnassus, approaching UCSF from the west, sits You See Sushi.  Most writers fear non-comprehension of various forms of word play, and I’m no exception; I shamefully admit to having missed the play-on-words presented in the title of our featured restaurant.  Fuck, i was irritated when the owners stated the obvious after I expressed a certain curiosity concerning the restaurants handle.

Besides a nice turn-of-phrase, You See has bargain prices, something you don’t always welcome when you’re talking sushi; good, fresh fish is usually quite pricey, which makes the low, low prices on some menus highly suspect.  However, I can vouch for the Hamachi Sashimi (4.95) and the Saba Nigiri (3.50).  Booze-wise, three dollars and fifty cents buys you a large, cold bottle of Asahi.  The sake selection is distinguished only by their basement prices (upwards of 15 dollars for a small bottle); this place has no need of Happy Hour; they’d have to give it away for free.  I’d recommend You See Sushi for anybody looking to eat some fresh piscine at an affordable rate and/or hit on an emotionally-vulnerable nursing student fresh from the training morgue.


You See Sushi

94 Judah St.

[Inner Sunset]

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Matt Fink - Fatt Mink

Matt Fink - Fatt Mink

I grew up in San Jose, only 50 minutes away from S.F. My dad, brother and I came up often to visit family and/or to fart around, and whenever the car came over the rise on Hwy. 101 just after Candlestick Park, I could hear an almost audible "Click" in my brain. The blinding, beautifully rolling blanket of diverse urbanity spread out before our speeding automobile, coupled with draughts of the clean, cool air conspired to instill in me a growing discontent with San Jose. Add access to hitherto unknown strata of music, booze and food culture, not to mention pet-deification and testicular-separators, and I couldn't be kept away for long. Even after ten years of residency, the sight of a glistening pair of moose-knuckles swinging down Market St. still makes my heart swell with pride.