USA. California. I asked for sushi.

They brought a roll the size of a forearm.

I waited for the chef. No chef appeared. The fish had already been decided, rolled, cut, and laid down like a treaty I had not signed.

Beside it sat a small cup of something red.

“What’s this,” I asked.

The waiter, a young man in sneakers, said, “Spicy mayo, dude. Trust.”

I did not trust. In my homeland, a single piece of fish is a negotiation between a knife and the sea. You do not bury it. You do not dress it for war. You bow to it, and then you eat.

Here the fish had been wrapped until it disappeared. Rice, seaweed, more rice, a sauce that shone like lacquer.

I lifted one piece with both hands. It did not fit in my mouth on the first try. This seemed to please the waiter.

“That’s a real one,” he said.

I chewed. It was sweet. The fish was a rumor inside it. The red sauce declared victory anyway.

I finished the whole roll because leaving a fallen soldier is worse than losing the battle.

So tell me, America.

When you say sushi, and you mean a scroll too large for the mouth — are you feeding a man, or commissioning a monument?

And the little cup of fire beside it.

Is that a condiment, or last rites?

The roll remains.