Sushi Horror Story, Part One

I’ve always been a fan of sushi. My parents adore the Japanese staple, and so I was introduced to it at a young age. My aunt recalls going out to eat with me when I was six, and I all but demanded some Californian rolls. I have no recollection of that but I do remember going to a restaurant that my family now refers to as “Damn Me,” the sushi bar from hell.
A couple of summers ago, my mom, dad, brother, sister, and I had spent a few hours at the State Fair when we decided go out to dinner. My mom had dragged me around to all the craft booths, which was an arduous task, believe me, and so I felt that a treat was in order. I suggested we go out for sushi. My parents had been to “I Love Sushi,” and, seeing as the place was nearby, it was decided. Thirty minutes later, we were still looking for the restaurant. Driving down a road for what was probably the third time, Colton, my brother, glimpsed a restaurant with Japanese characters on the side. Hungry, we retired our search for the elusive “I Love Sushi” and decided to try the place. “Dami” was small and appeared to be locally owned. Its sign advertised “Fresh sushi and Barbeque.” This should have been interpreted as a bad omen but at the time it gave the place character.
We walked in and were immediately greeted by a small, squat Japanese woman. She appeared to be the only person in the restaurant. You could almost see the tumbleweed blowing across the floor. We were seated, and drinks were ordered. The menus were laminated sheets of paper with large pictures on them detailing each dish available. At the time, pink was my greatest vice, and so I had to have the Pink Panther Platter, which consisted of crab-stuffed sushi and, looking back, God-knows-what-else. Since there was no one else in the restaurant, the service was speedy, and we got our meals quickly. We sat munching and talking, content and unawares. Colton, who had been nursing his Pepsi, suddenly gagged. “Colton, mind your manners,” my mom sighed.
“I’m pretty sure I just swallowed a chunk of something.”
“That’s why you chew,” I said helpfully.
“No, like, a chunk in my drink. Oh, my God. Mom, I think there’s something in my drink.”