Jinsei Review Part II

For those of you dying to know, Jinsei can be found in SoHo, a block and a half of overpriced shops and restaurants in--to spit in the face of acronymologists everywhere--North Homewood. Parking is located off 29th Avenue South, right between the white BMW and the white Lexus with two carseats and the mysterious and confusing "my other mom is a broom" bumper sticker.

A moment before exiting Jinsei you enter it. It is at this time that you are bombarded with a loud, fresh dose of jungly drum and bass; it's like walking into the climax of Step Up 2: The Streets, but profession dancers have been replaced by pot-bellied men in khaki pants and tweenage girls. The interior consists of slate-black everything with a hint of shininess: their idea of what a fancy big-city restaurant is supposed to look like is about as accurate as Fievel's predictions about America.

So you decide to sit outside in the 100-degree heat, only to learn that these inescapable bastards have placed speakers on the patio as well, ensuring that you get served while you wait to get served. You order sake because if you don't get a buzz soon you're going to walk across the street to Tots, Twigs, and Titters and buy youself a cottage made out of cinnamon sticks to try and choke yourself to death with. Meanwhile you browse the menu, which is nothing but rolls named after what I guess are snowboarding tricks: volcano 960, hammerhead toothgrind, spicy fandango. Everything seems to contain tempura-fried shellfish, which tells me that they're pandering to the Captain D's denial of Birmingham's upper-middle class.

Right before you go into shock your food arrives. You are underwhelmed, and some quick mental math tells you you're spending about $8 per bite. You eat the food in about three minutes, discuss your disappointment while waiting for the check, pay, run to your car, drive it to the gas station, buy some beer and beef jerky and have yourself a night.