#8 — Dreaming of Nobu

I made it through.

Despite all my worries, I made it through gallbladder surgery and, thankfully, everything went relatively well. I’ll share more details soon, but for now, I’m at home recovering, living on a steady diet of bland, mushy foods. For someone who loves to eat, this is pure agony; no chocolate, no dessert, nothing fried. It feels like all the joy has been drained from my soul.

So, naturally, I find myself dreaming about one of the best meals I had last year: Nobu Toronto.

And yes, I know Nobu gets mixed reviews here. Some people say it’s overrated. Some say it’s all hype. But this was our experience.

And it was unforgettable.

Our “Better Spending” Era (In the Age of Inflation)

That dinner almost didn’t happen.

Last fall, my partner and I entered what we called our era of “better spending.” We tightened our budget. Cooked more at home. Cut back on restaurant outings, even at our favourite spots. Inflation is real. Groceries are wild. Rent in Toronto is not for the faint of heart. We are normal people living normal lives, and expensive dinners are not casually built into our monthly spreadsheets.

So when the anniversary of our first date rolled around, he insisted on surprising me with a special night out.

Here’s what you need to know about my partner: he is not a planner. He is a “go with the flow” man. I, on the other hand, am the researcher. The strategist. The woman who reads every review and cross-references menus before committing. He operates on hope. I operate on spreadsheets.

How We Ended Up at Nobu Toronto

When he revealed the destination, I blinked.

“Nobu?”

“I thought we were budgeting. Are you sure about this?”

He nodded confidently.

Now, I know my partner, he’s not usually one for tiny portions and hefty price tags. He likes to leave full. So I was genuinely shocked. I strongly suspect he Googled or ChatGPT’d “best anniversary restaurant” and stopped there. No menu deep-dive. No price reconnaissance. Just vibes.

Did I correct him?

Absolutely not.

After weeks of pounded yam, rice and stew at home, I felt I deserved a night of indulgence. I let the chips and the bill fall where they may.

Cocktails, King Crab Rolls, and No Research

We arrive in a slightly spendy Uber, already feeling fancy. The service is impeccable from the start. The host and our waiter are attentive, warm, and incredibly thorough about accommodating my food allergy. My partner, of course, forgot his glasses. Blind as a bat. So I’m on menu-reading duty, holding court.

We start with Nobu’s Signature Lychee & Elderflower Martinis. Dangerous. Floral. Delicious. We finish the first round in record time and immediately order another.

For appetizers, we order the Baked King Crab Roll. I don’t even like sushi. But that roll? It converted me. Sitting here in my muumuu, I can still taste it. Would I trade my soul for it? Maybe not. But I’d strongly consider a minor moral compromise.

My partner loves it too, so we ordered another.

Riding the high, we add more cocktails and a Baby Spinach Salad with Dry Miso and Lobster. Divine. Light. Balanced. Perfect.

We’re tipsy. The dollars are quietly accumulating. My partner remains blissfully unaware, still vision-impaired and operating within an entirely imaginary budget.

For mains, I choose the grilled seabass. He orders the shrimp. Both are outstanding. We add the salmon because at this point, restraint has left the building.

We’re practically giddy. Dinner is flawless. The service continues to impress. I am full, truly full, but skipping dessert is not an option. We end with the Passion Fruit Baked Alaska. Light as air. Perfectly balanced. Memorable.

My heart is content.

Do we leave? Of course not.

One last round of cocktails for the road.

Bills, Bills, Bills

We laugh. We talk. We linger. And then the bill arrives.

I see it first, being the only one with functioning eyesight.

I read it out loud – six hundred and twenty-seven real Canadian dollars before tip.

He lets out a soft, stunned “eh?” Fully code-switched into his African accent.

The realization dawns.

At his big age, this man did no research. No price-checking. Just vibes. Wololo!

Now, let me pause here.

Some people will not blink at a $600 dinner. Some may spend that on a random Thursday. That is not our life. We budget. We plan. We live in Toronto in 2026. We are not oligarchs. We are not influencers comped by restaurants. We are regular, working adults with normal jobs who notice when the grocery bill jumps by $40.

So yes, we scoffed.

He looks at me. I look at him.

He knows exactly what I will say if he admits he didn’t check the menu beforehand. And I am ready. I may have cute, chubby cheeks and look harmless, but I am quick-witted and sharp-tongued when necessary. I have a bite.

He says nothing.

He pays. Plus 20% tip.

The man is visibly deflated. Resigned. The monthly budget is officially in the red. It won’t break us, but it means fewer savings for other things.

But as my therapist always says, and it has become my mantra, “I will not steal learning opportunities from anyone.”

Dear reader, I did not.

And yet.

We ordered another baked Alaska.

Two more drinks.

Because at that point, what does an extra hundred matter?

When we got home, he warmed up leftovers, rice and stew.

He was still hungry.

And I was still smiling.

Even in the Red, We Were Cool

Now, weeks later, recovering in my muumuu and eating mashed potatoes without butter, I think about that night.

About how we were tipsy and laughing. About how he wanted to celebrate us. About how sometimes indulgence is reckless, and sometimes it is memory-making. About how even in the red, we were rich.

Do I miss the crab roll?

Desperately.

Would I do it again?

Maybe not next month.

But I’m grateful we said yes.

And for what it’s worth, our experience at Nobu Toronto was warm, attentive, delicious, and worth remembering.

Even if the spreadsheet disagreed.