A new all-you-can-eat shabu-shabu spot had just opened—only three miles away, which in Orange County basically meant it was in the backyard. Most places like this meant a long drive through traffic and mini-malls, but this one? Dangerously convenient.
Inside, it felt like its own little world. There was a cold bar stacked with seafood on ice—clams, octopus, slippery cuts of fish—and baskets full of leafy greens like bok choy, napa cabbage, and spinach. Next to that: heaps of noodles and rice just waiting their turn. The sauce station was a mix-and-match dream, with ponzu, goma, garlic, chilies, scallions—whatever flavor mood you were in, they had it covered.
You were only allowed two plates of meat at a time—strict rule. Sirloin, wagyu, pork belly, even the plain round cuts were all sliced thin so they’d cook quick in the bubbling broth. The veggies took a bit longer, so you learned to time it right: drop the greens in early, then add the meat as you go.
The rules? Posted everywhere. No to-go boxes. Two meat plates max per person. And if you left too much food? You’d get charged. It wasn’t just frowned upon—it literally cost you.
The Smuggled Shabu
But we had four cats at home.
Our cats—spoiled, beloved, largely indifferent to house rules—had grown accustomed to the occasional gourmet scrap. And here, faced with perfectly cooked pork belly and fragrant slices of beef, we couldn’t help but think of them. We didn’t want to lie. We didn’t want to cheat. But we also didn’t want to let good meat go to waste when there were tiny whiskered mouths waiting.
When the waiter came by, we asked gently—half-hopeful, half-joking—for a box. He shook his head. “We don’t do takeout,” he said, almost apologetically. We explained: four cats, all rescues. Good cats. Deserving cats.
He didn’t say a word, but there was a flicker in his eyes—maybe sympathy, maybe just that unspoken look of someone who gets it. Another animal lover, probably stuck under the same corporate rules we were quietly trying to work around.
“I’ll bring you napkins,” he said, and disappeared.
Minutes later, he returned with a stack so thick it might as well have been classified documents. He didn’t make eye contact. Just dropped the bundle like contraband and vanished into the kitchen.
We wrapped the meat quietly, delicately, with the solemnity of smugglers who knew the stakes. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was love.
Note
It’s too bad I don’t have a picture of the meat. I had to smuggle it out so carefully that there was no time for a picture. At home, the cats gobbled it up so quickly… again– there was no time for a picture.