Know what you eat

I hardly ever argue. I am an extremely peace-loving person, if only because I suffer from a huge fear of confrontation. The tricky part is: I don't look like it at all. On the contrary, people sometimes seem a bit afraid of me. Which is completely ridiculous, because I often don't pick up my phone, simply because I don't feel like dealing with it. My apparently somewhat intimidating appearance (I don't know exactly what it is, otherwise I would bottle it, name it ’Alone, Peace & Happiness‘ and sell it for millions of euros, buy a private island with the proceeds – if possible next to Johnny's – and then never argue or have any fuss, because no other people) already saves me a lot of trouble, but sometimes it still happens. A spat.
It happened to me, of all people, with one of the people I see most often in my life: my sushi delivery guy. I have a bond of trust with him. Here's the thing: as a partly home-working freelancer, I often find myself in my house suit/pajamas/jogging pants that I should have thrown away years ago but are still so comfortable. At the beginning of our relationship, I would produce an obligatory cough when I was checking out, sighing while rubbing my forehead or blowing my nose loudly. As in: I'm sick, that's why I'm already in pajamas at half past six. When the worn-out drawstring of my jogging pants tore, I treated myself to something new and obscenely expensive, made of merino wool with silk palm trees. The next time I eagerly swung open my front door, my delivery guy enthusiastically exclaimed: ‘Hey, you have a new one! This is cool.’ And thus the era of fake coughs was definitively over: I just happened to wear jogging pants almost every day, he knew that, and that was just cool. With a knowing look, we exchanged food, money, and tips since then – until it went wrong two times in a row. The first time, half of my order didn't arrive. It happens, human error, etc. Less pleasant was that when I called to report the omission, I more or less got the impression that they didn't believe me, but out of the goodness of their hearts would still send the rest. Which they then took 1.5 hours to do. The next time, I received a half portion inside out and with salmon and avocado (which I had actually ordered), while the other half was filled with surimi. For those who don't know what that is: just keep it that way. Yuk. Fake crab that tastes like fake crab diluted with formaldehyde. This phone call went even more awkwardly: my delivery guy, who doubles as a phone operator, went to check with the sushi roller on duty. And he was sure it had all been salmon. ‘But I'm looking at it right now!’ I said, surprised. ‘I order from you twice a week, I really know what salmon looks like.’ More consultation with the cook in the background. ‘What is on the outside? Salmon roe or sesame seeds?’ I was so surprised that I even answered: sesame seeds. ‘Then it's just salmon.’ And before I knew it, I was yelling into the receiver: ‘It's NOT salmon! Are you telepathically gifted? Can you see through my phone? It's surimi.’ I also said a few other things, which he didn't respond to, but which did prompt him to come back to check for himself whether it was salmon or surimi. I couldn't pretend I wasn't home (‘I'm not here‘ is my go-to defense mechanism in tough times), so a little later he was standing in my hallway peering at my order and mumbled something like: Oh. Wow. Yes.
So now it's over. And I remember again why I hate arguing: afterwards, you're left with the consequences for a long time.
Anyone have tips for a really good sushi place that also delivers in Amsterdam?

Written by Maddy Stolk