Now, let's say you want to combine the heavy, meat-based joys of barbecue with the relatively light, raw fish-based delights of sushi. You're clearly having a boring day. Nothing's gone right for you so far. You tried combining Vietnamese and Mexican food. That fell down at the pho burrito. Korean and Italian was a no-go -- the bulgogi pasta bake came out like some sort of nightmare dimension shepherd's pie. This whole day you took off your real job to become a famed unlikely fusion chef has been a letdown so far.
Stand fast, though, for what is this on the horizon? It's a picture of a sushi roll.
Now, if you really wanted to stretch an idea, you could say that a sushi roll could be said to bear a resemblance to any kind of roll, as it is vaguely circular, and a tube containing a kind of food. For our purposes, it matters not what the tube is constructed of, or indeed what the food inside is. What if, your fevered mind supposes, I could make a barbecue sushi roll? You try it. You realize why no one put brisket inside rice before. Yet, you are here for FUSION. That is what you live for. It's who you are. It makes you sad when food is of a homogenous culture.
Suddenly, a maverick thought: What if I used a bridging culture? Bridge two cultures using another, entirely different, culture. Now shit's getting out of hand. Hey, you know what other culture has food tubes that, properly presented, might be said to bear some resemblance to sushi rolls? Mexican. That's right. Tortillas. Primo food tubes. You can't just slice up a tortilla into sections and pretend it's sushi though. People are going to see through that. You'd have to call it Mexican sushi, and smartass customers would go, "This is just Mexican food that you've artfully cut. I demand my seven dollars back. You, sir, are a blaggard of the highest order, and a scallywag to boot."
Three cultures, though. That would blow their minds. They'd be too busy staring in wonderment to complain. You could open the world's first fusion fusion restaurant, make some bulgogi pho tacos. So, it's very simple. You take brisket. Barbecue, there. Keep up. You put it in a tortilla, along with barbecue sauce (obviously), pickles (because fuck yes pickles), and cheese (because we're through the goddamn looking glass here, people). That's two. That was the Mexican bit, in case you were wondering. The tortillas and the cheese. You're not cut out for fusion, are you? Then you cut it into the style of sushi rolls, artfully present it, and you have one final moment of inspiration. Strips of pickled onion arranged like the ginger on sushi plates. You stick some chopsticks in the top, and stand back to admire your creation.
Truly, you are God, creator of worlds, destroyer of boundaries. Realizing that what you've done is not only world-class triple fusion but essentially also really lowbrow, you settle on the name "redneck sushi," because we're here, why not go the whole hog and also market to the crowd who enjoy consuming things labeled redneck? The whole crowd that think they're doing these things ironically, but are in fact the exact target of the abuse inherent in the name. You've captured the (admittedly small) triple-fusion market, and the ironic (yet also) redneck market. Retirement is just around the corner.
Rooster's Roadhouse, ladies and gents. Home of the Hell Burger and Redneck Sushi. The most forward-thinking lowbrow filthy bar-restaurant around. I only just got my tastebuds back from the Hell Burger a few months ago, but I've recovered enough to tell you that Redneck Sushi is not only a fantastic idea, it is strangely delicious and the portion is huge. Want to tell your friends you tried triple-fusion cuisine at the same place you can eat something that will set your entire face on fire before rendering it numb for a week? Well then. Here you go. LIVE FREE, AMERICA!
