Bashing Basho Japanese Brasserie – Boston

You’ve seen this girl, you know her well. She struts with all her swagger and she always struts her stuff. And boy does she have a lot of stuff. For the subtle swipe of a small square of plastic, she flounders the fortune she didn’t earn and accrues at least one asset from every designer with a fortune that’s hers to burn.  We covet her closet, we aspire to the array of Armani, gaze at the gaggle of Gucci, and venerate the vestibule of Vuitton.

We love her and we hate her as she flaunts her fabulous fashions. But leer all you want at the labels, you’ll soon see that nothing breathes beneath. Purchased for the pricetag, casually cast aside for the newer line, her closet accrues and accumulates and dazzles, devoid of any meaning. She has no LBD (little black dress, guys…and girls not from NYC), she lacks a pair of go-to jeans, and she craves the comfort of cozy crops.  

You’ve seen this girl, you know her well. She rocks reality TV and she sees through the mascara-laden eyes of every single character on Gossip Girl…especially now that Blair Waldorf’s iconic wardrobe is being ravaged by a stylist who is either a distant cousin of Ronald McDonald...or blind.

If you’re looking for this girl in Boston, I just found her in Basho. An imposingly large space in fun Fenway, Basho is beautiful at first glance. The paneling is modern, the floor shines, and you wonder how the food couldn’t do the same. But take a bite of the Lobster Tempura Roll and you’ll see why Basho is the first stop for sushi disaster tourism. The roll tasted more like shake n’ bake chicken than lobster thanks to the almost-burnt breading…wasn’t worth the chipped teeth. The Snow Mountain Roll was better but not by much. Snow crab makes a tasty topper, but the filling of shrimp tempura drowned out the sweet crab, making this one blander than Sperry’s boat shoes. The Amaebi Mango Roll was even more bland and a disaster comparable to the faulty fashion we call the clog.

The Soft Shell Crab Tempura was about as fresh as Ugg boots in southern California. Not terrible, but about as impractical as it is idiotic.

We could barely tell the Water Eel Tempura from regular fish, but the eel was tender and made for a tasty tidbit. About as memorable as last season’s Tori Burch…come on girls, how different can flats really be year after year?

When you get to Basho, it won’t take many bites to understand what garnishes our girl. Her glitz and glamour are grounded in a pile of expensive possessions, most of which are utterly unremarkable or utterly ugly…or both. I’m not that girl. I’m far from a fashionista, and I’m far from a master foodista. But I am a foodie, and though I may not bash you for having believed in Basho, I will berate you belligerently if you ever go back.