Words By Jay Riggio

I should tell you that I’m a huge fan of the Ninja.  The bottom line is, ninja’s are just cool as shit.  They dress cool, they climb buildings like dope-ass, giant squirrels and their primary purpose in life is to kill people.  Assassination, sabotage, espionage; whatever you got in store for a responsible Ninja, they’ll pretty much take care of business like a pro.  End of story.

Recently a friend called me about a restaurant called, Ninja NY.  The interior of the place was designed to depict a Ninja castle of the feudal days and featured, secret stealth passageways, easy escape routes and other magical things.  If that wasn’t already awesome enough, real life ninjas acted as waiters, serving up tasty entrees like the palette conscious warriors they are.  Could this be a safe-haven for the modern-day Ninja, where delicious entrees replaced murder and secrecy? I was fast to solidify my plans to eat at Ninja NY.

Real Ninjas don’t use cell phones

Slowly, it began to dawn on me that this was all a bit odd, the fact that I have here my entire life and never heard of this place.  Was this Ninja Restaurant some kind of intelligence spy front, set up overnight to extract confidential American secrets from unsuspecting Ninja fans?  Perhaps.  I went on-line to visit the Ninja website and was shocked to discover the food was priced well out of my budget.

“Dude, you’ve got to cancel those reservations,” I told my friend. He responded to my outrage with the news that it was too late, he had already made reservations and left his number with the restaurant.  “Too late?  Are you kidding me, call’em up and cancel that shit!” I shouted.  “I can’t, they’re Ninja’s.”  I immediately sensed his fear.

There’s No Such Thing As A Korean-Ninja

Holy shit.  He was right.  If we were to cancel now, the Ninja’s were sure to retaliate with unspeakable vengeance.  They’d show up when we were at our most vulnerable, torture us to the death before slitting the innocent throats of our beloved families.  It was too late.  We were being strong-armed.  It was brilliant really.  A business establishment rooted on customer fear.  Those fuckers.

As the hours approached to our reservation, my nerves kicked in, so cocktails were needed.  My friend and I conjured images of Ninja’s casting a giant net over us as we entered the restaurant.  As we struggled to escape, they’d carry us like fools to our table.  They’d appear and disappear while taking our orders, all within a red-tinted clouds of smoke.  Mysterious Ninjas would quietly scale the walls and ceilings as we tried our best to enjoy our overpriced meals.  Excusing ourselves between entrees, we may even be ambushed by staff members, and held hostage.  It would be horrible, but all so beautiful.

When we entered the restaurant we were ushered into a dark elevator that took us directly to the Ninja lair/dining room.  We were greeted by a Hispanic man dressed as a Ninja.  He bowed and offered us two entrance options.  “Would you like to take the regular entrance or the secret Ninja pathway?,” he asked.  I spit out, “The secret Ninja Pathway!”  This was it, the trap doors, the kidnappings, the choke holds.  I braced myself for the worst.  We were led down a well-lit stairwell that dropped us off in the dining room where we were seated.

Me and the worlds only Puerto Rican NInja

Was that it?  It was less of a secret path and more of an untidy stairwell. Plus Ninja’s are Japanese, not Puerto Rican.  I was drunk and pissed.  If shit didn’t get better, I was going to start a Ninja war.  We were promptly seated and soon our server entered our area.  This one was Asian at least, but was also a woman.  My anger continued to escalate like the momentum of a thrown Ninja star.  I ordered four bottles of Sake to help ease my internal tension.

I pounded the sake and stumbled to the bathroom.  On the way I silently declared war on these fake-ass Ninjas. If they were legit, they’d know my every single move, having been monitored from the start.  I decided to test the staff’s so-called Ninja surveillance and proceeded to piss everywhere but the jet-black urinal before me.  In my drunkenness, I even pissed on my shoes.  I exited the bathroom with a giant grin on my face.  “What are you gonna do about that, Ninja’s?”

I’m gettin Drunk

Arriving back to my table, I was surprised to see another Hispanic Ninja.  This one had a strong Brooklyn accent and put on a magic show deeply rooted in bullshit, full of predictable card and quarter tricks.  Since when did Ninja’s do gay shit like magic?  And quarters?  That’s not the proper Ninja currency.  Entrée after entrée arrived to my consistent disapproval. I was on a rampage of criticism. The only lingering taste in my mouth was that of disdain.  A different Ninja entered our area.  She too was a woman.  Since they hadn’t detected my bathroom piss storm, I needed to solidify my plan to prove these fuckers fake once and for all.

I blurted out, “Do you guys do Ninja hugs?”

“Ah…..sure,” our server responded sheepishly.

I stood up and hugged the shit out of her.  Hah!  She was a fake.  Ninjas don’t hug!  I knew it.  She excused herself and didn’t return for the remainder of our dinner.  I had exposed her and her entire restaurant filled with phoneys. She was also scared.  And that’s another thing, Ninjas don’t get scared.

Whether we were escorted out of the restaurant or were leaving voluntarily is debatable.  However, the fact remains that; Ninja, New York basically sucks balls.  And oh yeah, in case you were wondering about that Ninja war I declared…..I won that shit.

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