A Japanese/Italian Samurai marched unsmiling to our table. He adjusted his starched white hat, straightened his black karate belt, and then bowed so low his hat fell off. Before you could say Bonzai! he was waving a sword big enough to whack a yak. Razor sharp blades whipped around the Karate Kid's back and under his legs as though he was twirling a baton. My concern was that the blade may not be well-bonded to the handle, so my eyes didn't stray for a nano-second.

After yet another bow, not so low that his hat became part of our meal, Tony Teriyaki pointed at my nose with his terrible swift sword. "Yoo hef stek?" I nodded. "How yoo lak stek kook?" Normally I like it rare, but prior visions of severed body parts dictated that I order my stek to be cooked well done. "Yoo shoo?" "Oh, yes. I am absolutely shoo. "Okidoki," he said. Finally a Japanese word I could pronounce.

He turned to Babe and pointed the sword at his belly. "How yoo lak yoo stek?" "Rare," Babe bellowed, "and hers, too. The woman hasn't eaten well done beef since World War II."

Now, why did he bring up that particular war in front of that particular moody Mussolini Samurai busy sharpening his weapon? I poked him in the ribs and whispered, "Why don't we leave NOW before Tony Teriyaki decides to avenge his ancestors?" Babe ignored me as usual.

When Tony finished making rounds, Tokyo Rose swished in and I ordered a martini and Babe ordered a large Saki. I rolled my eyes and then decided a double martini was really what I wanted, but by that time Tokyo Rose couldn’t hear me change my mind above the den of birthday drums beating like a funeral dirge.

The drums had barely stopped when a roll of thunder shook the entire restaurant, followed by zigzagging bolts of lightning. Suddenly immersed in a black hole, I figured we were toast. I reached in the dark for Babe. He thought I was fixing to crack his ribs again and recoiled quicker than you can flick a Bic.

A dim emergency light came on just as the steaks came off. Tony Teriyaki sallied forth with another sword-twirling exhibition, then left the room backwards, his knives flashing in the dark as if competing with the thunderstorm.

While I picked at my rare stek, Babe struck up a conversation with the stranger seated next to him, an undertaker from Iowa.

"So you think cremation is the way to go," he asked while his steak stretched out on his plate flirting with rigor mortis.

Cremation talk at a hibachi table was more than I could handle. "I'll go pay, Babe. Meet you outside."

He stared at me like I was his ex-wife and then turned back to the mortician for more funeral formalities.

After slapping down my VISA card, I realized that the power outage had rendered my plastic totally useless. Digging around in my pocketbook for cash, I pulled out two balled up Kleenex, a linty hairbrush and the emery board I've been trying to find for a month. And then I slipped out of the room backwards and felt my way back to where Babe and the undertaker were sharing sake and comparing embalming fluids.

When I told him the credit card situation, his bland expression resembled a block of tofu. "In other words, Babe, I need some cold hard cash." "I've only got plastic," he said.

The dark restaurant was humming with voices in low tones as the samurai returned. He stood in the dimly lit doorway with his arms folded across his chest looking a lot like Mr. Clean in Japanese garb. His message was clear: No plastic, no cash, no outta here.

So I kicked off my shoes, eased my feet back under the hibachi table and poked Babe in the ribs again. Hard.

"Call me Sally Sukiyaki and pour me some of that Saki, Babe. Looks like it's going to be a long night."

When in Rome --