Cleanliness is next to edamame

The contemporary, gray interior of this authentic Japanese restaurant was the perfect setting for a first-time conversation on metrosexuality. Specifically, on whether our friend Carlton Marks from Oregon is one.

Sitting at a table in black lacquered chairs near the sushi bar, we dug into a bowl of edamame ($1.95). As we pressed the salty soybeans out of their pods, Michael and Carlton shared a tall Sapporo ($6.00).

“Carlton, are you a metrosexual?” I asked. Carlton’s dark hair is closely cropped with fashionably long sideburns. The subdued and well-coordinated hipster outfit he was wearing was spotless. His footwear: shoe-box new. Hence, my supposition.

“A what?”

I took this opportunity to explain that a metrosexual is a heterosexual man who is not merely in touch with his feminine side, but who willingly embraces it and comfortably puts it on display alongside his masculinity. He cares about hygiene, often spending considerable sums on shampoos, cream, fortifiers. He is not afraid to pay $15 each week for a manicure.

We gave Carlton time to think as we dug into our appetizers. The tako sunomono, a thin-julienned cucumber salad with seaweed and octopus ($3.95), was chilled, vinegary and refreshing. The ohshinko moriawase ($5.95), or pickled Japanese vegetables, included mild dichon radishes, crunchy mushrooms with a vinegar and licorice kick and pickles with a crunch I’d never experienced.

Carlton said he wasn’t sure if he was a metrosexual or not.

“Can they be vegetarians?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But they like to shop. They’re into clothes, tidiness and grooming.”

“And they’re straight?”

“Right. They’re straight,” Michael said. “Let’s just see … what brand of shampoo do you use?”

“Clinique for Men.”

“What’s your favorite vodka?”

“Grey Goose.”

“Bingo!” Michael clapped his hands in triumph.

Just then Carlton’s kyushu chicken ($6.95) was served, sans chicken. It’s the only meat dish on the menu that can be prepared without meat. The broccoli, snow peas, water chestnuts, onions and green peppers were uneventful, so he added some fireworks with a heaping teaspoon of chili paste.

Michael and I had an order of hiyashi chukka ($6.95). The cold Japanese noodles, cucumbers, bean sprouts and chicken benefited from the spicy peanut-sesame dressing accompanying the dish.

We also had hamachi teriyaki ($11.95), which is broiled yellow tail tuna. It arrived on a plate looking like the all-American dish: the big seared hunk of meat, a small pile of vegetables and a perfect scoop of mashed potatoes. A hint of horseradish and a couple of peas and carrots perked up the potatoes, which we all split.

Carlton was feeling pretty good about himself by this time, so he broke eight years of vegetarianism to try the hamachi.

“Chewy,” he said.

As Michael and Carlton polished off their second big Sapporo of the night, Michael mentioned that he’d heard that the new hip underground beer in Portland is Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“What do metrosexuals think of that?” he asked Carlton.

Carlton shook his head knowingly. "Metros only drink imports."