Bryce takes a stab at being a hibachi chef

I'll never forget the first time I ate at a Japanese steak house. Mainly because it ended with me and my parents being asked to leave because I wouldn't stop shrieking after the chef set the vegetables on fire.

But I've come a long way since my 30th birthday party, and on Monday, as I walked through the front doors of Yokoso in Summerville, I was a determined man. Determined not to kill anybody, that is. That's because for a couple of hours, I was going to be a hibachi chef.

Now for the uninitiated, hibachi chefs are the guys at Japanese steak houses who toss very large knives in the air and build little smoking volcanoes out of onions while making sure the person in Seat Six gets his filet cooked medium rare. In fact, if cooking were a professional sport, I'd wager that hibachi-style would be the majors. I mean, anybody can cut up a bunch of chicken and vegetables and then cook them in the privacy of their own kitchen. But it takes somebody with guts, incredible hand-eye coordination and the ability to forget about that kid from Table 13 you hit on the forehead with a salt shaker 20 minutes ago to do it in front of an audience of 12 strangers. Not to mention every time somebody has a birthday, you're expected to sing some stupid song. So, yeah, as far as I'm concerned, these guys are the superheroes of the culinary world.

At Yokoso, my superhero/baby sitter for the evening was 26-year-old Steven Harvey. When asked the most important thing that I, as an aspiring hibachi chef, needed to know, Steven said very matter-of-factly: "You're going to want to make sure everybody at your table has health insurance."

Funny guy, that Steven. (But smart.)

For the next two hours, he attempted to teach me the basics of salt and pepper shaker twirling, spatula spinning and fire making. In doing so, he made everything look really easy, which was really annoying. Because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the hang of even the most basic twirl. Every time I'd try, I'd end up dropping a spatula or a salt shaker on the giant stainless-steel grill in front of me, making a teeth-chattering clang. Which wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't always accompanied by the entire restaurant turning around to stare at me with faces that said, "I'm glad we didn't get that guy."

And if we were scoring my ability to make fire (my personal nemesis), I'd have to say my grade -- factoring in things like the ease with which I poured the fluid, how effortlessly I smoothed it out, and the quickness with which I hid behind Steven -- it would have been somewhere in the neighborhood of a zero. Out of five tries, I made fire only once.

Wisely, the folks at Yokoso never let me do any preparations for a table with real-life people sitting at it. Not only because I might potentially kill a customer, but because people tend to lose their appetite when having their meal cooked by a guy with no eyebrows.

In the end, Steven and I said our goodbyes and I left the restaurant with a greater appreciation for what he does. I learned that there's more to being a hibachi chef than just flicking shrimp tails into a bowl and catching lemons in your hat (although those are two pretty big ones). It takes skill, precision and lots of practice. So I encourage you, the next time you're eating a meal at a Japanese steak house and the chef does a good job with all the twirling, chopping and flame-making, to give them a nice round of applause.

If you're anything like me, you'll have to do this from your car.

Bryce Donovan has been practicing his spatula twirling at home and has gotten really good. Oh, wait. Nevermind. We were thinking of his baton twirling. Reach him at 937-5938 or bdonovan@postandcourier.com.