We thought it would be fun to take him to a local Hibachi restaurant. He loved it...until they whipped the fire out.
As soon as that pile of onion rings was set on a volcano-shaped fire, he screamed, cried, and begged us to leave. He hated it and we felt awful.
...Until he came back the following April. "Can we puleeeease take Grampa to the fire restaurant? Please?"
We told him no. That the place scared him. We would go back when he was older.
"But I love that place!"
Months went by. 2 weeks shy of his big-boy 7th birthday, he came back to visit us. We asked him if he was ready to return to the 'fire restaurant'. This time, we'd show Gramma how it works.
"YES!! I LOVE THAT PLACE! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!" After several "are you sure?s" and "can you be brave?s" we took our chances.
The evening started out well. Our chef demonstrated how fried rice was made...
and life was good.
Our little nephew was in awe. Perhaps a future career was brewing in his little mind?
Complete respect for Chef 人の氏名.
And then...the onions made an appearance...
(nervously attempting to brave it out, while having vivid flash backs):
...flashbacks becoming a reality:
...and just could not handle it:
His sympathetic aunt's motto: shoot now, console later.
He ran for his life, to the nearest brick pillar for safety:
After chef oaiuefdslkf finished cooking and fully cleaned the stove, the nephew eventually made it to safe ground and ate his chicken and rice. Needless to say, we will not be returning to our little hibachi-hole-in-the-wall until the 8th birthday. Of his son.