In the interest of honesty, let me say that I was not in the best of moods when I arrived at the end of the B line in Brighton Beach, and I desperately needed a cup of coffee. But though I found a steaming vat of pierogis inside of a minute, a coffee shop was oddly difficult to locate. I started to feel keenly how little I knew about Russian food in general and this neighborhood in particular. Don’t the Russians drink coffee? Or tea or something? What are they doing with all those samovars in the Chekov stories?

Coffeeless, I ate half of a poppy seed pastry and felt a little better, so I headed to the boardwalk to put my new strategy into action. Since last week’s anxious canvassing of Flushing’s sidewalks did not do the trick, I had decided to advertise with a sign my intention of taking a stranger to lunch (see below). This lower impact approach would be perfect, I thought, and have the hungry hordes flocking to me in no time.

Optimism...

Alas, it did not go quite as planned. If I held the sign and smiled hopefully at people, they frantically avoided my eyes and hurried past. But if I looked down at a magazine, trying to give them some time and space to consider the offer, I felt vaguely shamed and demoralized, like I was being paid to wear a sandwich board. After forty-five minutes of this, I gave up.

I wandered around some of the grocery/delicatessens near the train station thinking that perhaps I could find a hidden gem all on my own, but I could tell from the labored pronunciations of the people in line that they knew even less about Russian food than I did (“You can’t get this in Texas!” one of them told me). Finally I asked some local shopkeepers for suggestions, and since the Russian place they recommended (the Oceanview, on Brighton Beach Avenue) was still closed, I somehow landed (sigh) at the sushi place they pointed me to around the corner.

Sachiko Japanese was decorated lavishly in Christmas decorations, and the only other dine-in patron was an elderly man who stared straight ahead and hummed softly to himself for the duration of the meal. I ordered the vegetarian version of the bento box that the woman at a children’s clothing shop down the block had said was her favorite.

...squelched beneath Frosty's icy glare.

At the back of the menu, there were handwritten pages advertising their new special rolls, which included the dinosaur egg, the hummer, the ninja, and the Viagara (ingredients: eel, uni, avocado and orange tobiko, in case there are any gentlemen out there who are interested). There was also a page about their new flower teas, which promised to “reduce wrinkle formation, beautify the skins and resolve the inner damponess.” I ordered the mixed flower variety, even though the chrysanthemum would have supposedly “reduced my body grease.”

Lady Gaga wailed from the stereo, the man hummed, Frosty leered—I found it all a little depressing. But then, perhaps I am being too hard on Sachiko. Judging from the takeout orders that they were hustling through the door, it clearly has its loyal customers, and I must admit that the gyoza in my bento box, arranged on a little raft of cucumber slices, were crispy and uncommonly good. And the tea tasted alright, though I’m pretty sure my skin and my inner damponess were largely unaffected.

I took one last stroll along the boardwalk and then went home to make my own cup of coffee.

Sachiko Japanese Restaurant. 3083 Brighton 1 Place, Brooklyn, NY 11235. (718) 648-5528.

Want me to take you to lunch? Send your End of the Line suggestions to Submissions@Pitchknives.com.