Game theorists say that, if you intend to tip well, you should do it before the meal. Which my friend Ophir does, at least at sushi restaurants. He’ll sit at the sushi bar, slip the chef $50, and order Omakase – “at the chef’s discretion”. I’ve seen him do it several times when we’ve met for dinner, and each, the sushi served has been nothing short of extraordinary.

Ophir is vocal in his praise and appreciation as well, which spurs the chefs on even further. And whenever he orders a bottle of sake – something that, over the course of one of our average dinners, we do several times – he pours a glass for the chefs.

Which is how, a few months back, we found ourselves still sitting in the back of Bond St. Sushi, the restaurant long since closed, presented with course after course of ever more inventive and expertly prepared sushi and sashimi.

And, at the end, the coup de grace: a piece of fugu, each.

Fugu, from Takifugu, a Japanese pufferfish of the genus Diodon. A fish famous because its internal organs contain lethal amounts of tetrodotoxin. Prepared right, with just a bit of the toxic liver lining the meat, a small dose of the poison supposedly provides an unparalleled taste and texture sensation. But, a bit too much, and the poison paralyzes the diner’s muscles, leaving them fully conscious as they slowly asphyxiate.

So, in short, not something I’d previously placed high on my ‘foods to try’ list. And, certainly, nowhere on my ‘foods to try when prepared by red-faced sushi chefs who might have shared in just a bit too much of our three bottles of sake’ list.

Still, though the chefs swayed smilingly behind the bar as they stood, each deft flick of their knives betrayed their decades of formally trained muscle memory.

Or so I tried to convinced myself, as I stared down the chunk of fugu on my plate. I glanced sideways at Ophir, who, looking equally dubious, shot a glass of sake. Then glanced up at our new friends, the sushi chefs, who grinned on expectantly.

Eyes back to the fish. Then to Ophir, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. My heart thumping, I picked up the piece of fugu, and put it in my mouth.

The next morning, all the New York papers ran stories saying that Bond St. Sushi had sustained major fire damage late the night before, just an hour or two after we left. And while I can’t be sure that our drunken chefs played any part, held even indirect fault, I couldn’t help but imagine that they did.

Which made me feel doubly relieved. First that, despite it all, I was still alive. Second that fugu in particular hadn’t been my last meal. Because, truth is, despite the hype and the near-death experience, it just doesn’t taste that good.