occasion of having a whole room of people bowing to me in near unison;
I got to meet the elegant, shrewd and impressive Mr Hayakawa himself;
and I signed a lot of books for persons no longer living—a first for me.
Apparently this is not an unusual practice, a commemorative signed
copy for the deceased.
I wasn't doing too badly by day three. My head still felt as if someone
was tightening a vise around it, and I'd probably offended many at
Hayakawa with my inadvertently boorish behavior, but I had been out on
my own and around town. I'd cooked in not one, but two Japanese
kitchens. I was comfortably taking cabs, ordering food and drink, using
mass transit and exploring at will. I was having a good time. I was
learning.
Back at Les Halles, I used my recent experience at La Rivière to scale
down the portions and pretty up the presentations. Working with
Frédéric and his crew, I rearranged plates to resemble smaller versions
of what we were doing in New York: going more vertical, applying some
new garnishes, and then observing customer reactions. I looked for and
found ways to get more color contrast on the plates, moved the salads off
to separate receptacles, stuck sprigs of herb here and there. With
Frédéric, I tried to develop a repertoire of specials—trying to make
sense of the arcane system of supplies in Japan.
Things were different here. What was ordered was not always what
arrived. My inquiries about foodstuffs were often met with blank stares
and shrugs. When the problem was finally identified, the answer was
most often, "Too expensive." The supply situation really was a problem.
Onglet (hanger), côte du boeuf (rib section), and faux filet (sirloin) were
all shipped from our central boucherie in New York, so that was fine.
But the bright red filet was Japanese product and wildly expensive. Fish
and produce were objects of religious sanctity—particularly fish—and
the price reflected that. A gift of a melon in Japan implies a life of
obligation. Frites are taken very seriously in our organization, but