good-looking, it took my breath away.
My chef friends in New York would have gouged out an eye or given up
five years of their lives for the meal I was about to have.
First, hot towels. Then the condiments: freshly grated wasabi, some
dipping sauce. We were brought frozen sake, thick, cloudy, utterly
delicious. The first sip seemed to worm its way directly into my brain
like an intoxicating ice-cream headache. I had many more sips, Philippe
all too anxious to pour more and more. The first tiny plate, tentacles of
baby octopus, arrived, the chef standing there while we ate, examining
our reactions—which were, of course, moans, smiles, bows of
appreciation and thanks. Already feeling the sake, we thanked him in
French, English and bad Japanese-covering all bases. More bows. The
chef removed the plates.
His hands moved, a few motions with a knife, and we were presented
with the internal parts of a giant clam, still pulsating with life as it died
slowly on our plates. Again, the chef watched as we ate. And again, we
were a good audience, closing our eyes, transported. Next came abalone
with what might have been the roe and liver of something—who cared?
It was good.
More sake. Snapper came next. Then bass. Then mackerel, fresh and
squeaky and lovely to look at.
We went on, calling for more, our appetites beginning to attract notice
from the other chefs and some of the customers who'd never it seemed,
seen anyone—especially Westerners— with our kind of appetites. Each
time the chef put another item down in front of us, I detected almost a
dare, as if he didn't expect us to like what he was giving us, as if any
time now he'd find something too much for our barbarian palates and
crude, unsophisticated palates.