The toilets were roughed in, I could see, as were the plumbing lines for the sinks. The fixtures hadn’t been installed yet, which made me think of some slightly flawed, but handsome, tansu chests that could be transformed into vanities. Blue-and-white porcelain Imari bowls dropped in their centers would serve as sinks. I also had several antique blue-and-white china urinals that could come into play as planters, or toiletry holders. The rest rooms could be amazing.
I emerged from the lavatories to consult with Andrea, who was grumbling into a cell phone to somebody.
“What now?” she asked after she’d finally hung up.
What a sourpuss, I thought to myself, and asked how much of the bathroom furnishings had been purchased.
“Just what you see. The interior designer didn’t get around to sinks, and Marshall was supposed to order them but I’m sure he forgot.”
Great, I thought to myself.
I spent three hours in Bento, wandering around and dreaming. The job wouldn’t be insurmountable. Spending thirty-five days polishing up the restaurant was something I thought I could do. This would be a good way to get me out of the apartment and the sense that everything in my life was standing still.
At five, I peered into the kitchen, where Marshall was chatting, rapid-fire, in Spanish with one of the cooks, and told him I was leaving.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, nineish,” Marshall said.
“Uh, afternoon would be better. I’ll probably have to work through the night—that being the Japanese day. And then I think I’ll need a few hours of rest.”
“Of course. Take your time getting it right. I’ll see you late afternoon at Mandala.”
When Hugh arrived home at seven, he found me at the computer with dozens of design and antiques magazines fanned around on the floor. I’d already found three good choices for bento boxes, and now had been drawing and cutting and gluing together pictures of what I would try to accomplish at Bento. I had the speakerphone on, and my mother’s voice was booming into the room.
“One hundred dollars an hour, sweetie, is a junior decorator’s rate right now in San Francisco. And there’s just as much moolah in Washington as out here. Now, the next thing you must determine is what percentage to mark up the merchandise, although if you can sell him some of your own tansu chests, you’ll profit very nicely.”
“Thanks, Mom. Hugh’s here, so I’d better go start dinner.” I suddenly remembered the risotto I’d promised to make.
“Give Hugh my love and tell him to examine everything carefully! I’ll send over what I’ve been using, but you probably need more protection.”
My mother rang off and Hugh kissed the back of my neck.
“Exactly what is your mother sending? I thought we were trying to get pregnant.”
“Only you are,” I said. Now I recalled that I’d forgotten to buy condoms, along with scallops, at the supermarket. I pulled away from the kiss and told him about the new job designing the restaurant.
“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” he asked, taking in the flood of papers around me.
“Could you take care of dinner? And after that, maybe you could advise me on the contract. I’m still trying to decide what my services are worth.”
“Loads.” Hugh smiled. “Exactly what else are you putting on offer tonight?”
“Not what you seem to be thinking about.” Who had time for sex when such a crisis was looming?
I managed to divert Hugh into stirring the risotto and listening to everything that had happened at Mandala and the soon-to-be Bento. He agreed with what I’d been thinking of: offering antiques from my warehouse wholesale, and passing on any discounts I received for items bought elsewhere. I would bill my services at $90 an hour, to make it really seem like a bargain.
“Ask if we’ll be able to eat free at Mandala and Bento, once it opens. You’ll be working so many hours you won’t have much time to cook,” Hugh said when we sat down to the risotto flavored only with onions and cheese. The rice was undeniably hard. I felt guilty that I hadn’t taught him the proper stirring and stock-adding techniques.
“I’m not sure I would really be relaxed having dinner there,” I said, moving on to the salad, which was perfect—though completely lacking in dressing. “They’re a bit uptight. I adore their chef—this Japanese guy, Jiro—but I’m supposed to trick him into thinking I’m buying real lacquered wooden bento boxes when I’m actually buying plastic—”
“Do you really want to do the job?” Hugh studied my face. “It isn’t worth it to work with bad people, no matter how much you might earn.”
“They’re not bad people,” I said. “Jiro and I already get along well. Marshall is not the kind to give anyone much time, but that’s to be expected, with the opening in a month. On the other hand, Andrea, the one who is going to be the restaurant hostess, is pretty cold. I wouldn’t want to spend more than a minute with her, and I can’t imagine how she’s going to make diners feel welcome.”
“That opinion doesn’t surprise me.” Hugh grinned. “You’re not much for the girls.”
“What do you mean?” I took a sip of zinfandel.
“You’ve never had a really close female friend. Ever since I’ve known you, it’s just been blokes. I thought maybe it was hard for you to connect with women in Japan, given how nontraditional you are, but I see it here, too.”
“Well, I don’t much care for Kendall. I admit that.”
“Even though your cousin did you a very good turn taking you to lunch at the restaurant.” Hugh shook his head. “And she left a message on the phone about my getting to see some boxers. I didn’t catch all the details, but I gather there must be a match. How keen are you on going?”
“Argh!” I sputtered wine in an arc that hit my plate.
“What’s wrong, darling?” Hugh passed me his napkin.
“That call was about your underwear, specifically, whether you wear boxer shorts. Kendall’s on a rampage. When she was a child, she wasn’t half this bad. But she’s grown into a nosy, raving maniac!”
Hugh laughed. “Maybe you should join that club Kendall mentioned to meet a few others who might be more your sort.”
I choked hard on the wine going down my throat. Finally, I sputtered, “I am not going to join the Junior League of Washington. I’m already part of the Washington Japan Friendship Society.”
“Those are all old people!”
“Yes, there are many retirees, but at that open house last month, we both met some young students.”
“But you aren’t a student anymore, Rei. You need girlfriends your age. They’ll be a lifeline after the baby comes.”
I set down my glass. “It sounds as if you’re presupposing that if I have a baby, I’m going to stop working and stay at home all the time.”
“You stay home all the time now,” Hugh pointed out. “And I’m glad about this restaurant job for you if it’ll get you out and about and meeting people. Male or female, I really don’t care. Just that you have someone to be with. I’ve got a work trip coming up, and I’m nervous because you’ve not stayed alone in an American city. You’ve forgotten how dangerous they are. It’s not like Tokyo, where you can traipse home after midnight without a worry—”
“Where are you going?” I asked, my heart sinking. We were supposed to meet with a very-hard-to-get wedding caterer in four weeks’ time.
“Japan. I’m sorry, love. I wish I could pack you in my suitcase, but the suitcase-screening procedures have gotten so tight.”
But I couldn’t travel, even if I had a ticket. Suddenly, the wine in my mouth was too tart. I pushed the glass away.
As if he understood what I was thinking, Hugh said, “I’m sure that the ban will cease sometime. Paul McCartney was banned from Japan after that marijuana charge, but they rescinded it recently.”
“Yes, but I’m not going to be knighted.” I made a face at him. “Hey, sweetie, I’ll forgive all those sexist comments if you help me figure out how to do a spreadshe
et for my presentation.”
He did, and as we worked together that night, finally shutting off the computer at four in the morning, I felt more exultant than exhausted. I had put together a strong proposal, and Marshall was desperate. The job at Bento would be mine.
3
I’d thought that the month until the opening of Bento would pass quickly, but it didn’t feel that way at all. For me, it was all about waiting—for the bento boxes to be airmailed from Tokyo, the wallpaper to come UPS second-day ground from New York. A master carpenter in the Virginia tidewater area had all my old Japanese wooden doors, but he was taking forever to nail together the stalls—even though he’d been paid a rush fee.
Every day, I would show up at Bento, ready to seize newly arrived items. They came in sporadically, and I had to assuage Marshall, who was vastly impatient. The only solace was in the kitchen, where I would lean against the long, stainless-steel counter, watching Jiro work on dishes that he allowed me to taste.
Crab cakes mixed with dark soy sauce, chilies, cilantro, and spring onions were a hit—soba noodles in a sweet potato broth were not. I made friends with the fleet of line cooks who’d be working under him, mostly Latin Americans, with the occasional white boy who’d graduated from culinary school. Spanish conversations simmered around me like chili-saffron bouillabaisse in a giant stockpot, and I stretched back to my youth in California to understand what they were saying. They respected Jiro but feared Marshall. They thought Andrea needed to get laid.
They called me the bride, because they knew I was going to marry in a few months. I didn’t tell them how silly I thought that was, because I was secretly relieved they were calling me something less crude than usual. Jiro had told me that not a single woman had applied to be a line cook, but he had hired Jessica Olson, who had been a pastry chef at Citronelle, to make his desserts. Jessica was about my age, but blond and very voluptuous; there was always such a commotion in the kitchen when she made her deliveries that I could understand why she preferred to work at home. Not that Jessica was cowed by the comments made around her; she delivered a steady stream of obscenities back in a broad Minnesota accent that made me have to hide my smile.
Opening night was just a week away when Hugh had to fly to Tokyo. He was continuing the lengthy process of crafting a lawsuit on behalf of Asian nationals abused by the Japanese during World War II. The work was important, so I wanted him to go—but still, I was disappointed. I’d wanted him to be at my side on opening night.
“Can’t I pop in a day early, just to get a peek?” he said as he packed his suitcase.
“I wish you could,” I said ruefully. “Marshall has made the whole place off-limits until the opening night party. There’s brown paper over the windows, locked doors, everything.”
“Sounds like a terrorist cell,” Hugh said. “Well, I’ll just have to see it when I get back. Are you taking anyone with you to the opening?”
“Kendall and Win.”
“Oh! I’m glad you’re at last reciprocating their hospitality.”
I didn’t explain that it wouldn’t cost me much at all. Bento was having a soft opening, a run-through of sorts, where specially chosen guests were invited. People could order anything off the menu that they wanted, gratis; there would be charges for bottles of wine, but that was the only thing. The following day, Saturday, the restaurant would open to the public.
Hugh hugged me and said, “What shall I bring you from Japan?”
“You don’t have to shop for me. Just do your work and get home.”
“But I like shopping. Come on, what do you want, more Shu Uemura makeup or books from Yurindo or a proper fish steamer—”
“How about some old kimono? Go to the flea market on Sunday morning, and scoop up twenty or thirty kimono without holes. I could resell them to a museum gift shop. I’ll need something to do, now that the restaurant is almost finished.”
“No, I mean something for you.”
“I can’t think of anything I need.” Just you, I thought to myself, but didn’t say for fear of being maudlin.
On a sunny Friday afternoon, Bento finally opened. I watched Marshall and Jiro tear down the brown paper from the glass windows that fronted the street. Suddenly, the room that had been so closed and dark was open. Late-afternoon sunshine made the plum walls suddenly bloom with color. The restaurant was much brighter than Mandala, I realized. A lot of the warmth came from the wood: the honeyed tone of the wide pine plank flooring, the reddish brown of the cryptomeria-wood kitchen tansu, a fabulous late-Meiji-period storage cabinet so expensive that I’d despaired of ever selling it. The tansu was filled with cocktail glasses now and stood behind the vintage zinc-topped bar.
Everywhere you looked, Bento was a mishmash of Japan and America: the immaculate white tablecloths set with Imari chargers, a design element that gave the restaurant the drama it needed for evening. Other dishes would be served in faux lacquer bento boxes—boxes that Jiro had, within minutes, figured out were plastic, but grudgingly accepted.
I continued my survey of the room. Most of the art I’d chosen was hanging already. A tryptich woodblock print of courtesans dining was hung along the north wall, as was another print showing a Tokyo food market in midwinter. More art was en route from Mr. Ishida’s shop in Tokyo; I hoped to have it installed within the first two weeks. For the lavatories, I’d found charming vintage posters from the 1920s that advertised soap and sweets, which I’d had framed and hung on the doors. My idea of installing blue-and-white basins inside small tansu chests had worked beautifully for the vanities. The carpenter was just finishing the stall door locks, brass hardware from Japan that was quickly faux-aged in a substance I was afraid to ask about but that did the job beautifully.
I’d get an early sense of whether the interior was a success at the opening-night party, when the friends of the restaurant would test it. And far more important than my interior would be the kitchen’s ability to assemble its dishes, the waiters’ speed and finesse, and even the sommelier’s choices of wine pairings. Not to mention how the food tasted. That was the most important thing of all.
The restaurant didn’t smell of food now, just of the heady incense that I recognized from Japanese temples. Andrea, dressed all in black, had lit a stick of incense at the hostess’s podium. She stared out at the passage of traffic beyond the glass window, the people streaming home from the Mall in cars and on foot.
“How many are coming tonight?” I asked.
“About two hundred,” she said. “You have two guests, right? I’m putting you all at a four-top over by the west wall.”
I glanced where she had gestured with her long red fingernails. The table in question was not in a great location, but I was hardly one of the people they needed to impress. “I see it. What’s the VIP situation?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are any celebrities coming?” If Moby and Hillary Clinton showed up, my night would be made.
She rolled her eyes. “In Washington, celebrity doesn’t usually coincide with very important.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling my face burn a little. Washington was like Japan in that way. Senators, International Monetary Fund bigwigs, C-SPAN journalists—these were the people who counted, and I was woefully inept at recognizing them. When I’d been over at Mandala one day trying to cadge some candles for Bento, the new Speaker of the House had been there, and Marshall had been shocked that I hadn’t recognized him. The problem, I explained in a half-joking manner, was that I only recognized beautiful things, whether it was an antique vase or a particularly lovely waiter. Fortunately, there were many of the latter hired for Bento, and I’d learned almost all their names. There was Phong, a good-looking Vietnamese-American guy who ran the bar, concocting such drinks as shiso mojitos and saketinis; Justin, the moonlighting undergraduate with the tousle of black curls; and David, a languid blond from Australia. Marshall had hired two female runners, Carla and Joan, who were also young and attractive, but their re
sponsibilities were limited to carrying out the plates as they were finished, not taking the initial orders. They earned a portion of the tips, as did Andrea, but not the kind of money Justin, David, and their male cohorts did.
As the old rosewood Seiko grandfather clock in the restaurant’s side hallway chimed seven, the first diners arrived and their comments on the interior felt like strokes along my back. The tansu holding barware—how beautiful! The old china on the walls, the artwork—fabulous! Awesome! Marshall had me on his arm, taking me around as if I was his partner, making me tell everyone about the Meiji Period and the heritage of the pieces I’d chosen.
In the midst of it all, Kendall made her entrance. She’d pinned up her fox-colored hair in a French twist and was wearing a sleek black suit that ended mid-thigh. She wore spiky Manolo Blahniks and some extra accessories that I hadn’t expected: a twin at the end of each arm.
I wish she’d told me, I thought to myself. I’d had to clear my guests with Marshall, and I’d definitely not mentioned children. At the moment, Marshall was scrutinizing the two children as if they were a couple of homeless beggars who had wandered in.
“Hey, sweetie,” Kendall said. “The restaurant is just gorge. Winnie, look at the pretty color on the walls. What color is that?”
“Boo,” said Win Junior.
“No, it’s purpur! Purpur!” shrieked Jacqueline, causing heads to turn.
“Let’s get them comfortable right away,” I said to Kendall, handing an unsmiling Andrea the twins’ tiny dirt-and mucus-smeared down jackets.
“I’ll need two high chairs right away, and the kiddie menus,” Kendall said to Andrea.
“We don’t have any,” Andrea said coolly.
The Pearl Diver Page 4
