About the Book

It's August! This means summer vacation time in Japan, but for me in Baltimore, it's the launch of The Pearl Diver. You'll find Rei's seventh escapade sandwiched inside an acid green cover that features a pair of killer stiletto heels poised by a fallen oyster.

If you're wondering about the oyster, it was my crazy idea. I wanted it on the cover because The Pearl Diver is about a missing Japanese marine diver and the restaurant world, specifically a made-up Washington DC hotspot called Bento, which is on the same level as the smashing venues of Ten Penh, Poste, Café Milano, Nora, DC Coast, Zaytinya, and Burma... the list could go on endlessly, because Washington has become a very good restaurant town, especially in the section called Penn Quarter.

Bento is an unreal place serving a type of especially imaginative food — fusion cusine, a blending of Japanese ingredients and flavors with the Western. Some people turn up their noses at fusion food because it's inauthentic, but I think it's marvelous — probably because of my own fused backgrounds of India, Germany, Britain and the US. I grew up eating hamburgers full of chopped cilantro and garlic, and now my kids take it for granted this is authentic ethnic family cooking. And with Japanese food I'm even naughtier — using Jif peanut butter to sauce noodles! And don't get me started on rice balls, my favorite way to use up leftover cooked salmon.

These days, as I hustle around to signings and push my way toward the end of Rei's next book, I've kept our household dinner plan simple. Because it's summer, I've decided I can get away with making salad for dinner every night. That's right, just salad — no additional proteins or starches. It's been really fun. One night it'll be a Greek salad of romaine, feta and kalamata olives; the next night it's a German-inspired plate of baby greens topped with boiled asparagus and new potatoes and thinly sliced prosciutto. I am hooked on a Mark Bittman recipe from The Minimalist Cooks Dinner for Triple Sesame Salad that involves scallops and mesclun, and I'm proud to say I've concocted my own Indian fusion dinner salad — tandoori chicken breast strips, chickpeas, tomatoes, potatoes and cilantro vinaigrette atop spinach.

A small shrine within the grounds of a Buddhist temple. It's dedicated to Jizo-sama, the guardian of lost children.

If salad leaves you cold, dive into The Pearl Diver and see how the real chefs do it. And let me know what you think!

Excerpt

"We're very excited about Bento," Marshall Zanger said after he'd nestled me in a turmeric-colored cotton loveseat across from him in his office. Compared to the austere elegance of the restaurant, this little room was a den of pandemonium — multiple telephones, cookbooks jammed next to telephone directories, file cabinets, a computer with a waterfall of paper on the desk around it. On the wall were framed photographs of Marshall or Jiro standing next to celebrities — in the short inspection I made, I saw the last two presidents, Martha Stewart, and a young white man with a shaved head who looked curiously familiar. Was it Moby?

"Jiro said the cuisine was going to be kaiseki. I'm trying to imagine how you'll do something as complicated as that for American diners," I said, dragging my gaze away from the wall of photographs.

"There's a small plates trend in better restaurants," Marshall said. "In this neighborhood alone, Zaytinya and Jaleo have made their names because of tapas-style menus. Kaiseki is just a Japanese version."

"So, tell me, why do you need bento boxes — which enable you to serve several courses at once — if you want to do kaiseki service?" I was confused by the different visions of the restaurant that he and Jiro were presenting.

"Jiro's hot to do kaiseki, but the truth is that people have no time at lunch. They want to set their tuchis down and get a plate of food in five minutes, so bento boxes make sense. They allow for better turnover of the tables, too." Marshall studied me, as if all my questions had surprised him. "So tell me more about your source. Maybe I should speak with them directly, explain the rush."

I wanted to ask what a tuchi or tuchis was, but I was aware I'd been asking too many questions. "The sources I deal with don't speak English at all, so I would have to call for you. I usually deal with antiques, but because I cook, I know all the stores in Kappabashi, the kitchen district of Tokyo."

"Hold on, tell me more about the antiques."

"Well, I have a warehouse full of goods that I brought over from Japan—"

Marshall interrupted me. "I'd love to get some antiques in the restaurant."

My pulse quickened. Business was something that I needed badly. "I can take you to the warehouse. What are you looking for, exactly?"

Marshall drummed his fingers on his desk. "Accessories to decorate the place, art, the kind of thing that makes the restaurant more of a home. I don't want to be too Japanese restauranty."

"You mean no blue cotton cushions, no pine, nothing too modern," I guessed aloud, and he nodded happily. ""Maybe you should go historic. Late Meiji period?"

Marshall laughed shortly. "When was that? Don't tell me five hundred years ago. That'll cost me more than I have."

I laughed, too. I was starting to like Marshall. "Don't worry. Meiji and later is what most dealers can afford. The end of Meiji coexisted with the British Victorian period. In Japan, just as in Europe and America, there was a fabulous amount of ornamentation and a design sense that combined east and west in an opulent, yet cozy way."

"Hmmm," Marshall said. "There's a great restaurant in San Francisco that's got the feeling I'm after. It has these fabulous oversized antique fans that flap back and forth on the ceiling—"

"Betelnut?" I hazarded.

"That's right. You do know the restaurant scene."

The truth was, Betelnut was a few blocks from my family home, which was why I'd eaten there plenty of times. I had a hometown girl's advantage, but there was no need to get into it. Instead, I said, "During the European colonial era, those fans were more in use in countries such as Singapore or Malaysia. Perhaps there might have been ceiling fans of that style in more tropical parts of Japan, like Okinawa, but in the old days, Okinawa wasn't even part of Japan. I'd have to research whether that style of fan was in use—"

"Oh, there's no need for that." Marshall sighed heavily. "It's too late to make major changes. I had such hopes for this place, what it could be, and now we're opening in thirty days without so much as tableware. Not to mention staff. I'm still trying to get line cooks. In fact, I have interviews scheduled over there in about an hour. Hey, why don't you ride over there with me? While Jiro and I are interviewing staff, you could look around and get some ideas of what I need."

"All right," I said, pausing at the door. "Oh, I almost forget to ask you something. It was a word I didn't understand when you were talking about the lunch service—"

"Fire away."

"What's a tuchis?"

Marshall laughed for a full minute before saying, "Tuchis is Yiddish for ass."

Feeling like one, I got into his Mercedes.

Bento was housed in an old brick building on H Street, more on the edge of Chinatown, although it was technically within the boundaries of Penn Quarter, the faded section of downtown that was coming back because of a number of hip new restaurants like Zola, Poste, and Zaytinya. I hadn't been in Washington's Chinatown since my college years, when I occasionally drove with a carful of other hungry Asian Studies majors for dim sum. It seemed like a lot of the Chinatown restaurants had evaporated, since my day. There was no shortage of Starbucks cafes, though. Starbucks was strange. In Kendall's suburban neighborhood of Potomac, Starbucks was full of blond power moms like herself; but in my neighborhood, it was solely inhabited by Spanish-speaking men. I would have liked to scope out the situation in the Chinatown Starbucks, but Marshall seemed impatient.

"Chinatown doesn't seem very — Chinese — anymore," I said to Marshall. It seemed that all over H Street and Fifth, drug stores and Irish bars had replaced the small restaurants I remembered.

"The rents went up," Marshall said. "It's going upscale. Now if only we could drive the gangs out, it'd be perfect."

Now there was something I could comment on. "In San Francisco, there were some gang wars when I was really young. There was a shootout in a Chinese restaurant that decimated the restaurant business in Chinatown for a few years."

Marshall looked at me. "I'm not anticipating a shoot out in Bento, but there's hostility from our neighbors. I don't know if having a real Japanese chef is the problem — because of the grudge the Chinese still bear against Japan since the war — or if it's just plain competition."

"What's happened so far?"

"Another restaurant owner tried to keep me from putting in a parking pad out behind our kitchen. No matter that it freed up more space for street parking — he didn't want me having anything he didn't have."

I didn't comment on that, because it seemed pretty minor league to me, but concentrated on the building's façade. The restaurant site was typical of the early twentieth-century Washington vernacular — a red brick, four-story building. It was built on a corner, and it had especially charming moldings — Gothic peaks over the windows and doors. There was a boarded-up building of the same vintage next to it, made of the same brick but with peeling white paint overlay. A shingle flapping outside that confirmed that Kendall's husband Win was indeed handling its real estate transaction. You could see through the windows on this building to the peeling wallpaper and scuffed wooden floors. Marshall and Jiro's building had its windows covered in brown paper, so nobody from the outside could peek in.

For good reason, I discovered when I went inside. The place was utter shambles; drop-cloth-covered furniture intermingling ladders, huge boxes of electrical fixtures and other things I couldn't identify. Half a dozen men were at work in the room, hammering and drilling.

"The walls will be sea-grass on the top half, and plum below the chair rail," Marshall shouted over the din. "Would that work with Meiji?"

"Perfectly. What will the floor be?"

"Underneath the tarps, we have old Georgia pine. We're going to sand them and stain them the color of teak." He pulled back the plastic covering a rosewood chair, straight-backed, with a cushion covered in a cinnabar and gold patterned fabric.

"That looks like an old obi," I said

"Yeah, but it's synthetic. Totally stain resistant, which is what we need. Which reminds me of something else. Jiro's fixated on this idea of redwood, but I'm not sure wood is durable enough for restaurant service. What's your take?"

I liked Jiro and his dream of the lacquered redwood bento boxes, but I knew how much effort it took to preserve the glossy finish on my own real lacquered possessions. After being used for food, lacquered wood had to be gently washed and dried. Its finish showed smeary fingerprints, too.

"I think we could compromise and still have beauty and durability," I said. "Bento boxes exist that are made of such high-quality plastic that they look and feel just like lacquered wood. I'll order some samples from Japan so you can decide—"

"I've already decided. That's just want I want. But don't tell Jiro it's plastic, okay? It'll be just between us."

I was about to tell him that it would be impossible to fool a Japanese person about such a thing when a young woman with a tawny complexion and a mop of springy blond curls interrupted us. "Marshall, one of the cooks is already here, the guy from Nora's—"

"Excellent." Marshall winked at me. "If I can steal this guy, I know I'll be in good hands."

"But I thought Jiro will cook the food here?" I was confused.

"He will be executive chef. The interviews going on are for line chefs, who'll work under him. And who knows, from the line a star may be born — the guy who'll lead my next restaurant. Andrea will show you the existing interior design elements, the paint chips, that kind of thing—"

"What do you mean? I'm supposed to be checking in the cooks for interviews, and getting all those returns done on the light fixtures!" Andrea narrowed her almond-shaped eyes.

"First you'll show Rei around." Marshall's voice was firm. She's going to be taking over the interior design stuff, which will make your life easier."

"Oh?" Andrea looked at me doubtfully.

"I could come back another day, if it's better." I was thinking to myself how a Japanese employee would never have spoken to a boss like that. Even Marshall seemed disturbed because his voice rose and he waved his hand to include the whole room of workers.

"Come on, we've got to move! Thirty-five days from now, our doors will open. Andrea, it'll take you five minutes to show Rei around. After that, you can go on with your regular schedule. Rei, I'll need the proposal from you by tomorrow morning — it doesn't have to be final, but tell me what you think I need to buy and approximately how much it'll cost."

And with that, he disappeared through swinging doors to the kitchen, presumably to interview the cook from Nora's.

"It's a good thing he pays people as much as he does, because he'd be impossible otherwise," Andrea muttered.

"I'm sorry to be making more work for you," I said. It was in my interest to get along with her, but I doubted it could happen. She was one of the gorgeous but mean girls who seemed to exclusively work in places that attracted others like them — restaurants, fashion houses, television stations. Andrea had slanting, cat-like eyes, high cheekbones, and lips so full they must

have endured a few collagen injections. Andrea was model-quality beautiful — even in a chic, shrunken hooded sweater and low-slung yoga pants that revealed a navel pierced with a shining black stone. I sucked in my own abdomen and examined her again. Something had to be wrong with her, or I wouldn't sleep at night. Now I decided that her short, blond, kinky hair didn't look natural. Maybe it was originally black, like mine, and it was probably permed.

"It's okay," Andrea answered grumpily. "Actually you'll be saving me work if I don't have to hunt for those bento boxes anymore."

"What is your official title within the restaurant?" I wondered if she was some kind of sous-chef — or merely the waitress from hell.

"I used to be a hostess at Mandala, and I'm going to do the same job here. I organize people — not chairs. Did he tell you that we had an interior designer who did a lot of buying and choosing at the start of the project? No? Well, that gal quit after she got in a fight with Marshall about her fees."

Andrea took me down a set of creaky, dusty stairs to the restaurant's basement, where more of the furniture lay waiting — mostly chairs and tables, all the same style as I'd seen before. There was also a folder with a blue print of the dining room and hallway leading to the restrooms, and a furniture placement diagram.

"I don't suppose you could show me any other accent pieces you have?"

"Well, we've got forks, knives, that kind of thing. There's the maitre 'd station table up there already, and the bar — did you see it?"

I hadn't noticed it, so I picked up the folder and went upstairs again to look. Two more potential chefs and a dishwasher had arrived, so while Andrea took them back to the kitchen for their interviews with Marshall and Jiro, I wandered the room myself, trying to piece it together. The things they'd chosen were all quite beautiful — hand-painted silk Roman shades for the windows, the plum wall color, and the light greeny-yellow sea-grass covering that would cover the top half of the walls. These weren't typical colors of modern Japan, but they could fit in well with late nineteenth and early twentieth-century design. The restrooms were boring, I thought after I walked into both men's and ladies.' Already in my mind I was papering the walls with the legendary arts-and-crafts textile designer Candace Wheeler's carp-patterned wallpaper. As I did so, another idea followed: stalls made from reclaimed wood from old storehouse doors, several of which Mr. Ishida had sent to our downtown warehouse.

The toilets were roughed in, I could see, as were the plumbing lines for 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 restrooms 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 35 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 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 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 advise me on the contract. I'm still trying to decide what my services are worth."

"Lots." 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 Mandela 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 much 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 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 called 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 care much for Kendall. I admit that."

"Even though your cousin did you a very good turn bringing 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 pre-supposing that if I have a baby, I'm going to stop working and stay home all the time."

"You stay home all the time now," Hugh pointed out. "And I'm glad for 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 all gone to hell."

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 sometime the ban will cease. Paul McCartney was banned from Japan after that marijuana charge, but they rescinded it recently."

"Yes, but I'm not going to get 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 spreadsheet 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.

Links

Japan's Ama Women Divers, by AFP/Francoise Kadri (Things Asian)

In Japan, "Eat Your Vegetables" Is a Pleasure, by Elizabeth Andoh (New York Times)

Flavors Fresher Than Sushi, by Julia Moskin (New York Times)

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All content © 1998-2008 Sujata Massey.
Photo of Sujata by Jim Burger.