Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl

vinegar together and set aside.
    Heat the oil in a wok or skillet until it is very hot, and sauté the shrimp just until they change color, about 1 minute. Remove them from the wok and set aside.
    Add the garlic to the wok, and as soon as it starts to color and get fragrant, add the pork and half of the scallions. Sauté just until the pork loses its redness; then add the drained noodles and mix quickly. Add the reserved fish sauce mixture, reduce the heat to medium, and cook until the noodles have absorbed all the liquid, about 5-8 minutes.
    Move the noodles aside and break 1 egg into the wok, breaking the yolk. Tilt the wok so you get as thin a sheet of egg as possible, and scramble just until set. Then mix the egg into the noodles. Do the same with the remaining egg.
    Add the shrimp, remaining scallions, and red pepper flakes and mix thoroughly. Add the lime juice and cook, stirring for another minute.
    Transfer the noodles to a platter, and top with a sprinkling of peanuts. Serve the lime wedges, remaining peanuts, and chili sauce alongside.
    Serves 4
    I spent the better part of a year looking for the perfect sushi bar, the one that would persuade Claudia to try raw fish. Then, in the spring of 1995, it found me.
    It was one of those days when the sky looks as if it has been washed clean and the air is so pure it pulls you along, forcing you to stay outside. I walked across Central Park, past all the delirious children on the carousel, exited at Fifth Avenue, and continued downtown. Just as I passed Bergdorf Goodman, the door opened to disgorge a stylish Japanese fashion plate. From her Manolo Blahnik shoes to her Hermès scarf, she was dressed entirely in designer clothing. As she tripped elegantly along I found myself following her, and when she turned west on Fifty-fifth Street, some impulse made me turn with her. Her destination, it turned out, was a modest restaurant I had never noticed halfway down the block.
    I blinked when I walked in; it was quite dark, and quite empty. When my vision cleared I saw two Japanese men at one end of the sushi bar, and a bearded American wearing Birkenstocks in the middle. Vacant seats stretched between them.
    The sushi chef was an older man, and when he looked up and saw the fashion plate, his lined round face was illuminated with fierce joy. He bowed very deeply and intoned, “Hajimemashite.”
    The woman bowed back, but much less deeply. “Genki-Desu,” she said, tucking herself into a seat directly in front of the chef and carefully arranging her legs.
    An older woman in a kimono appeared from behind a curtain and bowed to the new customer. Then she noticed me standing in the doorway, and said discouragingly, “Only sushi.”
    â€œThat will be fine,” I replied.
    â€œNo tempura. No noodles. Only sushi,” she reiterated in a voice that held no invitation.
    â€œOnly sushi,” I agreed. “Fine.” She led me to the far end of the bar, the one that was not occupied. “Only sushi,” she said again, warningly.
    â€œMay I have tea?” I asked, giving a sidelong glance to the chic woman, who was now engaged in what seemed like polite Japanese chitchat with the old man.
    He had laid a long bamboo leaf in front of her and was grating a pale green wasabi root against a traditional sharkskin grater. Seeing this, I suddenly understood that this was going to be an expensive meal; ordinary sushi bars do not use fresh wasabi.
    It took me a while to convince the waitress that I wanted whatever the chic woman was having. It took me even longer to persuade her that I could afford it. “Very expensive,” she said, shaking her head. I said that would be fine. She shook her head and went down the counter to convey my wishes to the chef, who turned to give me a long appraising stare.
    He ambled down the bar toward me, smiled, and stared frankly into my face. Then he asked, “You have eaten sushi before?”
    I told him that I