Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl Page B

assistant handed him a pair of minuscule crabs, no larger than my thumbnail, on a little square of white paper; he placed them on the plate. The woman became more animated, smiling and bowing in a way that let me know that something he had given her was really out of the ordinary. I wondered if he would deign to repeat the still life for me.
    He did. The abalone was like no creature I’ve ever eaten, hard and smooth, more like some exotic mushroom than something from the ocean, with a slightly musky flavor that made me think of ferns. Beside it the geoduck was pure ocean—crisp and briny and incredibly clean—so that what I thought of was the deep turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Next to the pure austerity of these two, the Japanese clam seemed lush and almost baroque in its sensuality.
    Mr. Uezu pointed to the miniature crabs. “ Sawagani, ” he said. “One bite, one bite. Whole thing.”
    I picked up one of the crabs with the tips of my chopsticks. They had been deep-fried, and they crunched and crackled in my mouth like some extraordinary popcorn of the sea. When the noise stopped, my mouth was filled with the faint sweet richness of crabmeat, lingering like some fabulously sensual echo.
    â€œMore?” asked Mr. Uezu. And I suddenly realized that no matter what the beautiful woman might be eating, I did not want more, that I wanted to keep these tastes in my mouth, to savor them as the day wore on. And so I shook my head no, I was finished. “One handroll?” he asked. How could I resist?
    He filled a crisp sheet of nori with warm rice and spread it with ume boshi, the plum paste that is actually made from wild apricots. Then he covered that with little sticks of yama imo, the odd, sticky vegetable the Japanese call “mountain yam.” It tastes as if a potato had been crossed with Cream of Wheat—changing, in an instant, from crisp to gooey in your mouth. The chef added a julienne of shiso leaf, wrapped it all up, and handed it across the counter.
    It was an extraordinary sensation, the brittle snap of the seaweed wrapper giving way to the easy warmth of the rice and then the crunch of the yama imo, which almost instantly turned into something smooth and sexy. Meanwhile the flavors were doing somersaults in my mouth: the salt of the plum, the sharp of the vinegar, and the feral flavor of the herb.
    â€œUmami,” the waitress whispered in my ear. Again she had glided silently up.
    â€œExcuse me?” I asked.
    â€œUmami,” she said again. “It is the Japanese taste that cannot be described. It is when something is exactly right for the moment. Mr. Uezu,” she continued proudly, “knows umami. ”
    Paying the bill, I held the tastes in my mouth, along with the knowledge that this was, absolutely, the place to bring Claudia.
    RESTAURANTS
    by Ruth Reichl

    â€œSUSHI?” SAID A DUBIOUS VOICE on the other end of the line. “Must we? I’ve never tried it.”
    That is not the answer I’d been hoping for; introducing your friends to sushi is an awesome responsibility. But when trendy restaurants like Match, T and Judson Grill start serving sushi and others like Blue Ribbon sprout actual sushi bars, it is time to take a look at tradition. Which brings me to Kurumazushi, one of New York City’s most venerable sushi bars.
    â€œBut,” my friend’s voice dropped to a whisper, “what if I don’t like it? Can I eat something else?”
    This, I had to admit, was a problem. Kurumazushi, like the classic Japanese restaurant it is, serves only sushi and sashimi. There are no noodles, no teriyaki, no tempura. I hedged a bit. “The fish is so fine,” I heard myself saying, “that any person who likes to eat as much as you do ought to appreciate it.” I could feel her wavering.
    â€œIt’s very expensive,” I urged. “It might cost $100 a person, and I’m paying.”
    That did it.
    Still,