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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