On a quiet corner wrapped with windows, two black flags herald Matsugen in fine white type.  A man in smart glasses leads the way to a seat at a counter piled with fish and sauces and cooks in paper hats.  The table is long, but there is just one other person.  He eats fluently, not hesitating with condiments.  He is white, with a gray ponytail, but maybe he has a girlfriend from Japan.  It's not even seven, and the dining room is calm.  A high ceiling draws conversations up.  Translucent panels divide a space which seems big without feeling large.  It's a beguiling trick of design; you wonder at the paradox until the menu is presented.

The book is delicately lettered in characters that signify nothing.  The translations are no less mysterious... Toro Tataki 5 slices?  Searching for some familiar meaning, you find sea urchin, which is not so familiar really.  The special soba would be less adventurous; most of the toppings sound vegetable.  But in a flash of confidence you order the urchin.  The waiter is duly impressed, but a minute later the bravado has subsided, and calling him back you ask for white wine.
A tray is set down, with a bowl of pasta.  On top is an awesome array: scallion, seaweed, bonito, shiso, but your attention is solely on the bright coral lobes of urchin eggs.  The server advises to mix it together and "just dig in."  Snap apart the chopsticks and rub them nervously, and after another second you throw yourself on his recommendation, splashing on the sauce and attacking a noodle.  The first impression is of cold.  It's strange to be eating dinner at this temperature, where taste is dulled.  The texture is special; the word the waiter had avoided was slimy.  Obscure sensations clarify into flavors.  Something smoky, and a fresh herb, one that rhymes with basil, it's almost recognizable, and a sharp point that must be wasabi.  And then — the sea, smooth and softly saline.  You are back on an island, wiggling over a plate of purple spines, tasting this for the first time.  It's late afternoon and waves are at the rocks.  When the memory breaks, you see that you're rubbing the table.

Eventually chopsticks are abandoned and the last slippery strands eaten with a spoon.  There's a birthday in Brooklyn, but here's the waiter, offering something sweet.  Green tea ice cream brulee sounds silly but brandy would be nice.  Your friend isn't busy, so he lingers with the dessert menu.  This was his first job since he got to New York and he lucked out.  With red hair, and an accent, he looks like he could work at an Olive Garden in Georgia, until he leans over the counter and fires some Japanese at the sushi chef, who waves back an order ticket in defense and grabs a knife to disassemble a fish.  Hold the cognac over a tea candle and breathe.  You can be late to the party.