Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,73

spicy), the chicken (overcooked), and the corn (mushy). “It’s more like a talking playground than a restaurant,” he concluded, “and not nearly as good as Hatsuhana.”

But as far as Nick was concerned, nothing was as good as Hatsuhana. His love for the venerable Japanese restaurant had very little to do with the food and everything to do with Osada-san, a small, gentle sushi master with an extraordinarily kind face and an almost mystical ability to discern his customers’ desires.

For years he gave me the most exotic tidbits he could conjure up—pungent fermented squid guts, shiraku (he called the delectable cod sperm “children of the clouds”), and sawagani, tiny freshwater crabs the size of a Tic Tac. For Michael, he stuck strictly to tradition—tuna, yellowtail, and fluke. Then, turning to Nick, he would bow and say, “For you, something very special,” as he handed him a pristine bowl of rice.

We were relaxed at those dinners, secure in the knowledge that Osada-san would never give us anything we didn’t like. Sometime around Nick’s eighth birthday he dipped a brush into the sweet, inky eel sauce and swished it across Nick’s rice. Surprised, Nick squinted down at the black squiggle. Then he picked up his chopsticks and took a tiny, tentative taste. Then he took another.

Osada-san beamed.

On our next visit Nick looked up innocently and said, “Do you have something else I might want to eat?”

I was stunned—and a little hurt; he’d never trusted me that much. “Of course,” said Osada-san. I waited, fascinated, to see what the chef would offer up. To my deep disappointment, it was a madeleine.

It seemed like a wasted opportunity, but Osada-san was both wily and wise. The next time Nick asked for something new, he placed a morsel of eel atop the rice. Nick frowned at the burnished sliver; then he put it in his mouth.

It was just the beginning. Now, on each visit, Osada-san introduced Nick to another new food. He started with the mildest fish—tuna, scallop, shrimp—but over time the flavors grew more intense, and before long he had initiated my son into the mysteries of crisp giant clam and pungent mackerel.

Still, I was taken aback, when, on Nick’s tenth birthday, Osada-san scooped up some bright-orange sea urchin roe. “I think you’re ready,” he said, handing it over.

Sea urchin is a love-or-hate proposition. Nick’s eyes flew open in shock, and I thought the chef had finally gone too far. Then Nick’s eyes closed, and a look I’d never seen before crossed his face, as if he was tasting something rare and precious, something he had never even dared imagine. “That”—he opened his eyes—“is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Over Nick’s head, Michael and I stared at each other. We’d both had the same thought: Maybe the illness is over.

* * *

—

RELEASED FROM HIS antibiotic prison, Nick became a food explorer, eager to discover the unfamiliar world of flavor. Trying to make up for all the years of lost appetite, he wanted to taste everything. There was nothing he wouldn’t try. Brain ravioli? Bring it on! Spicy Sichuan peppers? Yes, please. Ramps, suckling pig, tongue tacos. Once, trying to impress him, I said I’d been eating ant eggs. “Oh, those,” he said disparagingly. “They don’t really taste like much.”

His body, grateful to be fed, shot up, and Nick morphed from a delicate child into a gangly teenager towering over everyone in his class. He reached six feet and kept on growing. He let his hair go wild, and the abundant curls added a few extra inches. A year earlier, restaurants had been asking if he wanted a booster seat; now they asked if he’d like a drink.

I could not have been happier. Michael has never been an adventurous eater, but Nick was willing to go anywhere and try anything. “Admit it,” I said now. “All those years of watching us eat must have had some effect. Once you got off the antibiotics, you wanted to devour the world.”

“You’re probably right,” he conceded. “I certainly wouldn’t have touched any of those things they’re selling in that kid food shop. Are you going to write about it?”

“Maybe for my next ‘Letter from the Editor.’ ”

“I’d be happy to consult on that,” he offered, “if you’ll help with my English assignment.” He scooped up the last of his pancakes. “My teacher wants us to do a project on the books we studied this semester. She said we can do anything—a poem, a screenplay, an ad, even