FOUR GUYS WALK INTO A BAR
“Isoide! Hurry!” Hana, the seventy-three-year-old owner-cook-waitress of Sumikko, presses the phone to her ear with one hand, while with her other she scoots a heavy fry pan across the metal grate and flicks her wrist. A wokful of fried rice takes flight and then cascades back into the sizzling pan. “This needs to be taken care of immediately.”
Hana tucks the phone into the folds of the tightly wrapped obi around her waist. As she tips the fried rice onto a ceramic dish, a whoof of garlic-scented steam envelops her face and neatly pinned chignon.
“Hai, douzo,” she says, tottering over to the table where three gaijin sit in deep and noisy conversation.
“Thank you, doumo,” says the redhead with the sesame seed-tossed freckles all over his face and neck, arms and
