The sixty-two-year-old Japanese billionaire raised one finger toward the young Black waitress and spoke in a deliberately complicated form of Japanese, expecting her to understand absolutely nothing.
"この椀の出汁の引き方と椀種に施した仕事、それに吸い地の余韻を、料理人の意図まで含めて説明してみなさい。"
Explain how this broth was prepared, how the ingredients were treated, and the lingering flavor of the soup, including the chef's intentions.
His companion stopped eating.
The private dining room fell silent.
The waitress stood beside a long, polished wooden table, holding a rectangular black lacquer tray with both hands. She was twenty-eight years old, breathtakingly beautiful, with deep-brown skin, expressive dark eyes, and naturally elegant features.
Her black hair was arranged in an elaborate traditional Japanese updo, secured with delicate golden hairpins. She wore a pale-blue silk kimono embroidered with subtle floral patterns, a wide black obi, and a narrow white sash tied neatly around her waist.
She looked every bit as graceful as the traditional Kyoto restaurant surrounding her.
Behind her, magnificent shoji screens glowed beneath warm amber lighting. A tall ceramic vase held fresh cherry blossoms, and an elegant hanging lantern illuminated the polished cedar beams above the dining room.
The table was covered with exquisite Japanese cuisine.
Delicate sashimi arranged over crushed ice.
Golden shrimp tempura resting on handmade ceramic plates.
A small lacquer bowl of clear soup.
Seasonal vegetables arranged like a miniature garden.
And beautiful porcelain sake vessels that reflected the soft evening light.
Everything about the restaurant suggested extraordinary craftsmanship.
Everything except the behavior of the man sitting at the center of the table.
His name was Masaru Kuroda.
He was the billionaire chairman of Kuroda International Holdings, a sprawling Japanese investment company with interests in luxury hotels, commercial real estate, restaurants, and international tourism.
He wore an expensive black silk kimono decorated with a discreet family crest. His silver-gray hair was swept backward, and his broad face carried the permanent confidence of a man who had spent decades discovering that most people became nervous when he raised his voice.
Beside him sat Kenji Mori, a fifty-year-old Japanese businessman wearing an understated olive-green kimono.
Kenji was a senior advisor to Kuroda International, and unlike his employer, he had spent most of the evening examining the restaurant with quiet appreciation.
He noticed the careful presentation.
The elegant ceramics.
The aroma of freshly prepared dashi.
And the remarkable precision with which the staff moved through the intimate dining room.
Masaru noticed none of it.
He was far more interested in humiliating the waitress.