We are seated on a second level, one that allows a bird’s-eye view of the entire restaurant, and right beside us is a giant saltwater fish tank. Obaachan knows that she will order the Goong Gah Tiem, or garlic shrimp, which is what she had last time, with my uncle Jay. I have more trouble deciding among the many choices and try to read quickly through the detailed descriptions. “My uncle Kisho used to own a restaurant,” Obaachan says, closing her menu. “A Chinese one, not Japanese. Before the war.” “Chinese?” I say, a little perplexed. Japanese people are notoriously snooty about their food. Once, my mother discovered a bottle of La Choy in my refrigerator, and reproached me for buying Chinese soy sauce. Japanese people buy Japanese products, she explained, frustrated by my offense. I should know better. A week later, she handed me a new bottle of Kikkoman. “People liked Chinese food more than Japanese, I guess,”
