Up in the sky on the fifty-second floor the exemplary pear tart patiently waiting in front of me gradually takes on the dark shape of Yoyogi Park out the window to my left. What should I do? Open spaces are so precious in Japan and particularly so here in Shinjuku. The untouched and glassy surface of the pear radiates a sense of new beginnings and opulence. Actually, it seems to be glowing. A deep silence begins to gather around the table as the lights dim leaving a solitary point of illumination focused on the pear. Along with the intensifying and narrowing of the lighting scheme is a rapid and unforeseen flattening of the table space in front of me. The gentle arc of the pear is undergoing a visual compacting that will eventually leave the apex of the fruit at the same level as the black plate upon which it is resting. The transformation underway will leave nothing more than a two-dimensional nature morte. Sensing this shift and its implications, I eat the tart in one flawless maneuver and lick the plate spotlessly clean with a long drag of my tongue. The waiters and chefs stand nearby looking on, secretly happy – joyful even – for my appreciation. Momentary transplanted voracious imaginary real estate developer fantasy followed by mellow fruit sweetness, perfect succulence, and echoes of buttery pastry.