Up in the sky on the fifty-second floor, the ideal pear tart patiently waiting before me gradually transforms into the dark shape of Yoyogi Park out the window to my left. What to do? Open spaces are precious in Japan, particularly here in Shinjuku. The pristine and glassy surface of the pear radiates a sense of new beginnings and opulence. It seems to be glowing. Finally, a deep silence begins to gather around the table while the lights dim, leaving a solitary point of illumination on the pear.
Along with the intensifying and narrowing of the lighting scheme is a rapid and unforeseen flattening of the space in front of me. The gentle arc of the pear is undergoing a visual compacting that will leave the apex of the fruit at the same level as the black plate. 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 tongue drag. The staff and chefs stand nearby looking on, happy—joyful even—for my appreciation. The momentary transplanted voracious imaginary real estate developer fantasy is followed by mellow fruit sweetness, perfect succulence, and echoes of buttery pastry
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