I was 8 years old when I first had Japanese food. I still remember every detail. It was my first trip to San Francisco. The restaurant had a red lantern outside, and when we came in we were asked to remove our shoes. We walked shoeless on tatami mats to the tables, which raised just slightly over the level of the floor with a hollowed space underneath for our feet. And I had what I thought then — and considered for many years after that — to be the finest meal of my life. The restaurant was called Mingei-Ya, and we dined on a dish they called o-mizu-taki.