Stories

Bun Lai, Head Chef of Miyas and pioneer of the unique tastes at Miyas, has his own blog where you can stay updated with all of his personal life experiences.  Some are available here, such as Kitchen Tales, an ongoing chapter story about Miya's evolution as a restaurant.
There's also a collection of written letters and postcards.






[Read Kitchen Tales]:

[Read Letters]:

Tongues are Speechless


Hello Miya’s Staff and Owner,
You may remember me:  I provided you with a new quote last night:  ”The food is so good our tongues are speechless.” I was there with two new friends from New Haven.
The tasting menu was unbelievable!
I am 61 years old, a musician, and I have had great meals all over the world, in Tokyo, Buenos Aires, Paris, Rome, Florence, Milan, Los Angeles, Santa Fe, San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York–where I live–and I have to say this meal was one of the 5 or so great dining experiences of my life. Each course was so amazing and original and creative that we were convinced that the next one could not possibly be as good, but it was even better–FOR ALL 10 COURSES! It was impossible to pick a favorite, although for sheer outrageousness inventiveness, the catfish and cheese wrapped in grits (am I remembering correctly?) has to be right up there. And to top accompany it, the Firecracker Saki. OMYGODAREYOUKIDDINGME?!!!!!!! Outrageously great!!!!!!!
I am still in a true state of shock and awe at the food and the entire dining experience.  Our waitress was also a complete and total genius at delivering the descriptions and hilarious titles of the dishes in a completely deadpan manner that left us in stitches. Sign her to a lifetime contract!
Thank you from the bottom of my heart and palette for an extraordinary dining experience. I hope to return very, very, very soon, with more friends in tow. Until then, wishing you continued success and exploration,
Guy

Supernatural Bull$#!* Powers


Bun,
Hey–you run an amazing place!  You know I’m a 100% straight shooter, so you can count on it when I tell you that the VERY worst thing I can say about tonight is that I wouldn’t have served the catfish last–and I had to beat my brains to come up with even that.  Every single dish  was fantastic.  I’d be at a loss to tell anyone what to order.  My  advice to friends (and I will direct as many of them as I can your way) will simply be to put themselves in the hands of the great chef. It was wonderful to see you in person, and even better to see you working in a business where you can put your supernatural bullshitting powers to work for you.  When I get back to LA, I’ll break out the pencil and paper and make you something suitable for framing.
Jay Lender
Writer/Director, Sponge Bob Square Pants

Anthropo-Magical.


Dear Bun,
I would like to thank you for the magical evening.  We have had so many together, but paradoxically, each seems to be unique and special.  Upon reflection, this is the magic of a night at Miya’s with Bun presiding as sorcerer.
Goethe once wrote that “ one ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible to speak a few reasonable words.”  Though I feel some trepidation in amending such fine words from such a supremely perceptive man, I dare say that “Goethe, if he ever dined at Miya’s, would have included “to eat a lovely meal, and pass time with a beautiful soul,” to his requisites for a good day.
Not many bring such goodness into the world for others to experience and take into their lives.  It is the combination of a rare gift and creative energy.  You should know this.
Yancy Orr
Anthropology, University of Arizona

More Food For Thought…


Bun,
Great being with you last night, permitted to put the pedal to the floor.  Of course there’s much more.
I urge you to think more about that first act of Biblical eating.  The fruit (not an apple) is described in Genesis Chapter 3 as “good for eating, a delight to the eyes, …a desirable source of wisdom.”  The snake said to the woman, “You are not going to die but God knows that as soon as you eat of it your eyes will be opened, you will be like God, knowers of good and bad.”
That food is eaten by the eyes, that the eyes make initial contact with the morsel, this of course you know better than I.  But that in eating we seek wisdom and discrimination even as we fear or face dying, this is perhaps less familiar a way to think about ingesting.  In eating we seek to become like God.  Through eating we discover our naked humanity and simultaneously our link to deity.
This last observation is captured I think in the Hebrew blessing mandated by the Talmud to be recited AFTER eating virtually anything, beginning with a glass of water or any juice, save grape juice or wine.  “You are the Source of Blessing, Creator of myriad souls and of their neediness that weighs upon all that You created in order to revive through them the soul of  each life.”  A little ponderous but thus it is, more or less.  Eating allows an experience of resurrection, of near-death and re-birth.  Naked we are born and naked we die.  Or as Job put it, “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb  and naked shall I return there.”
In eating we meet God and lose God, eat God, as it were, become God  (as in “You are what you eat.”) and lose God (as in “You can’t eat your cake and have it too.”)  In eating we become naked babes, nursling, sucking at the breast of life.  Babes are innocent but in adult eating there is always a dimension of the forbidden, a guilt that we must destroy, kill, mash, sunder, mutilate in order to survive.  The guilt over eating precedes the guilt over sex, but it is the same guilt.  It is the belief that we are not lovers but rather greedy, hungry murderers.  The blessing cited above tries, I think, to remove the toxin of guilt from the experience of appetite and satisfaction, to remove the shame that enters Eve’s and Adam’s mind after eating that fruit.
The Talmud, by the way, reckons that different foods require different blessings.  Both before and after eating.  This category of law may be worth pursuing further.  Thus before a glass of water one says, “You are the Source of blessing through whose word everything comes to be.”  Eating then is like speaking.  One thinks of the magnificent opening to the Gospel of John:  “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.  He was in the beginning, with God.  Everything came about through him, and without him not one thing came about.  What came about in him was life, and the life was the light of mankind; and the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not understand it.”
The miracle of mouth, organ of ingestion, kissing, biting, eating and speaking.  We speak light and we eat light.
Before bread, You are the Source of Blessing who makes bread come forth from the earth.
Before wine and grape juice, You are the Source of Blessing, creator of the fruit of the vine.
After bread a massive blessing that has grown over the centuries.  The notion of blessing after you eat is already in the Bible, in Deuteronomy 8: 7 – 10, the fifth of the five books, say a 7th century BC work, which, referencing the seven species, says, “For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper.  You shall eat and be satisfied and then bless the Lord your God for the good land he has given you.”
The notion of satisfaction as the precondition for making a blessing is Biblical. In the Bible one becomes capable of offering blessing on the full stomach, for blessing emerges from the experience of abundance.  The Talmud tries to inculcate the notion of being satisfied with a little and thus teaches the obligation to bless even if you have only consumed “an olive’s worth” of food.  It also introduces the obligation to bless prior to eating, suggesting that one who eats without first blessing is a thief.  The world is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.  The blessing turns booty into gift, forbidden into permitted, consumption into offering.  The role of word in the context of eating.  The role of eating in the context of word.  Animal sacrifice in the Temple was also an attempt to propitiate blood guilt.
The Rolling Stones taught the troubling truth that “I can’t get no satisfaction.”  Satisfaction is indeed the great gift.  But so too is hunger, desire, yearning.  Compare “Blessed are you who hunger now, because your hunger shall be satisfied.”  from Luke. In The Hebrew Bible you can be “satisfied of days” like Abraham, Isaac and Job.  Achieving satisfaction, the experience of enough, sufficiency, adequacy is spiritually important.  To go beyond neediness, like Siddharta as rendered by Hesse who says, “I can wait, I can meditate and I can fast.”
Which leads us to fasting, binging, purging.  And all the curiosities of kashrut.  But that perhaps for another time.
Wonderful thinking this stuff through with you.  Food for thought.
Rabbi James E. Ponet
Howard M. Holtzmann Jewish Chaplain
Joseph Slifka Center for Jewish life at Yale
An Easter gift from Dawn

Men and Women Make Different Kinds of Chefs.


Bun,
I wanted to take a moment to send you a message about our experience at your lovely restaurant.  My mother, her boyfriend, and I came in for dinner late on Saturday night after they picked me up from a dreadfully late flight from Chicago. I lived in New Haven from 2000-2005 and my mother now lives there (in Wooster Square). I had only been to Miya’s once during my time in New Haven (can’t recall why that is) but insisted that we go during my latest visit home upon recommendation from a local friend.
Well, despite the late hour (and my overly hungry stomach), it was a lovely and memorable experience – perhaps even one of the highlights of my last trip to the Elm City. Yes, the food was very tasty and thoughtfully prepared but the pleasant experience was more holistic. Your menu items were unusual, creative, and above all fresh. In addition, the service was heartfelt. We left feeling like our spirits had been cared for and our bellies loved. We especially enjoyed talking to you and getting your personal recommendations.
After you left, your mother, Yoshiko, came over to the table and talked with us about the restaurant, her family, and her love for her family. She also shared some wonderful green tea with us, which she served from her special china. I found something she said especially profound and have been thinking about it ever since Saturday evening. She said that women and men make different kinds of chefs because of the way that they are socialized. Women are taught to cook on a budget, the stretch a given sum of money as far as it can go to feed many mouths. Whereas, men create from pure extravagance and desire. One sex is not necessarily better in the kitchen – just different. Naturally, I am paraphrasing her beautiful words, but it went something like this.
Given my exhaustion and hunger, I didn’t pay much attention to the part of the menu apart from what I could devour. But mom picked up one of your menus to bring home and she read it cover to cover. For my first 24 hrs at home, she raved about your musings and said it was more of a life and passion philosophy than a menu. On Monday night, her boyfriend, Robert, who  is a CIA-trained chef fixed the two of us an amazing dinner. And during dessert, mom pulled out your menu and recited excerpts as if she was reciting Yeats or Emerson. What lovely thoughts! And we all agreed that reading these enhanced our reminiscing of the evening at Miya’s.
We are all very picky eaters and have been to multiple wonderful restaurants around the world – Jean George, Morimoto, Chez Panisse- but Miya’s will certainly stick out as one of our most enjoyable and memorable spots. And how lucky that it is right in our backyard!
Jennifer Jordan,
Author, “Harnessing Power To Capture Leadership.”
Kellogg School of Management – Ford Center for Global Citizenship

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 1

I Know Why Scientists Carry Pens In Their Front Pockets

Bun's dad, Dr. Yin Lok Lai MD PhD, Cambridge University

Tonight, I feel like a kid at his birthday party since I get to do fifty-five Kaiseki dinners. An in-depth explanation of what I’ve created is central to the Kaiseki dinner experience at Miya’s; each creation has an illuminating story which takes hours, cumulatively, to present. Each story allows the diner to appreciate the dish from my own unique perspective – as the inventor. The socio-historical significance of many of my dishes are often as important as their gustatory value.
Tonight’s Kaiseki dinner adventurers are a group of scientist’s from all around the world. I have a special affinity towards scientist because my father’s passion has always been research.
My dad has always carried around a pad and pens in his front pocket like the stereotypical mad scientist that you see in the movies. I know why scientists do that because I asked him one day when I was a small boy.
“Bun, I never know when I’ll get a good idea and when I do I have a pen and pad ready so that I can write it down. In fact, I even have a pen and pad next to my bed because sometimes good ideas come to me in my sleep.”
Years later, I read a book called “The Committee Of Sleep” which discusses how dreams can be used to feed one’s creativity or to solve problems. I spent most of my academic career sleeping, so this book made perfect sense to me, in bed.
This morning, when I sprang up, ideas that I had literally dreamt up for the Kaiseki party were still darting around my head like so many guppies. One idea that I felt particularly excited about was for the final course. I scribbled it down, half asleep, on the pad next to my bed.
A couple months ago, I’d fermented an experimental batch of lactose sugar sake. My brilliant idea was to warm it up and serve it in baby bottles so that each guest could feel nurtured like a…baby.
Not all the ideas that end up scribbled down on my pad are good ones. I’m sure that’s the way it went for my dad too.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 2


There Were No Crumbs Left

Yancey, French Presidential candidate Jose Bove and Bun
The other night I had dinner with one of my heroes, French presidential candidate, Jose Bove. Bove is the French Roquefort cheese farmer turned anti-globalization activist who initially became world famous for driving a tractor through a McDonald’s in Millau in 1999.
One of the many reasons I love French culture is that the French are tremendous romantics. France is one of the few places where one can drive a tractor through a McDonald’s one day and run for president the next. In this year’s French presidential election he said that he is running for the people without a voice.
Bove has supported the causes of small French organic farmers, Tahitians, Palestinians, Kanaks and indigenous Melanesians. I may not agree with all of his politics but I have to respect a person who puts the little people and the environment before big business and profit.
Famed anthropologist David Graber brought him in for dinner. Bove was one of the easiest customers I have ever had to please. He insisted on nothing and enjoyed the food, the drink, and the camaraderie in the proper French fashion. From his notorious media image, I expected a defiant political rebel, and instead found his easy-going enthusiasm refreshing. Though he is a staunch defender of traditional food cultures and my cuisine can easily represent the type of cultural homogenization that America has pioneered, he enjoyed it nonetheless.
Out of respect for Bove, many of the ingredients that I used to make his dinner was locally grown. Of course, all of the recipes were mine with the usual mixture of international influences. I created a central course of mini Big Macs with tuna sashimi to commemorate his drive through McDonald’s, which garnered the laughs that I was hoping for.
Towards the end of dinner, we smoked Connecticut tobacco in our pipes and drank lots of locally picked sassafras sake that I brewed for the occasion. As the table was finally cleared, I noticed that there were no Big Macs left, and not even a crumb on Bove’s plate.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 3


How To Properly French Kiss
The only way to truly french kiss is to kiss a French person. “French lips are softer and warmer than the lips of people of any of other nationality” (April 2007 issue of Nature.)316 That’s why nobody “American kisses” or “Chinese kisses,” as a rule. Everyone aspires to “French kissing.” My newest dish, The Softest French Kisses, which can be found on page 5 of the menu, has captured much of the sensual pleasures of french kissing; it is soft, luscious and warm.
For those of you who have never french kissed, The softest French Kisses will be almost as good an introduction to french kissing as the real thing. It is a warm sashimi of scallops in a light oyster sauce. Sashimi is traditionally served cold. I wanted to create a warm sashimi without the traditional soy sauce; inspired by my Chinese side, I chose an oyster sauce. I slowly simmered the plumpest local oysters, caramelized brown sugar, salt and potato starch until it glistened like amber. Adding sake, ginger, garlic and scallions complete this rich Cantonese-styled sauce.
The recommended method of eating this dish is to slowly and sensusally rub the scallop once around your puckered lips then, finally, sucking it into your mouth with a popping sound.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 4


Gathering Dinner At Teaswood Pond
Today I went to gather dinner ingredients at Teaswood pond in Conroe, Texas. I caught stonefly larvae, dragonfly larvae, baby crayfish, snails and tiny translucent freshwater shrimp by dragging a butterfly net through clusters of curled pondweed and grass.
The snails were abundant but tiny, like pebbles. Boiled and dipped in a roasted sesame black bean sauce, it was as good as the best escargot. The baby crayfish fried whole were like soft-shelled crab. I also fried the dragonfly and stonefly larvae. I used a standard vegetable oil to fry the larvae with, so that I could better taste what I was eating. I seasoned them with salt and they were crispy and sweet and went well with the crayfish. The shrimp tasted like their cousins from the ocean. I also dug up little freshwater clams in the sand but they didn’t taste like much (I made a simple broth, so not to interfere with the clam’s natural flavor), true to their reputation.
I dug up the root of a thorny thistle plant and simmered it in sake, soy, mirin and a dried chili pepper and it was deee-licious. A few days earlier, I had found a branch covered with dry green lichen. I had soaked it in water and changed the water about a dozen times over three days. I made sure to separate the lichen from bits of bark and grit. Sauteed with garlic, extra-virgin olive oil and a little salt it tasted like the mongrel child of seaweed and oyster mushrooms, taking the best characteristics from both parents.
My gals, Meredith and Mary Margaret, tried everything that I had collected. In fact, by the time I was done cooking, there was barely any left for me. This flattered the heck out of me! Most Texans don’t eat bugs nowadays, so I do believe that these cowgirls were brave epicures.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 5


Far From The Maddening Crowd
My mother showed me how to collect wild burdock when I was nine and I would bring home long roots of it, as a gift for her. I started reading around the same time and fell in love with “My Side Of The Mountain,” “The Cay,” “A Light In The Forest” and “The Yearling” – all children’s books that have the protagonists separated from modern life and living in tune with nature. Since I spent much of my youth playing out in the woods, to this day I consider myself a country boy more than anything else.
In 2004, Dr. Wangari Maathai won the Nobel Peace Prize. Her African woman’s movement is responsible for planting tens of millions of trees, to counter-act deforestation in Africa. She brings to attention the vital connection between environmental destruction, poverty and war. She recalled a special tree that her mother told her, as a child, never to hurt because it was connected to God. Those trees were being razed. Many indigenous cultures, especially the animistic ones, see God everywhere in nature. It makes perfect sense to me.
Perhaps, if we know how to eat from nature, which most of us do not know how to do anymore, we would appreciate it as something that nourishes our souls and we’d want to protect it more like Wangari Maathai is doing.
In many religions food and eating has religious significance. Christians have the Eucharist where bread and wine is eaten as the symbol of the body of Christ; Muslims have Ramadan and Jews have Yom Kippur where fasting brings them closer to God; in Asian Ancestor worship food is brought to the shrine to feed the souls of their departed loved ones.
Foraging to me is like prayer. It helps bring me closer to nature, and nature always makes me feel closer to God, when I am away, far from the maddening crowd.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 6

Artichokes And Apples

Sweet Mother's Milk
The television show “The Little Rascals” started my long relationship with artichokes. I didn’t grow up eating them, because Asians just don’t eat them. On one of the episodes of the show, Alfalfa is shown diligently peeling open an artichoke, leaf by leaf, and is surprised to find inside…an apple!
Later, grocery shopping with my mother, I spotted an artichoke and shamelessly begged for it. I wasn’t a kid who begged much but this was a big deal to me. I didn’t just want it. I needed it.
“Bun, do you really know what that is?”
She stopped the carriage as I reached out towards the artichoke. I kicked my feet a little and tried to pull myself out of the carriage seat to emphasize my point.
“Mom, trust meeee, I know how to eat it!” I pleaded.
The walk home from the grocery store felt like a lifetime. Finally, we sat at the speckled linoleum kitchen table that my mother had let me pick out at a tag sale, just a week earlier. My mother patiently watched as I confidently peeled it open, leaf by leaf, just like on the show but slower and with more anticipation. I eventually peeled my way to the prickly, furry center. What? Had the apple not yet developed? Closely inspected, there was no sign of even a crab apple inside. A dud! I need another one!
Artichokes are one of my favorite vegetables nowadays. I’ll have it for lunch in a sandwich, as a side during dinner or as a healthier and funner alternative to popcorn when I’m watching a movie.
*Over many years at Miya’s, I have chopped apart thousands of pounds of artichokes to be rolled into sushi and to be served steamed with a side of my six month aged hot and frothy jalapeño dip. Why am I so into this vegetable? I can’t help but wonder…is little me still searching for that apple?
*Our jalapeño sauce, which is served with our Sweet Mother’s Milk and The Kung Fu Tuna, is made from homegrown jalapeños that have been pickled. The pickling method used is a middle eastern process that causes the steamed, salted jalapeños to slowly pickle in their own juices in a vat of olive oil for six months. The result is a pickle that is dramatically milder than vegetables that have been pickled in a vinegar solution. I got the inspiration to pickle jalapeños in this way because I fell in love with the pickled eggplant, called makdoos, at Mamoun’s Falafel Restaurant.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 7

The Importance Of Peanut Butter

In fifth grade at an exclusive elementary school in New Haven, Norberto Ortiz, one of my best friends, delivered a breath of fresh air. In a school where little alligators on our tennis shirts expressed our solidarity, his choice of fashion stood out like a totem pole. That year, his jacket of choice, that even the hottest days of summer would not convince him to take off, was a shiny red plastic Michael Jackson one; the same one that M.J. wore in his “Beat It” video. His lunchbox was of the same design as his jacket; it glistened, big, red, and plastic with a semblance of the singer, pushing out of the center like he was trying to escape. Norberto’s lunchbox contained an ever-changing menagerie of food treasures that my mother was oblivious to the existence of: Twinkies, Oreos10, Cheese Doodles, Fritos, Doritos, Pringles, Ruffles, Ding Dongs, Fruit Roll-Ups, Goldfish, Cracker Jacks with the little prize in the box, every good food that this ten year old could ever desire.
My lunches were a source of constant internal struggle for me and I felt that I was at war with my clueless mother who made them. I didn’t expect some sort of utopian lunch that Norberto had. All that I wanted was the type of lunch that everybody else had; peanut butter and jelly or a ham sandwich; perhaps an apple to go with it; that simple; and maybe some Kool-Aid too. What I got for lunch was quite different; little rice balls filled with cooked fish; a bento box of chicken and vegetable fried rice with a pickled plum; a sandwich with eggs and vegetables; sushi – holy crap, no!
By lunchtime starvation was setting in so I had to eat my lunch, as much as I despised it for being different. It made me furious that something that I hated so passionately tasted so delicious. “Please,” I would think to myself, “I hope nobody sees me eating my lunch because I know people are gonna think I’m weird.”
“Mom, I only eat peanut butter sandwiches at school, okay?”
Dr. Phuey had streaks of white in his helmet of jet black hair. He was a French Vietnamese scientist who lived next door with his French wife, Teresa, who was a good friend of my mother’s.
“An Asian with a French accent, what a curious thing,” I thought to myself, not thinking that it was at all odd that my parents spoke English with a Chinese and Japanese accent. Dr. Phuey and I were in West Haven again, on a rock pier, fishing for whatever would come our way. We loved fishing but we rarely caught anything; this had more to do with our lack of knowledge as fishermen, I suspect, than the lack of fish along the coast.
Usually, after a few hours of catching seaweed and driftwood (while everyone around us were pulling up whales, practically), Dr. Phuey would unwrap his favorite sandwiches that he had prepared especially for us. I’d always eat it, smiling gratefully at Dr. Phuey as if to say “this is really yummy” while trying hard to enjoy it but never quite succeeding to. What made Dr. Phuey’s sandwich so unusual was that it was an English muffin stuffed with ham and…PEANUT BUTTER!
As I was eating a rice ball during lunchtime the next day at school, I was grateful that my mother didn’t pack me a Dr. Phuey special instead. If she had, I think I would have died, at the tender age of ten, from disgust and embarrassment.
When I have children I hope to teach them to appreciate the unusual. I hope they appreciate the uniqueness in themselves and others; above all, I hope that they learn to appreciate peanut butter and ham sandwiches.
Sometimes, I have the opportunity to invite New Haven public school children, specifically the ones who are from more challenging circumstances than mine, to my restaurant. These children don’t usually have exposure to a restaurant like mine; one that doesn’t serve pizza or burgers. Every time I have kids over, at first, the children are reluctant to try what we cook for them, then they topple into acceptance, one by one like dominos. We all need to be inspired to try something new sometimes.
There are endless possibilities for food, as there are for our lives, if we would only make the effort to look around and change our perspective.
Once in a while, when I’m thinking that things are tough;
or when I’m letting myself fall into some kind of complacency;
and when it’s best to prod myself into adjusting my world view,
so that I can be inspired again to keep marching in the right direction;
I go to my restaurant and savor a sushi roll;
the one with peanut butter in it.

Kitchen Tales: Chapter 8



David & his Mom
At Miya’s in 1983, David Hayden spun out endless steaming plates of tuna teriyaki from the tiniest kitchen in town.
When I was nine, David took me camping to Canada. I went fishing and made sunfish soup. When one of the other kids poured too much salt in it – upsetting me, David fixed it by adding potato. Later, I glowed as the adults complimented me on my soup, as they navigated through the piles of bones and scales and eyeballs floating in it.
When I was fourteen, David and I wrestled on the carpet of Miya’s. David got a bump on his head. “Davuuuuuuuu!” I heard my mom reprimand. “…but it is common sensu!” I chuckled but David felt bad whenever my mother was upset. He was her protector and if the Japanese believed in guardian angles, David was my mother’s.
David retired from Miya’s to take care of his mother and passed away shortly after she did. At the end of his life, my mother and I and a great man named Bill Fischer were among the only few peoples he wanted to see.
At home, my mother has a traditional Japanese ancestoral shrine where she prays. The ashes of my grand parents are kept there. Some of David’s are too.
Recently, I found a letter that was written to my mom in 1993 by David. He had worked at Miya’s for over a decade at that point.
Dear Yoshiko,
I want to thank you for caring about people, for caring about their health and growth as human beings first. You never did anything just for profit or for fear of losing money.
You set an example by your faith: with the courage to hold onto right principles no matter what the cost. Someone can be a good person and a good businessperson. Thank you for your patience and strength. I will not forget them.
With special regards – David

Paintings at Miyas



Reclaiming the Kwanzaa Bonanza

Dear Miya’s Sushi,
My dear friend Bernice and I had lunch yesterday in your establishment. It was Bernice’s first Miya’s experience. When she ordered the Kwanzaa Bonanza roll–which I had been telling her about ever since I first ate at Miya’s back in 2008–our server, a lovely young woman named Anna, told us that she had recently waited on a couple who, upon tasting the Kwanzaa Bonanza roll for the first time, high-fived each other. Bernice and I were pleased by this couple’s story and excited about the thought of Bernice’s having a similar experience…that is until Anna, upon further questioning, revealed that the couple from the story was white.
Shocked, appalled, and not to be outdone, Bernice and I were determined to reclaim the
Kwanzaa Bonanza roll in the name of the black people for whom it was so generously and
thoughtfully created. Therefore, it is with great pleasure that we send to you the attached
photograph, taken by our delightful and obliging waitress Anna, in which Bernice and I celebrate not only the exquisiteness that is Kwanzaa Bonanza, but also all that we love about our blackness.
Reclaiming the Kwanzaa Bonanza

RSVP

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