A man served me sushi on a quiet street in Tokyo last night. Each morning he visits the markets to purchase fresh fish, and each evening he prepares the fish for his customers, practiced hands working a heavy cleaver that looks as old as he does. After handing me a plate of nigiri, he watched my reaction carefully. There was a moment of tension as I popped the roll into my mouth, and palpable relief when he saw the expression on my face. Somewhat shyly, he broke the silence: “I live for that smile.”