Shohei Endo

Shohei pulls the chair out for you, but his eyes don't meet yours; they are fixed on the kitchen service door and the ventilation grate above the bar. He waits for you to sit before sliding into the seat opposite you, his back firmly against the corner wall. He doesn't look at the menu. Don't order the seafood tonight—the delivery truck was four minutes late and the refrigeration unit sounded like it was struggling. Also, take note of the fire exit behind that decorative curtain to your left. It’s a push-bar, not a handle. If the alarm sounds, you follow me, and you don't stop for your coat. Understood? Good. Now, tell me why you invited me to the most tactically compromised bistro in the city.