Boston Seafood

Every once in a while I’d get dragged along with Itochu managers to visit a company they were interested in. One day in April, Ito-san blew into the Santa Clara office on his way to Boston. He wanted Fukuhara-san and myself to accompany him to a company whose software CTC was evaluating for distribution in Japan. Another CTC employee, Yamada-san, had flown directly to the East Coast and would meet us in Boston.
As I generally focused on locating and presenting new companies, I was hesitant to make the trip. But one can’t ignore his major “client” or a headquarters request. I also considered the call to be an indication of growing confidence in my abilities and contribution. Better go. Besides, we’d no doubt eat well in a city known for good restaurants and bars. Duty called.
I met Fukuhara-san and the boys at a hotel in Boston. Our visitors had rented a car and demonstrated a shaky understanding of Boston traffic en route to the company.
Waiting for our contact to arrive, I surveyed the small but comfortable lobby. On the walls hung some of their advertising layouts. One picture featured a young woman in tight, skimpy clothing and dark make-up that brought to my mind the image of an aggressive hooker. The caption spoke of performance issues and the sexual innuendo was rock-concert loud. The wisdom of advertising one’s products with a prostitute escaped me.
On the other wall was the close-up image of a middle aged Japanese man who was clearly displeased. The wrinkled face and frown about to break into a scowl was directed intensely at the viewer. The unstated threats of punishment were cloaked behind words criticizing poor performance.
I walked up to the receptionist. “Are these actual ads you’ve printed for your products?” I asked.
“Yes, we ran these nationally. They’ve gotten a big response.”
“Really. So, your advertising involves prostitutes and Japan bashing.”
“Well,” she said defensively, “I’ll let you talk to our VP of marketing about that. He’s right here.”
The identified VP, a man in his mid-thirties, had been reading something behind her desk. I introduced myself. I invited him over to the framed pictures and shared my viewpoint. “Prostitution and Japan-bashing: is that your marketing strategy?”
He acknowledged my point but claimed the reported effectiveness of the ads supported his choices. I shook my head, puzzled, but let it pass. It was his marketing department and company, not mine.
As we settled into a conference room, the VP of business development gave his dog and pony show. The Itochu representatives wanted to believe. I let them listen and ask a few questions before I added a few myself.
Some business areas were getting so crowded that there was bound to be a shake-out. What were the differentiating aspects of this company over any other? They had a good list of customers signed up, though not yet engaged. They had investors clamoring for a piece of the anticipated action. Their valuation was in the hundreds of millions; yet they were less than two years old and didn’t’ have a full service line-up. And I was still bothered by hookers and scowling Japanese.
We finally bailed out of their offices with promises of high interest and requests for more information that might not be sent and probably wouldn’t be read. More than likely, this would be a reference sale: if enough respectable customers signed up for the service, CTC would want to do some similar offering in Japan under a jointly-run arrangement.
Ito-san and Yamada-san had been talking about Boston lobster and were determined to go to Legal Seafood for lunch. No objection from me! We started with hors d’oeuvres of shrimp cocktail and mussels, which we ate hungrily with fresh bread. I suggested Cioppino, a favorite seafood soup Annie made as an irregular tradition around New Years. This “appetizer” was a meal in itself. I was having a hard time finishing and we hadn’t even seen the entree.
As we chatted away, the waiter returned to inform us that the two-pound lobster we had ordered was no longer available. We could choose one-pound or three-pound. Yamada-san quickly chose the larger … or should I say largest. When the waiter returned, he placed before us the largest crustacean I’d ever seen. People at nearby tables stopped their conversations to galk at this behemoth from the ocean floor. My compatriots expressed delight at this wonderful specimen. We all eagerly adjusted our bibs and shared the fruits of some lobsterman’s work.
My belief that younger vegetables and seafood are sweeter proved correct. However, this observation did not slow my hand as I cracked, dipped, and stuffed. My stomach was not large enough. I’d never thought I’d use the phrase “too much of a good thing” on seafood. I pushed back in my chair.
My luncheon companions were all typically trim. Even Fukuhara-san, open to years of corruption by American cuisine and the responsibility of entertaining Japanese guests on junkets to Silicon Valley, was yet a slender man. I wondered where they put the food. Was this genetics at work?
Between the four of us, we couldn’t finish. In some ironic way, the lobster had won. We, the vanquished, were content in our defeat. The waiter asked if we wanted desert. We laughed and collapsed into comfortable conversation.
I was scheduled for a return flight that day. Normally I’d have enjoyed seeing my cousins or visiting museums; but appointments awaited on the home front. I looked across the table at the remains of a hundred and fifty dollar lobster. How could we send away uneaten such dishes as Cioppino and boiled lobster? It all seemed unconscionable.
My friends pushed the lobster plate toward me. “Finish it!” they urged. I couldn’t. An idea struck me: I’d be home in seven hours; if I could get some ice, I might be able to bring some with me. They cheered me on as I told the waiter of my plan. I took a claw that was three inches across and put it in a Styrofoam box. Even if it spoiled, at least I could show Annie and the girls its incomparable size.
We walked outside along the harbor. The Hyatt sat across the water not far from Logan airport. It seemed to me a boat would be better transportation than the freeways. As we walked, I spotted a little ferry service and suggested to Fukuhara-san that we take it.
Ito-san and Yamada-san were staying in Boston and would remain ashore. I decided to query them about Japan-bashing. They had not appeared to react as much as I did to the advertisement. Was I over-generalizing?
Fukuhara-san replied, “Ah, older Japanese businessman might look like that.” I gathered that some of the old guard could put up a pretty stern expression of disapproval. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t seen these at Itochu. Yoshizumi-san often looked racked with disapproval, but that was just his facial expression, not his actual intention. Sumino-san often expressed dissatisfaction, but he did so with an neutral or even smiling facade. No, I had been blessed with a more jovial bunch.
My associates did not see this picture as a criticism of Japan, just a valid shot of a stern boss. It was I who was generalizing this to Japanese businessmen, I alone who was bothered. I shrugged and wrote it off to another breach in my cultural understanding.
Fukuhara-san and I said goodbye to Ito-san and Yamada-san and boarded our water taxi. I expected they would have a fine adventure in Boston. I begrudged them not in the least. In a business culture where one’s distinguishing compensation was reflected in the Travel and Entertainment budget, these boys were enjoying their bonuses.