One of Japanese cooking’s unwritten rules goes like this: in a single bite, textures should converse, never shout. Avocado ebi maki is the textbook case.

The shrimp is springy; it resists the bite for an instant, then yields sweetly. The avocado never resists at all; its creamy softness spreads across the palate at once. One is snap, the other flow; the bridge between them is built by the pearled rice and the crackle of nori. Four voices, one chord.

The shrimp arrives with its own good omen. Its Japanese name, ebi, is written 海老: the old man of the sea. The bent back and long whiskers make it Japan’s symbol of long life, and a shrimp sits at the head of the osechi, the New Year table. The avocado, meanwhile, is the fruit the Japanese call butter of the forest; it carries no omen, but its texture is persuasive enough.

Eight slices; in each, the garden and the sea shaking hands, with a good wish on top. Small bites are sometimes more generous than large plates.