In Japan, the New Year table, osechi 御節, is built not of dishes but of wishes. A symbol sits in every compartment of the box: black beans ask for diligence, fish roe for abundance. The most graceful wish belongs to the shrimp. With its bowed body and long whiskers, ebi 海老 says at the table: live until your back bends and your beard grows long. Its kanji make the same joke: the old man of the sea.

In the slender roll, this auspicious guest wears its plainest clothes. The sweet, springy flesh of poached shrimp, the coolness of vinegared rice, nori’s frame; three elements, one sentence.

The invisible craft is in the poaching. The shrimp’s sweetness is innate but fragile; left too long over the fire it loses first its spring, then its sweetness. The right poach is measured in seconds, not minutes, and iced water then stops the cooking exactly where it stands.

Eight slices, eight small wishes. From our table, to your long life.