The private dining room could have come straight from Japan. Everything looks like genuine wood or paper or ceramics: the long low table, the lanterns, pots and cups and bowls. Flower arrangements just so, as if designed by an artist. The maitre d’ wears traditional costume and gestures with a small fan. Women in pastel-shaded kimonos hasten hither and yon, without ever seeming to rush, delivering things, removing things.