The menu on the pier said Clam Chowder. My tongue, numb from a bitter Boston rain, said Calm Chowder. In my homeland, inventing your own dish in front of the master of the house is an offense that requires formal exile. The waitress, a terrifying woman named Brenda whose apron had survived forty years of haddock, did not blink. She wheeled around and bellowed into the steam: ONE CALM CHOWDER! HOLD THE WAVES! KEEP THE HARBOR FLAT! Deep in the kitchen, a spatula slammed the counter like a naval gun. ZERO TURBULENCE COMING UP, BRENDA! NOT A RIPPLE ON MY WATCH! What arrived at my table was a ceramic bowl so thick, so still, so completely unbothered by the storms of the Atlantic, that two hexagonal crackers rested upon the surface like sleeping turtles. Not a single bubble rose. The sea had been pacified by heavy cream. I did not eat it. I communed with it. I have returned eighteen times. Yesterday Brenda did not even hand me the menu. She saw my wet cloak at the door, turned to the kitchen, and roared: BRING OUT THE PEACEFUL OCEAN FOR THE SAMURAI! AND PUT EXTRA BUTTER ON THE CALM!