Every kid in Japan grows up catching crawfish from Louisiana. Almost none of us has ever eaten one. In 1927, a frog farm near Kamakura ordered 100 crawfish from New Orleans, as frog food. Only 27 survived the trip. The farm closed. The 27 escaped. Today they live in nearly every ditch and pond in Japan. We catch them with dried squid on a string, keep them in a bucket by the front door, and give them names. To us, they are not food. They are summer vacation. Last May, our company's biggest customer flew to Tokyo. Mr. Landry. 66. Hands like two catcher's mitts. From Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, which, he informed us before he sat down, is the Crawfish Capital of the World. My boss, Mr. Ogata, took him for a walk after lunch. Mr. Ogata has been with our company for 31 years. He eats rice balls with chopsticks. I have worked under him for nine years and never once seen his fingers touch food. At a little pond, a boy was lying on his stomach, pulling up a string. His bucket held about thirty crawfish. Mr. Landry stopped walking. He crouched down. "Hey, little man. Where's your mama boilin' these?" I translated. The boy looked at me like I had asked where his mother boils his hamster. Mr. Ogata explained, very politely, that in Japan, these are for children. Nobody eats them. Mr. Landry stood up slowly. He looked at the pond. Then past it, at the whole city. "How long y'all had 'em?" "Since 1927," I said. "Only 27 survived the boat." "Twenty-seven," he said. "And they took the whole country." He nodded. "Sounds like Louisiana." Then he took off his cap and held it over his heart, like the anthem had started. "Ninety-nine years," he said. "Y'all been sittin' on the biggest crawfish boil in the history of the world. And you been feedin' it squid." Mr. Ogata emailed me at 3:14 the next morning. The subject line was one word: "Zarigani." He had found out that since 2023, Japan's government has listed them as an invasive species. Releasing them is banned. Removing them is encouraged. Mr. Landry read it twice. "Cher," he said, "that ain't a problem. That's a menu." Three weeks later, a 60-quart pot, a propane burner, and ten pounds of seasoning arrived at our office from Louisiana. Mr. Ogata reserved a riverside barbecue spot. The form had a box for "Purpose." He wrote: "To correct a misunderstanding from 1927." That Saturday, eight of us lay on our stomachs at the edge of a river, in collared shirts, with dried squid on strings. When Mr. Ogata pulled up the first one, he made a sound I have never heard come out of a man in a necktie. We caught 214. At six, Mr. Landry joined on video. It was 4 a.m. in Breaux Bridge. He had set an alarm. Mr. Ogata was timing the boil with a stopwatch. "Put the watch away, cher. Taste one. You'll know." Mr. Ogata does not do anything without a number. He looked at the stopwatch for a long time. Then he put it in his pocket. Next came the soak. Fire off. You let them sit in the spice. "How long?" "Till they're right." Our department has a 40-page manual for ordering paper clips. Mr. Ogata gathered us into a small circle, and we held a short meeting about what "right" means. Then he spread newspaper over two folding tables and poured the whole pot out. Crawfish, corn, potatoes, sausage, steam. A red mountain. In Japan, dinner comes in small separate dishes, arranged like a painting. Somebody asked where the plates were. "Table's the plate," said Mr. Landry. Pinch the tail. Suck the head. Mr. Landry showed us twice on the screen. Nobody moved. Then Mr. Ogata picked one up with his bare hands. He pinched the tail. He sucked the head. He closed his eyes. He set the empty shell down on the newspaper, carefully, the way you put down a letter you plan to keep. Then he stood, faced the phone, and bowed. All the way down. "Landry-san. We are sorry it took ninety-nine years." On the screen, Mr. Landry wiped his eye with his thumb. "Naw, cher," he said. "Best part of a boil is the soak. Y'all just did a long one." The boy from the pond came too, with his bucket and his mother. He ate one. Then he stared into his bucket like it had been lying to him his whole life. On Monday at noon, Mr. Ogata ate the leftovers at his desk. With his hands. Tie tucked into his shirt. The president of our company walked by and asked what on earth that was. Mr. Ogata held one out and said, very calmly: "Pinch the tail, sir."