Even in Lima, where exciting Japanese-Peruvian restaurants abound, Kansha (“gratitude”) would be a contender. Here on New York’s upper east side it is a stand-out via Chef-Owner Jorge Dionicio (below), who has worked at Morimoto, O Ya, Akashi, Hirohisa, Azabu, and, most recently, Sushi Noz.

         The Peruvian connection with Japanese food began back in the 1980s after Nobu Matsuhisa moved from his home in Saiatama to Lima, where he developed his style of incorporating Peruvian ingredients, not least chile peppers, with Japanese. After moving to open his namesake place in Beverly Hills, that style became popular with Americans used to fusion cooking.

         Dionicio is himself Peruvian and emigrated to the U.S. in 2002, starting his culinary career at UCHI in Austin, Texas, then travelled to Japan to perfect his sushi craft at the World Sushi Skills Institute, receiving a Kuro Obi (black belt) certification there. He then did a stage at  the renowned Cala and Maido in Lima.

         At Kansha Dionicio uses all imported seafood from Tokyo’s  Tokyo’s Market along with Peruvian ingredients such as white choclo corn, quinoa and aji amarillo peppers. The one-page menu is categorized by Cold Tasting, Nigiri, Maki, Starters, Hot Tasting and Desserts.

         Kansha is a small storefront space, brightly lit, minimally decorated and for its size (16 seats) not particularly loud. Upstairs is an six-seat omakase counter made from a 100-year-old Hinoki tree (the price of the meal is $145 here). Downstairs our party of four just left ourselves in Dionicio’s hands, asking for selections from each of the menu sections, though I just had to order pop-in-the-mouth rock shrimp to dip into garlicky tocoto aïoli  with takuan Japanese pickle. Within the Cold Tasting category we enjoyed a ceviche with leche de tigre, cilantro and those fat Peruvian choclo corn kernels.  

         Tiradito has become something of a classic within Peruvian-Japanese food, a sashimi (we had blue fin tuna) with an aji amarillo and chalaca sauce of citrus, onions, tomato and chilies. Sleek hamachi yellowtail came with Serrano peppers and wonderful crispy potatoes, while lustrous king salmon was dressed with ponzu and a wasabi salsa that was delightfully mild so as to not clash with the delicacy of the fish.

         Our Hot Tasting item was a taco of  very tender grilled octopus, with aji, puka, and waka Thai.

         The came an array of lovely sushi, each species distinctive from each other, velvety, supple and served at the right temperature. The sake maki of salmon came with a lightly sweet caramelized dashi wasabi salsa;  bluefin tuna maki was married to with small kyuri Japanese cucumber and shiso;  shiro maki of madai fish was sided with avocado, olive oil and lemon zest.

We ended our meal with a trio of ice creams that included an interesting sample of matcha, black sesame and lucuma sugar. Picarones, Peruvian donuts, made with Japanese Okinawan sweet potatoes and Kabocha.

There is a tiny cocktail bar and the wine list, though small, works with this kind of food.

So much at Kansha is new but nothing is overwrought. Every ingredient compliments each other, with the seafood as the underlying inspiration. So, if you can’t put up with the huge and cacophonous Nobus in New York (or elsewhere around the world), Kansha is both a relief and s starting point for learning about this enticing cuisine.

Open nightly.

Back in Paris the police had in fact made an arrest. Borel phoned David to tell him that one of their informants had been with a group of Syrians under surveillance for possible links to Al Queda. At a meeting, according to the informant, one of the Syrians had said that “the event had gone well,” without specifying the event. Then one of them said, “Yes, but it is too bad they did not all die. None of them died.”

Le Quartier de Panier

         Clearly it was a reference to the hotel crime, and it gave the Sûreté a focus for checking out where those Syrians had been on the night of the infestation. Of the six men in the room, one was the informant, the rest living in two apartments in the suburb of Montreuil. Borel’s men checked out their names, when they entered France and which of them might have checked into any of the three hotels that night. The information came back quickly: One of the men had entered France three weeks before from Syria, stopping on the way in Tehran. He checked into the Hôtel Prince de Carignon at five in the evening with a Syrian passport under the name Saad Salah, 26.
         The employee at the front desk said there was nothing unusual about Salah: He was casually but neatly dressed, spoke French, asked for a room on a higher floor and where he might find a good bistro nearby. He then retired with his one piece of luggage, and four hours later he left, saying he was going to one of the bistros the desk had recommended. The man at the desk said he couldn’t be sure if he came back while he was on duty nor did the next man on duty notice Salah return.
         The police checked out the bistros the desk had recommended—they had Salah’s passport photo to show around—but  none of the proprietors or staff had any recollection of seeing him. Further checks of bars in the immediate neighborhood turned up nothing more.
         With only that information to go on, the police raided the two apartments where the Syrians lived and found Salah sitting watching Arab TV. When he saw the police with guns drawn, Salah grabbed a pistol from the table  but the police were already upon him and wrenched his wrist to take the gun out of his hand. He and his roommate were arrested and taken to headquarters in handcuffs. Salah’s possessing a firearm was more than enough to hold him on.
         David’s response to the news was, of course, elated, then he realized that unless Marciano was not involved in the Hôtel de la Reine crime, all three hotels might have been attacked by three different Syrians from that cell. And if Marciano was involved, then whoever set up the operation had most likely hired three different people to hit three different hotels and probably did not know of the others’ existence.
         “This would be a lot easier if all the perpetrators came from Marseilles,” he said to Katie.
         “And what fun would that be?” said Katie. “Anyway, with one of those guys locked up, we can just concentrate on Marciano down here.”
         David had spoken with Iacovino and told him about their meeting with Marciano. The French detective said, “That was probably not a good thing to do, Monsieur. If this Marciano suspects you are investigating him, it could become dangerous for you. Guys like Marciano know how to handle the local police when they pay a visit. Mostly they just say nothing and keep quiet. You may have tricked Marciano into a lie about his whereabouts in Paris, but now he’s going to find out more about you than you know about him. I really think it would be wiser if you left Marseilles and returned to Paris or the United States.”
         “Detective Iacovino,” said David, “this isn’t the first time a criminal has tried to come after me.”
         “No, but before, you were a cop, oui? They don’t go after cops. But you are not a cop anymore, so they have no fear of your colleagues coming down on them and their gang.”
         Katie was trying not to show her deep concern that this might lead to yet another attempt on their lives. For despite her toughness as a seasoned investigative reporter, she didn’t think any story was worth risking her life for, unless she was imbedded in a war zone. That was not the case here in Marseilles, and she didn’t want to end up, as the saying goes, “sleeping with the fishes.” That almost happened on two other occasions.
         They had dinner that evening on the waterfront under an April moon, and, since the tourist season had not yet gotten underway, it was fairly quiet so that they could listen to the sound of the sea lapping onto the quays. All the wicked things going on in the world seemed very far away.
         The next morning, they heard nothing from Iacovino or Borel, though La Provence de Marseilles newspaper carried a brief story on  the Syrians being arrested on suspicion of committing the attack on the Prince de Carignon.  (CNN International had nothing.) Katie read the Marseilles paper’s story to David, which said that efforts were ongoing to find the culprits for all the hotel attacks and that the virus had, in fact, been traced to a Russian laboratory from which it may have been stolen. The laboratory itself had no comment.
         Katie and David were pondering their next move, not seeing much chance they could find further evidence that Marciano was involved, when David’s phone rang. It was Marciano.
         “Are you still interested in renting a car, Monsieur?”
         David looked at Katie and turned the phone on speaker.
         “Yes, very much so. You have one?”
         “Oui, I think I have one you will like for your trip to Paris. Very fast car.”
         “Sounds good. When can we get it?”
         “Why don’t you come by my shop this evening around seven, take a look and if you like it, you can have it tomorrow morning.”
         David said that sounded fine, and the conversation ended.
         “Still no mention of price,” he said. “And what do we do if he really has a car for us? I suspect it’s going to be way out of our price league.”
         “I guess we can always turn it down,” said Katie, “Say we decided to take the train.”  
      “Which should make him all the more suspicious after we went in their spouting about wanting a big luxury car.”
         “Guess we’ll just have to play it by ear when we get there.”
         The two Americans spent the day sightseeing in Marseilles, strolling the back streets of Le Panier, the city’s oldest quarter, where the Museum of Natural History (above) was located, and trekking up the hill to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. After lunch, they relaxed in their hotel, watching the clock. Katie called Catherine in Paris.
         “How are the fashion shows?”
         “The first couple of days are for the lesser and up-and-coming designers, so there’s a lot of very experimental stuff, trying to make a splash, but I haven’t seen anything yet of real interest. I did a short spot on the opening, with a bunch of dignitaries drinking D.P. CNN loves that stuff when they have nothing better to show.”
         “Anything new on the hotel case?”
         “Just what I read in the paper and heard on French TV. The officials all say they are ‘hopeful’ that more arrests will be made soon. How’s it going with you two?”
    “Well, we located this guy Marciano, and I’m afraid we tipped our hand and he’s suspicious of us. He lied to us about staying in the hotel in Paris. Said he couldn’t afford such places.”
         “Yeah, well, somebody paid for him to stay there. The rooms start at about 400 euros. The one he stayed in, I found out, cost more like 600. Not too many auto mechanics can afford that.”   
         Katie said that she had to hang up because she and David were headed over to Marciano’s shop. “Wish us luck,” she said.
         “Wish I was with you. I love Marseilles.”
         David, who had left a message with Iacovino about the upcoming meeting, was pointing at his watch, so Katie grabbed a sweater and the two of them set off for Marciano’s garage. It was after hours, so the place was mostly dark, with a light on in  the office. David knocked and after a few moments, Marciano emerged from the office and opened the door.
         “Go around the back,” he said, “the car is in the rear garage.”
         Katie and David did as they were told, finding a garage door open on a street just wide enough for a car to enter and exit.  It was still twilight, with no lights on inside. The garage had no cars inside. Marciano was already there.