ABSTRACT
One hears many gloomy predictions about the ultimate fate, through success, assimilation and what have you, of the Japanese American community. But the persistence of obon season tells another tale. On a recent Saturday night, my wife and I were walking through Los Angeles’s Little Tokyo looking for a place to eat before taking in a play later that evening. Parking on Central in front of the Japanese American National Museum (they don’t ticket on weekends), we walked through the Japanese Village Plaza, then headed toward Honda Plaza in search of inspiring food. As we approached Second and Central, the smell hit us. Teriyak wafted through the air calling our names. We poked our heads into a couple of restaurants on Central. Not coming from there. We crossed the street and walked through Honda Plaza. The smell seemed to get more distant as we peered into the various restaurants there. As we were leaving Honda Plaza, I happened to notice a sign: Higashi Hongwanji. Obon. Today. We looked at each other, smiled, and hightailed it to the church.
