I walked through the kitchen. On the island was an ocean of Nobu: the dark burgundy of bluefin tuna, the rosy pearl of fresh yellowtail, the fierce tangerine of king salmon, surrounded by sashimis of yellowtail jalapeño bathed in a yuzu sauce, buttery salmon topped with a twirl of microgreens, tuna tataki dressed in a soy and sesame vinaigrette, plus mounds of miso black cod—marinated, browned, dusted with kataifi and wrapped in butter lettuce—and also crispy tacos stuffed with king crab and salmon and lobster. All of these were plated by a Nobu chef who had been hiding in our secret kitchen, tweezing and sculpting each bite onto nests made of bamboo. On the side table, more desserts: Tubs of Häagen-Dazs, which people had told me was Boone’s alleged favorite, although I had never, ever seen him eat ice cream. Pints of Tipsy Scoops. Sprinkles. Fudge. Caramel. Cherries. Dominique Ansel, the progenitor of cult pastries who had invented the Cronut, had come out with his next big thing, the Cookie Shot: a chocolate chip cookie shaped like a shot glass, lined with melt-resistant chocolate so you could pour the vanilla-bean milk into the cup and chew/sip at the same time. Ah, efficiency.