The avocado was an immigrant who came to the sushi counter looking for work. It was hired in 1960s Los Angeles to stand in for fatty tuna that could not be found; its job was to imitate toro’s silken richness. Good actors do not stay extras. Today the avocado belongs to the permanent cast of the world’s counters, confident enough, as in this maki, to take the stage alone.

The fruit’s own story is far older. Its homeland is the south of present-day Mexico; the Aztecs called it ahuacatl. Japan gave it one of the most affectionate nicknames in food history: mori no batā 森のバター, butter of the forest.

The simplicity of this maki is deceptive, because the whole weight rests on one ingredient’s ripeness. An avocado’s readiness is measured in days: cut early it is hard and silent, caught late it is tired. Every morning the avocados pass through our hands; the one that enters the maki is the one standing at the exact middle of its day.

The green of the cream, the white of the rice, the black of the nori. Three colors, three textures, one sentence: sometimes less really is more.