Who knew you couldn’t point your chopsticksat someone?
“I took up Japanese classes as soon as I got here. In the classroom there was a sign on the wall in giant gold letters, it said,The golden rule is to be respectful. It’s more about being aware. I’d read it was easy to offend people, so I was conscious of that whenI arrived.”
She turned right onto another long winding road that went on for miles.
“Have you offended anyone?” I asked.
“Only once that I know of.” Brooke squirmed.
“Bad?”
“When I first got here, I went to a high-end sushi restaurant, and the sushi pieces were quite large. I was still getting used to chopsticks, so I cut the sushi piece in half. The chef looked at me like I’d just told him his cooking was terrible, and he muttered something underhis breath.”
“What did you do wrong?” I wasn’t following.
“I didn’t understand at first, but the waiter informed me that splitting sushi is seen as incredibly rude to a sushi chef. How was I toknow that?”
“Seriously? I had no idea either.”
“I made it worse; I placed my chopsticks in my bowl of rice, just to hold them whilst I had a drink.”
“Okay... What’s so bad about that?” I laughed.
“It symbolises death.”
I almost choked on my water. “No,it doesn’t?”
“Yep, at funerals in Japanese culture, people stick chopsticks in the rice facing upwards during rituals. It reminds them of death, and it’s bad luck. Obviously, I had no idea, but it tipped the sushi chef over the edge; he began ranting and refused to serve usafter that.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, the guy next to me was not as conservative and found the whole thing rather funny. I haven’t been back to that place since.”She cringed.
“I’m not surprised.” I could picture Brooke’s face going increasingly flushed in that situation. It made me laugh.
“It’snot funny.”
“It’s a little funny. Did your dad not have anything to say about that?” Her face dropped. It was the first time either of us had mentioned her father, or as I preferred to think of him—the devil. He was the elephant in the room, and I wanted to address the subject early on.
“Not really.”
The conversation ended swiftly.
We spoke about different Netflix series and flicked through my Spotify playlists only to discover she knew the words to every song I assumed wasn’t mainstream. I informed her of the recent drama in my life regarding Danielle’s pregnancy. She asked about the firm and how everyone was doing, which ultimately resulted in a twenty-minute conversation about the bizarre things Paula had been doing, including her most recent purchase—a parrot.
“She bought a parrot?”
“Yes. It’s green and yellow, and she called it Moira.”
“Why Moira?” Brooke asked.
“The previous owner was obsessed with the TV showSchitt’s Creek. The parrot just keeps saying, ‘Moira Rose, Moira Rose’,repeatedly.”
Brooke burst out laughing. “That’sbrilliant.”
“She’s been trying to teach Moira to say,Holly’s a shit bag, so I get that every time she calls.” She found that amusing too, but I was more than happy to see her laugh atmy expense.
The SatNav indicated we were thirty minutes from our destination. I’d brought supplies in the form of Tokyo Banana Rolls and Kit Kats, but not just any flavoured Kit Kats. They were double cookie flavour, which happened to be my favourite. Beth went through a phase of trying the 300+ flavours produced in Japan. She’d often sent me care packages of the flavours she hated, so as her best friend I could experience them too. Ginger ale was the worst, oh, and cherry blossom. Eww.
