Page 13 of A Serving of Hope

She didn’t remember ever trying venison before, but it turned out to be surprisingly easy to eat, probably because it had been deep-fried. Compared to something like chicken kara-age, the flavors seemed richer and deeper.

“Some more sake, maybe?” asked Nagare, appearing from the kitchen right on cue. She had just been thinking she could do with another drink.

“Please. Whatever you recommend.”

“Here’s one from Omi I think you’ll like. Has a nice sturdy flavor.”

As she worked her way through the dishes, Shiori felt the first prickles of anxiety. Was she really going to ask the person who had created these masterpieces to recreate something as simple as a rice ball? The mere thought made her flush with embarrassment.

Her family had never been very well off, and growing up in Murakami she’d only known modest food. To her parents food was sustenance, not something you indulged in. It was only after moving to Tokyo two years ago that her eating habits had undergone a shift; with a steady salary and countless top-tier eateries at her doorstep, she had reinvented herself as someone who appreciated the finer things. Without that time in the capital, the sheer artistry of Nagare’s cooking would have been lost on her.

Savoring the Omi sake, which hit all her favorite notes, she polished off the rest of the meal. Nagare returned from the kitchen just as she was setting her chopsticks down.

“Here’s the rice dish. I hope I’m not rushing you?”

“Not at all,” replied Shiori, wiping her lips with the damp oshibori. “I don’t want to keep Koishi waiting.”

“This is ayu rice. I grill the fish first, season it ever so slightly, then flake the flesh off and steam it with the rice. I have to admit I’m a little nervous serving rice to someone from Niigata.”

Nagare spooned rice from a round wooden container into a small bowl, which he placed in front of Shiori.

She might have been born in Niigata, but that didn’t mean she grew up eating any of the prefecture’s famous brands of rice. In fact, she’d never paid much attention to where it came from, though the rice they got from a local farmer had been undeniably tasty.

“It smells wonderful. Looks incredible too.”

“Try topping it with some chopped perilla, myoga ginger, mitsuba, and pepper tree leaves. The miso soup is with autumn eggplant. Enjoy!” Tucking the round tray under his arm, Nagare disappeared back into the kitchen.

Shiori’s father had never cared much about the quality of the rice, but he’d been very particular about how her mother cooked it. If it was even slightly too firm or too soft, he’d yell at her until he was red in the face.

A faint aroma of ayu drifted up from the bowl, but the rice was uniformly white in appearance. The fish had simply been mixed in with the rice; even when she tried a mouthful, it was hard to tell it was there at all. Then she added the perilla, mitsuba, myoga, and pepper tree leaves, and everything changed. It was as though, all of a sudden, a fragrant breeze had come drifting toward her across a river.

Shiori thought back to the day when, sitting on the banks of the Miomote, she’d had her first real conversation with Yasuhiko Ono.

She had been eighteen, and he nineteen. Listening to Yasuhiko speak passionately of his dream of becoming one of Japan’s top chefs, she had felt strangely embarrassed. She had no real dreams of her own, and had only started working at a local beauty salon because the pay and conditions were decent.

She recalled, as vividly as if it were only yesterday, the evening sun shimmering on the river’s surface.

“Well?” said Nagare, appearing with a teapot. “How was it?”

“Absolutely delicious,” she replied with simple sincerity.

“Good to hear. I’ll show you through to the office when you’re ready.”

“I’ll see her now, then.” Shiori took a quick sip of the tea in her cup and, smiling, got to her feet.

The building was built in the old Kyoto style, often likened to that of an eel’s bed: a narrow frontage concealing a deep interior that stretched back from the street. He led her down a hallway lined with photos. Almost all of them were of food.

“Are these all from the restaurant?”

“Just about, though there are a few family snaps in there too. I don’t usually bother writing down recipes, so this is my way of keeping track.”

“You make all sorts, then—not just Japanese food. Where did you train?”

“My family ran a restaurant. My father was the second generation, and I was supposed to be the third. I never had what you’d call proper training, though—just sort of watched and learned. And to top it off I got sidetracked along the way.”

Nagare gave a rueful smile. Shiori wanted to ask what he meant by getting sidetracked, but he had turned away as if to signal that the conversation was over.

“Koishi will take it from here,” he said, opening the door at the end of the hallway.