Page 2 of A Serving of Hope

“Something to drink?” Koishi asked. “We have all sorts.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Kenichi said, “but I am thirsty. A beer would be perfect.”

“Draft or bottle?” asked Nagare.

“One of the small bottles, if you have them.”

“Of course.” Nagare hurried back to the kitchen.

“The humidity can be unbearable at this time of year,” said Koishi, pulling a white towel from her pocket and dabbing at her brow. “Once it gets sticky like this, you know the heat is here to stay.”

“I used to complain about the cold winters back home,” Kenichi said, pressing his own towel to his neck again as he eyed the food on the tray. “This is almost making me miss them.”

“Shall I give you a quick run-through?” asked Nagare, returning to his side.

Kenichi leaned forward. “Please.”

“As Koishi was saying, Kyoto can get quite muggy at this time of year, which doesn’t exactly do wonders for the appetite. But there are also plenty of ingredients that are at their best right now, and those are what I’ve focused on here. In the glass bowl in the top left is ayu sashimi—segoshi-style, with the soft bones left in—dressed with myoga ginger and perilla. Try it with the vinegared miso or the wasabi soy sauce. Alongside that is hamo eel tempura, served with curry salt. The small Karatsu plate on the right is lightly seared Omi beef, paired with an amanatsu ponzu sauce for a citrus kick. If you like, you can add a little grated garlic to the ponzu. On the left of the middle row is steamed pork—try that with the Korean-style sweet-and-spicy sauce, or just the mustard soy sauce if you want to keep things simple. In the Koimari bowl in the center is the uzaku: grilled eel and finely sliced Kema cucumber tossed in black rice vinegar. On the right is a mini beef-cutlet sandwich, made with lean Ishigaki beef. The bottom row is a Kyoto vegetable salad, though I’ve never been entirely sure what qualifies as a Kyoto vegetable. Greens, onions, and root vegetables from a farmer I know, dressed with sesame sauce and chopped shibazuke pickles. Sprinkle a little ichimi pepper over it if you like. And instead of rice today, I’m serving a sobagome-zosui, a sort of buckwheat porridge. Just let me know when you’d like me to bring that out.”

With a smile, Nagare returned to the kitchen, Koishi following close behind.

Alone in the dining area, Kenichi sipped his beer and wondered where to start.

After trying a bit of the salad, he set his chopsticks down. “Kyoto vegetables, eh…”

He reached for a piece of ayu sashimi, dipped it in the vinegared miso, and slipped it into his mouth. It tasted so unlike anything he’d ever eaten that he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Maybe people thought of this sort of thing as a delicacy, but it wasn’t the kind of flavor that left him craving more.

Then again, he’d never been that interested in food. Maybe it was only natural that he had no idea how to judge it.

“How is it, then?” asked Nagare, who had arrived at his side.

“It’s delicious,” Kenichi replied tactfully.

“Glad to hear it.” Nagare glanced at the empty bottle. “Another beer?”

“No, thank you. Think I’ve had enough.”

“All right then. Just let me know when you’re ready for the buckwheat porridge.” The chef slipped back through the curtain with the empty beer bottle. Kenichi watched him leave, then reached for the cutlet sandwich and took a bite.

“Wow,” he murmured.

The meat was just the right firmness, releasing a rush of rich juices as he chewed. The lightly toasted bread was the perfect match for the cutlet, and a ketchup-style sauce tied it all together. Nagare had said it was Ishigaki beef—from Okinawa, then. But the bread: Was it just ordinary store-bought bread? Kenichi felt a sudden wave of curiosity about the food in front of him. He chewed slowly, tilting his head from side to side, bewildered by the change that had come over him.

Next he reached for the uzaku.

His late father had loved eel, but their hometown had never had a decent eel restaurant. Even after he fell ill, he would often ask for it, and Kenichi’s mother would drive nearly an hour to a place near Zenkoji temple to buy kabayaki, eel grilled in a soy-based sauce. She would slice up one of their own cucumbers, mix it with thin strips of the eel, and dress it with sweet vinegar before setting it down in front of his father.

Out in the countryside, eel had been a rare and expensive indulgence. He remembered being allowed a single bite, but the faintly muddy flavor of freshwater eel hadn’t exactly charmed his taste buds. The uzaku he was eating now, though, felt like an entirely different dish.

He decided to return to the Kyoto vegetables. He took a slice of the onion and ate it plain—and was astonished by its sweetness.

He’d eaten onions all his life, in endless stir fries, stews, and salads. But no matter how they’d been cooked, they’d always just been…well, onions. Sharp, pungent, and never like this. It was as sweet as fruit.

The vegetables of his childhood seemed to pale in comparison to these Kyoto specialties. In fact, as odd as it sounded, they were almost too delicious.

“Shall I bring that porridge through?” asked Nagare, returning with impeccable timing.

“Please.”