Page 23 of A Serving of Hope

He was no stranger to fine dining. In Sakai, he frequented a kappo restaurant, while in Minami—Osaka’s southern nightlife district, and just a short train ride away—he was familiar with a dozen or so high-end eateries. The Sakai place was fairly informal, with the feel of a casual izakaya, but the Minami spots were luxury ryotei restaurants, and at least half of them had Michelin stars. And yet Toshio could tell, almost immediately, that the food in front of him was in a class of its own.

The presentation wasn’t showy, nor were the dishes attempting some sort of bold statement. They were modest, restrained, and exquisite, like a set of finely burnished silverware. They had a sort of dignified purity. Somehow, the word trustworthy came to mind.

First he reached for the sea bream sashimi, which was served on the kombu it had been cured between. He set a tiny dab of the yuzu and chili paste on one of the slices, dipped it lightly in the soy sauce, and brought it to his lips.

It was a dish he’d eaten countless times before, but he didn’t remember it ever having such depth of flavor. Whether it was thinly or thickly sliced, sea bream had a habit of being overwhelmed by the ponzu or soy sauce it was served with. He realized now that he’d never really tasted the fish itself. He couldn’t say if the secret lay in the particular catch Nagare had sourced, or the way it had been cured with the kombu. In any case, Toshio finally understood why sea bream was known as the “king of fish.”

After half a cup of the Hakkaisan, he moved on to the crab meat. As instructed, he seasoned it with the soy sauce vinegar, wrapped some of the meat in a slice of cucumber, and slipped it into his mouth. The flavor was sharp, briny, and exquisite.

He’d taken his staff on numerous trips to hot-spring resorts in the San’in region, famous for its crab—even timing their visits to coincide with the start of the crab-catching season. Meanwhile, at the restaurants in Minami, crab was often the star of the show in winter. But as pricey as all those meals had been, they couldn’t hold a candle to this.

Toshio didn’t consider himself a connoisseur, but these two dishes were enough to tell him that Nagare was an exceptionally talented chef. Enjoying a mouthful of sake in between each bite, he emptied the red-lacquered flask in no time.

“Shall I top that up for you?” asked Koishi, emerging from the kitchen right on cue.

“Please.” He handed her the flask.

Just as that bar owner in Kita-Shinchi had told him, the restaurant was a far cry from the bustling sort of place its name suggested. In fact, he felt more at ease here than in most luxury establishments.

Finally, after working his way through the nine dishes with quiet reverence—and polishing off two flasks of sake in the process—Toshio was jolted by a realization: The person he most wanted to share this meal with was not his wife.

“Is it about time for that rice?” asked Nagare, noticing the empty dishes.

“Please.” Toshio smiled at Nagare. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I lingered over a meal like this.”

“That’s good to hear. I’ll have it ready in a moment.”

Toshio toyed idly with his empty sake cup, savoring the aftertaste of everything he’d eaten and wishing it had never come to an end. Then a small earthen pot was placed in front of him, and a rich aroma rose to his nostrils.

“It’s nothing too fancy, but I did get hold of some good saury.” As Nagare loosened the rice with a wooden paddle and began spooning it into a blue-and-white porcelain bowl, the aroma grew even stronger. Toshio gulped in anticipation.

“You’ve taken out the bones, I see?”

“Most of them—but there might be a few tiny ones left, so take care. If you like, you can add some minced sudachi peel and perilla leaves.” Nagare set the bowl of saury rice down together with the pot.

“I often skip grilled fish because of the hassle of picking out the bones. But this way, I get to just enjoy it.” Toshio took a pinch of the minced sudachi and perilla, scattered it over the rice, and reached for his chopsticks.

“Here’s some hojicha too,” said Nagare, setting down a teapot. “If you feel like pouring it over the rice halfway through and turning it into ochazuke, you might want to add some of this matcha salt too. Either way, enjoy!”

Tucking his tray under one arm, Nagare slipped back through the curtain into the kitchen.

When Nagare had mentioned that the rice was steamed with saury, Toshio had pictured a whole grilled fish on top of a bowl of rice. Instead, the dish in front of him had a surprisingly rustic simplicity. The flesh of the fish had been mixed in so thoroughly that he could almost have been looking at a bowl of plain white rice. And yet once he’d sampled its delicate, refined flavor, he found it impossible to stop.

It was hard to tell exactly how much rice was in the pot, but after two refills, and a third that he turned into ochazuke, only a small mound remained. Patting his bulging stomach, he drained the last of the tea.

“Did that agree with you, then?” asked Nagare, poking his head through the curtain.

“That’d be an understatement,” said Toshio, breaking into a broad smile. “I haven’t had anything this good in years.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, when you’re ready, I’ll show you to the back.”

“Right. I almost forgot the most important part.”

“There’s really no rush,” said Nagare, pouring some more tea into Toshio’s cup. “Take a moment to settle your stomach if you like.”

“Oh no—I don’t want to keep your daughter waiting.” Toshio drained the tea and got to his feet.

“This way, then, please.”