Page 32 of A Serving of Hope

“Still, it’s not every day you get the chance to revisit memories from forty years ago.”

“They’re not going to magically turn me back into a little girl, Michio. And if I was going to travel back in time, thirty years would be plenty. Back to when I was a student in France.” Saki’s eyes had taken on a faraway look.

“Might this be it?” said Michio, smoothly pulling the Alphard over. “Looks like there used to be a sign. And I think I smell food.”

Saki lowered her window a few inches, then leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder. “Go have a look, would you?”

“Certainly, madam.” He unbuckled his seat belt and hopped out of the car.

Saki had been intrigued enough by the idea of a food detective agency to make the trip here, but now she was beginning to regret letting her curiosity get the better of her. Even if they managed to find what she was looking for, what would that really change?

“This seems to be the place,” said Michio, removing his hat and opening the rear door.

“Right. Thanks.” With a vaguely reluctant expression, Saki stepped down from the minivan and pulled on a stylish sky-blue jacket. It was late enough in spring for Kyoto’s cherry blossoms to have already fallen, and yet the wind still carried a chill.

“I’ll find a car park and wait there. Just call me when you’re done.” Michio closed the door after her, his phone already in hand.

“Okay,” Saki replied half-heartedly, gazing up at the two-story mortar building.

Just then, a young woman in a black apron slid the door open and smiled. “Hi. Come on in!”

“Thanks.” Saki did as instructed, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“You must be Saki Morishita? Thanks for calling ahead. I’m Koishi Kamogawa, head of the Kamogawa Detective Agency.” She dipped her head politely.

Saki frowned. “Ah. So you’re the food detective?”

“Well, it’s my dad who does most of the actual investigating.”

“Koishi,” called a kimono-clad woman sitting at one of the tables, “can I get some more tea?”

Koishi grabbed a pot from the counter and hurried over to the woman’s table. “Sorry, Tae—didn’t realize you needed a refill.” Saki’s eyes widened as she spotted the elegant array of dishes on the table.

A man who looked to be in his fifties stepped out from the kitchen. “Ms. Morishita, is it? I hope you’re hungry. If you don’t mind leaving the menu up to me, I’ll whip something up right away.”

Saki glanced again at the dishes on Tae’s table, then nodded. “Please. If you don’t mind.”

“This is my dad, by the way,” said Koishi.

“Nagare Kamogawa,” he said, bowing. “Anything you’re not fond of?”

“Not especially,” replied Saki, “but I’m not a big eater, so if you could keep the portions small…Oh, and I’m a little sensitive to sour flavors.”

“Got it. Just give me a moment.” Nagare ducked back into the kitchen.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Koishi.

“I’ll let you know once I’ve had a look at the food.”

“All right, then. Please, have a seat.” Koishi guided her to the table next to Tae’s.

The gloominess of the street, together with the restaurant’s plain interior, had succeeded in dulling Saki’s appetite almost completely—until, that is, she saw the dishes laid out at Tae’s table.

“Everyone pulls that face when they walk in here for the first time,” said Tae, setting down her chopsticks.

“Really? And what sort of face would that be?”

“The face of someone wondering whether a place that looks like this could ever serve a decent meal.”