Page 48 of A Serving of Hope

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Koishi looked up and greeted him. “Come on in.”

“Hello again.” Masaru stepped somewhat hesitantly into the office, then filled out the form she handed him.

“Masaru Suzuki,” said Koishi, scanning his answers. “Twenty-six. So young! Still living the life of a bachelor, then?”

“Yes.” A faint smile flickered across Masaru’s face. “I, er, haven’t had much luck in that department.”

Koishi smiled back, then opened her notebook. “So, what’s the dish you want help with?”

“Kara-age,” said Masaru, and his voice seemed to crack slightly.

“Ooh, deep-fried chicken? I’m a big fan.” She readied her pen. “When and where did you eat this particular kara-age?”

“I was in my final year of high school. I had it at a place in Kusatsu called Tori-dake. Tori as in ‘chicken,’ and dake as in ‘mountain.’ ”

“And you were seventeen or eighteen at the time…making this what, eight years ago? I’m guessing the restaurant is gone now.”

Masaru nodded silently in response.

“So, what about this kara-age stood out?”

“That’s the thing. It wasn’t distinctive in any obvious way—just unbelievably tasty. It was preseasoned, but you ate it with this sort of…sauce.” Masaru’s eyes shone. “I’ve never had kara-age like it.”

“Hmm. Kara-age doesn’t tend to vary much from place to place, but dipping it in sauce does sound unusual. And did you only visit Tori-dake that one time?”

“Actually, I ate there almost every day.”

Koishi’s eyes widened dramatically. “You had the kara-age every day?”

“No, no—normally I just had onigiri. I only got to try the kara-age once.”

“Really? But it was a local restaurant, right? And with a name like that, wasn’t chicken the specialty?”

“It was. But the kara-age itself was more of a rumor than a dish.” Masaru paused, as if hesitating to go on. “It’s a long story. Do you mind?”

“Listening to long stories is my job.”

“Most hot-spring ryokans are in business pretty much year-round, twenty-four hours a day. And, our place being family run, it was almost unheard of for us all to have dinner together.”

“I can relate,” said Koishi in a subdued voice. “We almost never had the whole family around the table when I was a kid.”

“My mom worked at the ryokan too, and she came home late at night. She’d only cook dinner when she got in, so as a kid I was always hungry. In high school I had baseball practice every afternoon, and there was no way I was going to wait that long to eat. I got into the habit of dropping by Tori-dake with my teammates after practice.”

“I’m not surprised. You must have been famished. Did they make the onigiri extra large for you?”

“Absolutely. Old Mr. Kawakami used to call them rice bombs.”

“Ah,” said Koishi, jotting down the name. “Was he the owner?”

“Yes. Zenzo Kawakami.” Masaru lowered his voice. “I heard he died a few years ago, not long after shutting up shop and moving out of town.”

Koishi folded her arms pensively. “If the restaurant’s gone, and the owner’s passed away, this might be tricky.”

“Sorry.”

“I guess we’ll have to track down other people who tried this kara-age and see what they tell us.”