Page 52 of A Serving of Hope

When Mr. Kawakami first set the huge plate of kara-age down in front of them, it had startled them into silence. Then he gave the signal—“Go on then, dig in”—and their hands all shot out at once.

The pieces of kara-age were so hot, and so enormous, that they almost burned their mouths. But as they chomped away, the grins on their faces only grew wider.

“Watch out for those bones,” Mr. Kawakami had warned them. “Unless you want to break a tooth, that is,” he added, prompting a ripple of laughter.

“Try some of this,” he said, setting down a bowl of sauce that he sprinkled liberally with pepper.

Some of them ate the kara-age as it was, as if they couldn’t bear to waste any time that might be spent eating; others did as the chef had suggested, dipping the chicken in the sauce and spluttering slightly as they ate.

Before they knew it, the sting of losing that final game had all but vanished. And when, in no time at all, they demolished the mountain of kara-age, Mr. Kawakami immediately returned with another platter piled just as high as the first.

“This batch is boneless, so go wild.”

This time, perhaps because they were in less of a hurry, they all began dunking the chicken in the sauce.

—

For a moment, Masaru could have sworn he was sitting in Tori-dake, surrounded by the excited shouts of his teammates.

Still, there was no guarantee it would taste the same. The circumstances were just too different. That day, to Masaru and his dejected teammates, the arrival of the platter of kara-age had been like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of a desert.

He reached for one of the boneless pieces, dipped it in the peppery sauce, then took a bite.

The crunch. The rush of hot juices. The deep savor of the sauce…Any remaining doubts had been obliterated. This was the kara-age he’d eaten that day.

“So, did we get it right?” asked Nagare, setting a Tobe bowl heaped with rice in front of him.

Masaru nodded firmly. “My memories were a little hazy at first, but it’s all come back to me now. This is it. This is the kara-age I ate at Tori-dake.”

“Excellent. Should be even better with some rice.”

“Thanks,” said Masaru, grinning bashfully. “I was just thinking I could use some.”

“How are you for tea?” asked Koishi, lifting the lid of the earthenware teapot and peering in. It was still brimming with hojicha.

“The chicken’s so tasty, I forgot all about it.” Masaru shook his head in disbelief. “I just can’t get my head around this. How on earth did you pull it off?”

“Dad will reveal all in a moment, but let me tell you, he really pulled out all the stops. He ended up going all the way to Hokkaido!”

“That’s enough chatter, Koishi,” said Nagare sternly. “Let him enjoy his meal in peace.” Koishi responded with a playful shrug.

“I look forward to hearing all about it,” said Masaru, smiling and nodding. “For now, I’ll just focus on how good it tastes.”

Koishi and Nagare disappeared back through the kitchen curtain.

Masaru worked his way through the rest of the chicken, alternating between the two plates and pausing occasionally to sip on his tea.

How many times had he eaten kara-age since that day at Tori-dake? Between work and his personal life, more than he could say. Yet when it came to versions of the dish that had really stuck with him, he could have counted them on one hand.

Meanwhile, this kara-age was so distinctive that it made comparisons meaningless. On top of that, it felt like one of those rare flavors you’d never grow tired of.

Still, even if Nagare told him the recipe, he didn’t see how any of this would help him at work. It certainly wouldn’t end his losing streak. As he coated the last piece of chicken in the sauce, set it on his rice and wolfed it down, Masaru began to wonder why he’d come looking for the kara-age in the first place.

Having emptied the two white plates, he noticed that they were lined with oil-absorbing washi paper. It bore only the faintest traces of grease. How had Nagare managed to drain the oil so thoroughly? Masaru reached for one of the plates and studied it closely.

Nagare returned from the kitchen and, as if reading Masaru’s thoughts, said, “There’s not much to it, you know.”

Masaru set the plate back down. “I just can’t figure it out.”