Page 53 of A Serving of Hope

“Mind if I join you?” asked Nagare, gesturing to the seat on the other side of the laminated table.

“Please. I’m dying to know the big secret.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a secret.”

“You went all the way to Hokkaido, then? I really can’t thank you enough.” Masaru bowed from his seat.

“From what I hear, we should be thanking you,” said Nagare drily. “Koishi told me she got a very warm welcome at Satsukitei. Sounds like she really made the most of the hot springs too.”

“But what took you all the way to Hokkaido?”

“Well, when Koishi arrived in Kusatsu, she found that Tori-dake had vanished without a trace, and no one in the neighborhood seemed to know where Mr. Kawakami had moved. He didn’t seem to have any family either. Koishi had hit a dead end, so there was nothing for it: I followed my gut. The name Tori-dake reminded me of something, see. So I flew up to Kushiro.” Nagare unfolded a map of the northern island of Hokkaido on the table. The city of Kushiro lay on its eastern edge.

“Why Kushiro?” asked Masaru, looking down at the map and then back at Nagare.

“Are you familiar with a dish called zangi?”

“Zangi…it does ring a bell.” Suzuki clutched his head as if trying to think. “What is it again?”

“It’s what they call heavily seasoned kara-age in Hokkaido. There are all sorts of theories about the name’s origins, though none of them have been proven. In any case, the restaurant where it’s supposed to have originated is in Kushiro. A place, as it happens, called Tori-take—the second half of the name being the character for bamboo rather than mountain. I thought there might be a connection with the Kusatsu place, so I went to check it out.” Nagare laid out the photos he’d taken at the Kushiro restaurant.

“Tori-dake and Tori-take, eh? They do sound similar. Wait. This kara-age is…” Masaru reached for the photo of the fried chicken.

“Identical,” said Nagare, leaning across the table to look at the photo. “What you just ate is actually a recreation of the version served at Tori-take.”

Masaru looked up. “But…why?”

“The clue was that sauce. There are all sorts of kara-age in this country, but very few that use a dipping sauce. The zangi at Kushiro is one of them. They even have a special name for the sauce: zan-tare. I guessed that might be what we were looking for. Then there was the fact that the two restaurants had such similar names.”

“I can’t believe you thought of looking somewhere as far away as Hokkaido,” said Masaru, shaking his head in awe. “I guess that’s what you call thinking outside of the box.”

Nagare gave a wry grin. “I tend to trust my instincts. Not that they’re always right, of course, but this time they served me well. It turns out that some thirty years ago, Mr. Kawakami worked at Tori-take. He was on good terms with the owner, Mr. Sakakura—and practically his right-hand man. One day, he got into a quarrel with a customer. Things grew heated, and eventually the police were involved. Worried he’d tarnished the restaurant’s name, Mr. Kawakami quit and moved out of town. For the next five years or so, he wrote occasional letters to Mr. Sakakura, but eventually even those stopped coming. When I explained that he’d started a restaurant called Tori-dake in Kusatsu, Mr. Sakakura was deeply moved.”

“I had…no idea,” murmured Masaru.

“The fact that Mr. Kawakami named his restaurant after Tori-take suggests he still felt conflicted about everything that had happened. That would also explain why he refused to put kara-age on the menu.”

“So when he served it to us that day, he was breaking his own rule. Why, though?”

“Who knows? Maybe he saw something of himself in you,” said Nagare with a faint smile. “Pure speculation on my part, of course.”

“Are you able to tell me the recipe?”

“I’m not sure if you can even call it a recipe, but yes, I’ve written down the basic steps. Mr. Sakakura showed me the whole process. You cut the chicken into bite-size pieces, season with salt, pepper, and a marinade, coat them in potato starch flour, and fry them in lard. When they turn golden brown, they’re ready to be served—with a Worcestershire sauce–based dip on the side. That’s all there is to it.”

“But there must be some special ingredient in the marinade or the sauce, right?” said Masaru, dipping a finger into the leftover sauce and tasting it.

“Mr. Sakakura insisted he didn’t use anything out of the ordinary.”

“Really? Well, if I used premium free-range chicken, made the sauce a little spicier, and marketed this as a ‘secret recipe,’ I think I might be onto a winner. Thank you so much. This might just save my career.”

Masaru’s cheeks had flushed with excitement, but Nagare rose from the table and looked away.

“I knew coming here was the right call,” Masaru went on breathlessly. “I’ll start pitching it to my clients right away.”

“Very well,” replied Nagare in an oddly detached tone as he handed him a paper bag. “You’ll find the basic recipe and a sample of the sauce in here.”

“Thank you. Now, can I pay?” Masaru reached for his wallet.