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I walk in front of him, and open the door wider to the terrace. He says nothing as he lays the tray on the table.
“Get ready to be spoiled, Leticia.”
He takes off the box which is covering the food underneath it. Once he puts it to the side, I can see that the traditional Japanese breakfast unfolds like a work of art.
“This is a lacquered bento box which has a grilled fillet of mackerel,” he says.
I shake my head, because I’m not a fan of mackerel, there’s too many bones and it has a potent smell, but if he hadn’t told me it was mackerel, then I never would have guessed.
“This is miso soup with freshly steamed rice.”
“And this?” I can see that it is egg, but it is mixed with other things.
“Tamagoyaki, a sweet Japanese omelet, with a bundle of nori.”
I nod, making a mental note to look up nori.
“This is a bowl of natto. I’m not sure if you’ll like it, because it has an earthy scent and requires an acquired taste,” he lifts aneyebrow, as if testing me. He’s waiting for me to complain, but I don’t as he separates the tray and places the food on one side.
My side.
I must admit that I’ve enjoyed sitting here, because I’m facing the view and him at the same time.
“Are you ready to try them all? Or is there something that you don’t want.”
“No. Lay it all on my plate, I’m not going to dismiss anything until I’ve tried it.”
“¿Quieres algo2?”he asks.
“¡Seguarmente!3”I confirm.
He shrugs, and then he places the pickles, rice, and the rest of the food onto my plate. I can get used to being served by him. The idea of him willing to do it makes me feel as if he’s trying to take care of me.
I wait for him to finish dishing the food out for himself, while pouring a glass of water for each of us.Once I am finished, he sits down.
“Ltadakimasu,” I say to him.
He repeats the same back, and then he raises an eyebrow as if he’s impressed with me knowing the phrase forbon appétitin Japanese. We use it sometimes in Spain, but most of the time we saybuen provecho4.
As I take my first bite, the flavors dance on my palate. The mackerel is perfectly grilled, and it’s smoky but tender. The miso soup warms me from within, its umami-rich broth is a comforting embrace. The tamagoyaki, with its layers of sweetness, and the slightly nutty natto is the complete opposite type of taste.
“So?” he asks.
“I must admit that it’s a lot different from eating churros for breakfast. They’re really healthy here. It’s nice. I can lose some weight.”
“You don’t need to lose weight. You’re perfect the way you are.”
I’m about to say something, but then I think otherwise.
“I don’t usually like fish.”
“But?”
I giggle, because as much as I think that I’m not predictable, I clearly am.
“But it’s the way that it’s cooked. It doesn’t smell as much, so it’s really nice. There’s nothing that I’ve eaten here in which I wouldn’t try again.”
“Well, maybe if we have our breakfast at the same time every day, then we can go for a walk afterward.”
