Page 3 of A Serving of Hope

For what felt like the first time in his life, Kenichi found himself looking forward to the next dish.

As a child, he’d eaten soba almost every day. Not in the form of noodles, but as sobagaki, where the buckwheat flour was mashed into a ball. And that, too, he didn’t remember ever particularly enjoying. The sticky texture, the slightly grassy aroma. Back then, soba had always felt like a symbol of his family’s poverty, and to this day he couldn’t quite bring himself to enjoy it.

“Here we go,” said Nagare, setting a small iron pot before him and lifting the lid.

Kenichi peered through the billowing steam. “This is sobagome-zosui, then?”

“Have you heard of Iya, in Tokushima?”

“Yes. Famous for those vine bridges, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. That, and all those stories about survivors from the Heike clan who fled there after the Genpei War. They’re said to have started the custom of eating soba grains whole. Having fled to the village of Higashi-Iya, and missing the capital of Kyoto terribly, they made this porridge for the New Year. The ingredients are simple enough: chicken breast, thinly sliced daikon radish and carrot, dried shiitake, and a mitsuba garnish. It’s the texture and aroma of the soba grains that really make the dish.”

Nagare smiled warmly. Kenichi reached for the porcelain spoon and stirred the porridge lightly. Then he scooped some up, blew on it, and slid it into his mouth.

It didn’t taste like poverty, that was for sure. Alternating between the large grains of buckwheat, the vegetables, and the broth, he found that each spoonful tasted subtly different. Savoring a single bowl of porridge at such length wasn’t something he’d ever thought possible. Once he’d finished the very last grain, he set the spoon back down and, almost instinctively, joined his palms in gratitude.

“Can I get you another bowl?” asked Nagare, arriving from the kitchen with a tray.

“No, thank you.” Kenichi bowed from his seat. “But that was incredible.”

“Well, once you’ve had a moment to digest, I’ll show you through.”

“I’m ready now, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to keep Koishi waiting.”

“Not at all. I hope you don’t feel rushed.”

“Actually, I can’t remember the last time I lingered like that over a meal.”

Nagare turned to him with a smile. “The best compliment a chef can get. This way, please.”

He guided Kenichi down a hallway leading to the rear of the building. Its walls were lined with pinned photos, mostly of food. Nagare’s creations, presumably.

“She’ll take it from here,” said the chef. He opened a door at the end of the hallway to reveal Koishi waiting behind a low table. She had changed into a black pantsuit.

—

“Could you fill this out, please?” Koishi asked, handing him a clipboard as he sat down on the sofa opposite her. On it was a short form.

Kenichi leaned forward and, setting the clipboard down on the table, filled out the entire form in less than a minute.

“Let’s see,” said Koishi, retrieving the clipboard. “Kenichi Yoshizawa, age thirty. You work for a law firm, and you live in…Machida? Where is that again? Somewhere near Tokyo?”

“You sound like my mother,” replied Kenichi with a wry grin. “No matter how many times I explain it to her, she never quite gets it.”

“Commuting into Shinjuku every day must be rough,” sighed Koishi. She had brought up a map on her tablet and was swiping around on it.

“When I first moved there from the countryside, it really wore me down, but I’m used to it now. And on an income like mine, it’s not like living downtown is even an option.”

Koishi put the tablet down. “So, what’s the dish you want us to find?”

“Miso soup.”

“Okay. A special type of miso soup?”

“No. Just the ordinary kind.”

“And where did you have it?” asked Koishi, flipping open a notebook.