Page 51 of A Serving of Hope

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With the New Year fast approaching, Kyoto station was deserted, and there were almost no tourists in sight. Masaru followed an underground passage from the Hachijo-dori exit, where the taxis waited, to the central exit on the station’s north side. He’d taken a taxi to the restaurant last time, but on the way back had realized it’d be quicker to walk from the central exit.

This time he was dressed casually, in jeans, a sweater, and a loose-fitting jacket. He walked north up Karasuma-dori, crossed Shichijo-dori, then turned east down Shomen-dori.

When he slid open the door to the restaurant, it appeared to be empty.

“Hello?” he called. “It’s Masaru.”

Nagare stepped out of the kitchen, removed his cap, and bowed. “Good to see you again.”

Masaru bowed back. “I’m really looking forward to this.”

“Sorry we ended up taking so long.”

“Not at all—I’m the one who should apologize for putting you to so much trouble,” said Masaru, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on a chair. “Anyway, we’re a lot less busy around the New Year, so this has actually worked out well.”

“It’s all my fault,” said Koishi, emerging from the kitchen and bowing. “I made a bit of a mess of things.”

Nagare shot her a glance. “I asked her to go to Kusatsu, but she came back empty-handed. Ended up having to make a trip of my own.”

“I’m so grateful to your parents. They really spoiled me,” said Koishi, her gaze dropping to the floor. “But I just couldn’t crack the case.”

“I really am sorry for asking the impossible,” said Masaru.

“Actually, I think we just about managed it,” said Nagare. “No guarantees, though. Just…eat it and see what you think, okay? I’ll get it ready now.”

“Thank you very much.” Masaru took a seat. It was only his second time at the restaurant, and yet he felt oddly nostalgic about the place. Maybe because it reminded him of Tori-dake. Up on a hanging shelf, next to a small TV, was a miniature Shinto shrine complete with talismanic strips of paper, together with one of the decorative bamboo branches seen at this time of year. The end table was strewn with magazines and newspapers. Despite this slightly jumbled interior, the restaurant didn’t feel messy at all—if anything, it gave the impression of having been meticulously cleaned. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the floor, and whenever he glimpsed the stainless steel surfaces in the kitchen, they seemed to gleam like mirrors.

It was a level of cleanliness uncommon in a casual restaurant—and it was this, more than anything, that reminded Masaru of Tori-dake. Whenever Mr. Kawakami had a spare moment, he’d spend it diligently polishing his stoves or worktops. Masaru could still see the stern look on his face as he did so.

The distinctive aroma of deep-fried food began drifting in from the kitchen, making Masaru even hungrier than he already was. When the sizzle of oil reached his ears, his stomach growled impatiently.

“Sorry for the wait.” Nagare set a pair of bamboo chopsticks down on a ceramic rest.

Masaru took a deep breath. “I feel kind of nervous.”

“It’ll be ready in just a moment.” Nagare glanced over at the kitchen, then set down a small blue-and-white dish filled with a brown sauce.

“Hojicha should pair nicely with the meal.” Koishi set a Mashiko teapot and Shigaraki teacup down on the table together with a glass of water, then returned to the kitchen.

After a while, Masaru heard the sizzle of oil again. Was Nagare frying it a second time?

The sizzling grew gradually quieter until it was almost inaudible.

“Here we are. Enjoy it while it’s hot.”

Nagare set two white Western-style plates down on the table. They were heaped with fried chicken.

Masaru took a deep sniff. “Smells amazing.”

“The ones on the right have the bones still in. On the left is boneless. Eat them as they are, or dip them in the sauce. You can sprinkle a bit of pepper into the sauce too, if you like. I’ll bring some rice out in a moment.”

No sooner had Nagare stepped away from the table than Masaru grabbed his chopsticks and retrieved a piece of kara-age from the right-hand dish.

Just like he had back then.

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