Page 9 of A Serving of Hope

“So…the soup you just served me…”

“All the old gents there seem to have a soft spot for it.”

Kenichi stared down at his bowl in silence.

“They serve a few different versions on rotation,” Koishi continued. “But this one, with just potatoes and onions, is the runaway favorite. I was informed it was Hanae’s son’s favorite too.”

“You…didn’t tell her about me, did you?”

“No, I heard that part from one of the regulars. An elderly man who said he looks forward to it every time. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell your mother why I was there.”

“So the locals still remember me,” said Kenichi glumly.

“Of course they do! They’re all wondering when you’ll finally come home.”

“See, that’s exactly what I can’t stand,” said Kenichi. “People in small towns don’t realize the pressure they’re putting on you. They think that as long as they’re rooting for you, you’re bound to return a winner. The local boy made good. But most of us don’t. We come back with our tail between our legs, and all we want is to be left alone.”

“Do you think that’s what it’s all about? Winning?” said Nagare, appearing from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.

“It sure looks that way from where I’m standing. I went to Tokyo to make it as a lawyer, fell flat on my face, and now I’m going to have to return home a failure.” He gave a weak smile and turned back to Koishi. “You have to admit it’s a little pathetic.”

“Listen, by your logic, I’m not much of a success either,” she replied, holding his gaze. “Well into my thirties, and still living with my dad. But something tells me life isn’t black and white like that. Whether you pass or fail the bar exam doesn’t have to define you.”

“Sure, but…”

“How about we get back to that miso soup?” cut in Nagare, noticing the uncertainty that had crept into Kenichi’s expression.

“Right. The most important part.” Gathering herself, Koishi returned to the topic of the Yoshizawa farm. “I told your mother I ran a little restaurant in Kyoto and was desperate to learn the secret behind her soup. It wasn’t exactly a lie, though I still felt pretty guilty about it.”

“She’s always been the trusting type,” said Kenichi, wincing slightly. “I bet she told you right away.”

“She’s a lovely woman. I could see why the whole town would be charmed by her. She laid it all out for me—the specific blend of miso she uses, the exact balance of ingredients, everything.”

“So…that’s how you managed it.” Kenichi was gazing at the bowl with an intensity bordering on reverence.

“Actually,” said Koishi, “the soup I just gave you isn’t quite the same as the one at the Silver Diner.”

“How do you mean?”

“I made the same assumption at first—that the soup those elderly gentlemen crave so much was the one you remembered from that morning. But as I was leaving, your mother showed me this.”

She placed an old, faded book on the table.

“A Miso Soup for Every Day of the Year…” Kenichi read aloud. “A whole book about miso soup?”

The cover showed a turnip with its vibrant green leaves still attached, set against the grooved clay of a traditional mortar for grinding. On the rear was a picture of a daikon radish, together with the book’s price: a mere 380 yen.

“Published in the autumn of 1959,” Koishi explained, gently smoothing the creased cover. “Your mother said she turned to these pages every single morning, so that your miso soup would be just right.”

“It’s a fine book,” said Nagare, scanning the table of contents. “And I don’t just mean the recipes. The author gives you a sense of what cooking’s really all about. It’d probably still sell today.”

“When I started copying out the bits that seemed useful, she insisted I borrow it,” said Koishi. She turned the book toward Kenichi, who began inspecting it. “Look at the notes in the margins. Here: Finished the whole bowl. Or here: Only had half. Or this one: Said it was tasty. They’re all about you.”

“She told you that?” Kenichi murmured, slowly leafing through the pages.

“Yes. She mentioned you because this was tucked between the pages.” Koishi set a photograph on the table. In it, a boy stood beside a woman in farming clothes. They were posing under a chestnut tree.

Kenichi reached for it immediately. “This is that morning…”