#58: fic: Heart Food
Title: Heart Food
Characters: Arashi, MatsuKen
Rating: G
Summary: AU. The way to Jun's heart is through his stomach.
Word Count: 3,400~
A/N: For r_1_ss_a, for the fandom fundraiser on arashi_on. Apologies for the delay! She requested Jun, preferably Sakumoto. Thank you for your generous donation, Rissa! I hope you enjoy this. ♥ Huge thanks to g_esquared, calerine and illuvium. Photos by illuvium. (Sorry this was locked by accident!)
Lemon Drizzle Cake
“He’s going to eat you,” says Mao. “He’s fattening you up like a chicken or a calf and one day he’ll slaughter and cook you.”
“Then he’ll cook you too,” Jun replies, “since you ate most of that cake while I wasn’t looking.”
“It is,” Mao declares, neatly halving another slice with the side of her fork, “very, very, very good cake.”
It is not the prettiest to look at: dark brown on the outside and slightly misshapen on one end. But each slice is a warm, dark yellow colour bordered with brown. The surface is drizzled with an almost translucent layer of icing, flecked with tiny specks of lemon peel. It looks unapologetically home-made, and it looks delicious.
It is delicious, as a matter of fact. The cake is a perfect balance of sweet and tart; dense yet light. Jun likes the bite of the lemon and the cake’s moistness on his tongue. Mao can’t stop scraping her plate for crumbs.
“Did he say where he got this from?” asks Mao.
“A friend of a friend’s mother,” Jun replies.
Sho had deposited the chunk of cake at the hotel reception that morning, wrapped neatly in aluminium foil and placed in a transparent plastic container. All he had written on the post-it on top were the words: FOR MATSUMOTO JUN.
This is penance in cake-form, a mouth-watering ‘I’m sorry’ in apology for missing lunch. Jun had been inclined to dismiss it as insufficient at first, but now that he has actually tasted the cake (and consumed quite a significant portion of it) he is completely prepared to revise his opinion.
“I’m finishing the other half of that slice, if you’re not having it,” says Mao.
“I was under the impression that we were going to savour this slowly,” Jun points out.
In a startling show of generosity Mao slides the plate across the counter towards Jun. “This cake? Not a chance.”
Kimchi Jigae with tofu and thinly sliced pork belly
They meet on a rainy day, one of those days when the damp seems to cling to Jun’s feet and hands long after he has bundled indoors and removed his sodden coat.
It is precisely because it is raining that they meet; they both take shelter from the unusually heavy downpour in a crowded café. Jun is jostling with some other similarly drenched tourists and office workers in front of the prawn baguettes when someone behind bumps him with a dripping umbrella.
That someone is Sakurai Sho. Amidst the confusion of apologising and frank relief at meeting another Japanese person in the crowd, Jun ends up agreeing to head somewhere else.
They end up in a small café located in the basement of a small Korean supermarket that Jun didn’t know even existed. The forbidding woman at the counter doesn’t give them a menu and Sakurai doesn’t ask for one. Instead, he points at one of the pictures on the wall behind her and says, “Two please,” in English.
After ten minutes another woman emerges from a back kitchen bearing a large tray.
“Kimchi jjigae,” she says, unloading a bowl of rice and a second bowl of boiling broth in front of each of them.
Everything about the soup suggests that Jun might not have any tastebuds left after he tries it. It is an angry red colour, still bubbling fitfully in the bowl with no sign of settling. Amidst the kimchi and the irregularly-cut cubes of tofu are bits of onion and delicately curled slices of pork belly.
“It’s not as spicy as you think it is,” says Sakurai, metal chopsticks hovering uncertainly over his own bowl as he looks at Jun.
“I’ll try it now,” says Jun uncertainly, bringing a spoonful of soup to his lips.
It is like a punch in the face, but in the best possible way. There is a tartness to the broth in addition to its spice, and a warmth that Jun feels in his stomach almost immediately when he swallows.
He has never been a huge fan of kimchi on its own, but he could easily get used to this. There is an extra edge of garlic and onion that adds to the depth of flavour, and the sweetness of the pork belly rounds out the sharp bite of the kimchi. When he puts a piece of tofu in his mouth it shatters smoothly on his tongue, its silken texture and mild taste balanced perfectly and sublimely with the acidic crunch of the kimchi.
The rice, too, is steaming in its metal bowl, perfect white grains just sweet and sticky enough to complement the unapologetic fire of the broth.
This is a dish for a rainy day, someone else’s home-away-from-home food that nevertheless comforts and warms the both of them. Jun, who, in the past week, has only had sandwiches, potatoes and dry, spiced not-quite-rice, finds himself wishing that this meal will never end.
For close to ten minutes they do not speak, methodically devouring everything in the bowls like starving men (which they are). Their only communication comes in the form of small noises of satisfaction that they cannot quite hold back; the little huffing sound Sakurai makes when eating pieces of kimchi that are far too hot but far too delicious to put aside for even a moment.
The forbidding woman doesn’t say anything when she comes to collect their plates and give them their bill, but it is clear that she cannot quite suppress a smile.
Cappucino, sprinkled with chocolate powder and served in a paper cup
Sakurai Sho is a PhD student. He tells Jun he is working on a thesis about Development Economics in the Asia-Pacific region. His two vices are good food, and caffeine of any quality.
“I would administer it intravenously if it was possible,” Sakurai tells Jun. “So it’s probably a good thing someone pointed out this little kiosk.”
The man in the little kiosk makes an amazing cup of coffee. Jun takes a moment to feel sorry that Sakurai cannot tell the difference.
Under the light, cloudlike layer of light foam is coffee that is just the right flavour and temperature - a smooth and slightly nutty roast that goes down easy and leaves a pleasant aftertaste. It is also strong, strong enough to chase away the post-meal lethargy, which Jun appreciates.
Probably the only downside to getting coffee here is the fact that they have to drink it out in the cold, with cars going by at a startling speed down the road beside them.
Apart from that, there is little else to complain about. The coffee is good and so is the company. Sakurai has an amiable way of conversing that easily puts Jun at ease, and the way he listens when Jun speaks is not the absent agreement of a distant acquaintance. Sakurai listens, and nods along, and has insightful things to say about Jun’s current situation working as a stage designer for a company that seems likely to continue giving him a full employee’s workload on an intern’s pay for at least the next six months.
Jun would like to come up with a neat analogy about how good coffee is like a good conversation, but most things he comes up with either don’t fit or sound unbelievably trite. He is glad though, to have found Sakurai in this city of grime and grandeur; someone who understands the strange longing for warm rice and fresh fish, who understands how sometimes the best way to fill the gap of homesickness is to search for food that warms the heart as much as the body.
Nino-Matsu Special Okonomiyaki - served with lotus root, seasonal mushrooms and cheese
“No,” says Sakurai, “No. Go away.”
The person he is addressing is a man named Ninomiya, who is standing over the hotplate with two spatulas in hand, seemingly unhurt by Sakurai’s vehement rejection.
“It’s just one okonomiyaki, before Macchan comes back,” says Ninomiya.
“No,” says Sakurai. “Is it possible to refuse service here? I’m refusing. We can do it ourselves.”
“I’m perfectly happy to do it for you,” Ninomiya says blithely, “I’ll take you through all the stages.”
“We’re Japanese,” Sakurai groans, burying his face in one hand.
Jun glances back at Ninomiya and notices, for the first time, a definite glint of mischief in his eyes.
“He’s actually been banned from making his own okonomiyaki here,” Ninomiya tells Jun. “Because he’s so bad at it.”
“It’s not like you’re particularly good at it, either-” Sakurai argues.
“-Excuse me, owner of the restaurant here-” Ninomiya interjects
“-The last time you made mine you abandoned it,” Sakurai continues. “Abandoned it.”
“I was tending the cash register,” Ninomiya tells Jun, “that’s what I usually do. And I take down all the bookings. Which are multitudinous, and in English, and always confuse Macchan. A lot.”
“It burned,” says Sakurai. He looks so mournful that Jun cannot keep from laughing.
“This is the Nino-Matsu special,” Ninomiya tells him. “Either a Nino or a Matsu has to prepare it.”
Sakurai is now goggling at Jun like he’s just discovered penicillin. “Matsumoto-kun’s a Matsu! He’ll do!”
Ninomiya opens his mouth to protest at that but another voice interrupts him from the entrance to the restaurant.
“You have a point there,” says a tall, slightly shy-looking man whose name-tag reads ‘Ken’ichi’. He is holding a large cardboard box of groceries but manages to make it look weightless as he navigates the narrow passageway, stopping to deposit a folded-up receipt in the front of Nino’s apron. “But do let me prepare it,” he continues, “I’ll be right back.”
Matsuyama Ken’ichi, or Macchan, as Ninomiya calls him, appears to have turned making okonomiyaki into an art form.
Not an ostentatious one, of course - there are no unnecessary flourishes here, no excessive flipping or twirling of spatulas. There is, instead, an economy in his movements that makes him a pleasure to watch, hunched slightly as he shapes the batter into a near-perfect disc on the hotplate, moving deftly to grill the lotus roots and mushrooms while waiting for one side to be cooked.
By the time Matsuyama begins to cut the pancake with his spatula, Jun and Sho are both leaning forward in anticipation. Not even the sound of Nino enthusiastically welcoming a group of guests in English can draw their attention away (although Nino’s energetic Hello, My Name Is Kazunari! Have You Tried Delicious Japanese Pancake? ringing in the background is definitely a close contender).
“Everything?” asks Matsuyama, gesturing to the toppings. At their agreement, he begins to squeeze dark okonomiyaki sauce and mayonnaise in concentric circles over the pancake before shaking an even layer of seaweed flakes on top of that. The bonito flakes soon follow, writhing like live things as they settle on the surface of the okonomiyaki.
“Please enjoy,” says Matsuyama when he is finished.
“We will,” says Jun, reaching forward to manoeuvre a section of okonomiyaki off the hotplate and onto his dish.
The most important thing in a good okonomiyaki, to Jun, is the texture. If the ratio of flour to everything else is not right, it can either become too chewy, or not chewy enough. This okonomiyaki appears to have attained the coveted middle-ground between the two. It is piping hot, and Jun’s first bite elicits an uncontrolled ‘Mmn’ sound that he usually endeavours not to make in public places. The texture is just the way Jun likes it, with just a slight crunch from the cabbage. And the flavour - fish flakes and mayonnaise; the light semi-sweetness of the pancake itself - reminds Jun so distinctively of home that all he can do is hasten to take another bite.
Opposite him, Sakurai is adding liberal amounts of mayonnaise and spicy sauce to his own slice of pancake between mouthfuls. He has a particular way of eating that Jun can only describe as being a cross between endearing and hilarious. It is a pleasure to watch Sakurai devour something because he does so with so much visible joy, appearing almost chipmunk-like as he savours each large mouthful with accompanying noises of contentment.
From where he’s wiping down the hotplate at the next table, Matsuyama watches the two of them demolish the okonomiyaki with great gusto, and cannot resist giving Ninomiya a thumbs-up from across the large room.
Lightly salted onigiri with umeboshi filling and wrapped in seaweed
Jun’s plane lands just slightly past midnight, and when he makes his way out of the airport in a taxi he is greeted by damp streets and steady lights in old buildings, a city half-awake in the darkness.
He takes all of this in during the journey to the hotel, trying to make out possible landmarks under the weird shadows. He is tired, of course; soaked through with travel fatigue. Even so, he still feels a frisson of excitement and fear commingled as he gazes out of the taxi window.
The adventure will have to wait till tomorrow, though. He doesn’t unpack when he arrives in his room; the next morning a young woman who introduced herself on the phone as Inoue Mao will come by to take him to where he will actually be staying in the coming months.
Instead, after Jun has taken his shower and changed into clean pyjamas, he sits at the edge of his bed and takes a plastic airtight container out of his overnight bag. Inside it are two neatly-made onigiri, wrapped in cling film and accompanied by pieces of seaweed. His mother had foisted this onto him despite Jun’s protests that he is a grown man and is, consequently, more than able to find his own food.
That, however, doesn’t stop him from pulling the cling film off the first onigiri and wrapping the seaweed crisply around it. Something about holding a rice ball in his hand is infinitely comforting - always has been, on school trips as a young boy and even when he’d first started working almost half a decade ago.
It is after the first bite, after Jun chews and swallows a pleasantly sticky, solid mouthful of rice and seaweed, that he is thankful that his mother thought of this detail.
White rice, miso soup and tamagoyaki
It is one of those weeks where Jun feels mildly under the weather, the kind of week where the perpetual hint of a sore throat continues to linger every morning. He sleeps too much and very badly, and wakes up to overcast skies and persistent drizzle. There is a cloud over him, almost; his limbs feel heavy, chest tight with some inarticulable emotion.
He wakes up to the sound of people in his flat.
At first he thinks it might be one of his housemates’ friends - maybe Mao or someone else has guests over today. Then he realises that Mao is out of town for work this weekend, and Pedro said he was going to visit his family in Portugal.
With a little groan he rolls out of bed, wandering out into the hallway to investigate.
Jun enters the kitchen to find a stranger preparing tamagoyaki by the stove.
“Hello,” says the man, smiling placidly at him.
“Are you…” Jun begins.
“I’m cooking breakfast,” says the man. “The miso soup and rice is almost ready.”
“How did you get in here?” asks Jun.
“Oh,” says the man, “your housemate let us in. The one with a lot of suitcases.”
“Wait, Pedro-” Jun begins, and then pauses. “Us?”
“Oh, you’re awake,” says Sho, emerging from the toilet at the end of the hallway. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I thought we’d come in to check on you. Mao-chan said you were sick.”
“And?” says Jun, indicating the stranger in his kitchen still blithely rolling the omelette in Mao’s small tamagoyaki pan.
“This is Ohno Satoshi, my housemate,” Sho tells Jun. “He came along to make us breakfast. I still owe you a meal, remember?”
“I thought the lemon cake was supposed to make up for it,” says Jun, bowing slightly when Ohno turns round to give a little wave.
“Well,” says Sho, “it’s not wise to refuse an Ohno Satoshi breakfast. Trust me. I say this from a year’s experience.”
Breakfast is not quite breakfast without rice and miso soup - this is what Jun has concluded. The fact that Ohno has also made rolls of fluffy, delicious tamagoyaki is a welcome bonus.
“These are the only things I know how to cook,” says Ohno. “Besides chahan.”
“That’s why it tastes so good,” says Sho, picking up another segment of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks. “Specialisation.”
There are subtle differences to be tasted when it comes to miso soup; everything, from the way the dashi stock is prepared to the proportion of miso used, contributes to the slight shifts in flavour from person to person. Ohno’s miso soup reminds Jun somehow of his mother’s, warm and flavourful. He has included tofu and mushrooms, together with the wakame, and Jun likes the way the tofu and the slight sweetness of the mushrooms work perfectly together with the savoury soup.
They converse while they eat. Ohno tells Jun about the series of seemingly random events in his life that has led to him becoming a store clerk at a Japanese bookstore in the city. Ohno seems entirely unaffected by the fact that he’s only just met Jun; he merely enquires as to whether Jun is full and wonders if they should have gotten some pickles after all. After the initial niceties on Jun’s part, it begins to feel as if they’ve been eating breakfast together for years.
“And why are you here?” asks Ohno, at some point. It is the first entirely personal question he asks Jun throughout the conversation.
“For work,” says Jun, picking the easy answer first. Then he adds, “And to see the world.”
“Yes,” says Ohno, nodding.
A question like do you miss home does not need to be asked, in such a circumstance. The three of them already understand that as an immutable fact. It is, after all, what has drawn them together in the first place.
Shrimp-and-chive gyoza and yakisoba wrapped in omelette
On one of the sunniest days he has ever experienced since he arrived, Jun meets Aiba. To be more exact, Jun trips over Aiba as he is hurrying through the park. He barely avoids landing face-first in the grass.
“I’m so sorry,” Aiba tells Jun apologetically in Japanese after he’s helped Jun right himself, “I was trying to take a photograph of that squirrel.”
Jun does his best to resist informing Aiba that most normal people do not crouch down on knees and elbows in the middle of a pathway when taking photos at the park.
Instead, he apologises for ruining Aiba’s photograph.
“Oh no, you didn’t ruin it,” says Aiba, whipping out his camera again to show him how the shot turned out.
The squirrel is somehow looking directly at the lens in the photo; posing, almost. Aware.
“It’s very nice,” Jun tells Aiba, meaning it.
“Thank you,” says Aiba, becoming flustered with delight.
He is travelling, he tells Jun. Some months ago he won an innovator’s prize for an interactive kennel he designed, and he’s been exploring the world with his winnings. At some point while they are talking, Jun mentions that he’ll be meeting some friends at an okonomiyaki restaurant.
“Do you want to join us?” asks Jun, surprising even himself.
Matsuyama cooks the gyoza right in front of them, and amidst the sizzle of water hitting the hotplate Aiba introduces himself to Sho and Ohno.
“Stop talking and start eating,” Nino interrupts, emerging from the kitchen bearing three plates of yakisoba wrapped in the lightest of omelettes.
Everything is delicious when served piping hot; the texture of the yakisoba is perfectly done, as always. When Jun bites into the gyoza the skin is light and crispy, giving way to the juiciest of shrimp.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Sho tells Matsuyama, while Ohno nods his enthusiastic agreement.
There are days when Jun finds himself yearning for what is absent, for the places and people he left behind. On these days Sho will inevitably say, try this, or I found a great place for lunch, assembling his own gastronomic map of the city.
Jun is glad he chose to follow along. These are flavours of home, prepared by people Jun has come to know and like. He isn’t sure, however, when exactly it was that he started looking forward to the company even more than the food.
“This is amazing,” says Aiba, taking another bite with an expression of bliss that Jun knows all too well.
“It is,” says Jun, looking around at the others. “It really is.”
End
Read more from BEFORE and AFTER.
Characters: Arashi, MatsuKen
Rating: G
Summary: AU. The way to Jun's heart is through his stomach.
Word Count: 3,400~
A/N: For r_1_ss_a, for the fandom fundraiser on arashi_on. Apologies for the delay! She requested Jun, preferably Sakumoto. Thank you for your generous donation, Rissa! I hope you enjoy this. ♥ Huge thanks to g_esquared, calerine and illuvium. Photos by illuvium. (Sorry this was locked by accident!)
Lemon Drizzle Cake
“He’s going to eat you,” says Mao. “He’s fattening you up like a chicken or a calf and one day he’ll slaughter and cook you.”
“Then he’ll cook you too,” Jun replies, “since you ate most of that cake while I wasn’t looking.”
“It is,” Mao declares, neatly halving another slice with the side of her fork, “very, very, very good cake.”
It is not the prettiest to look at: dark brown on the outside and slightly misshapen on one end. But each slice is a warm, dark yellow colour bordered with brown. The surface is drizzled with an almost translucent layer of icing, flecked with tiny specks of lemon peel. It looks unapologetically home-made, and it looks delicious.
It is delicious, as a matter of fact. The cake is a perfect balance of sweet and tart; dense yet light. Jun likes the bite of the lemon and the cake’s moistness on his tongue. Mao can’t stop scraping her plate for crumbs.
“Did he say where he got this from?” asks Mao.
“A friend of a friend’s mother,” Jun replies.
Sho had deposited the chunk of cake at the hotel reception that morning, wrapped neatly in aluminium foil and placed in a transparent plastic container. All he had written on the post-it on top were the words: FOR MATSUMOTO JUN.
This is penance in cake-form, a mouth-watering ‘I’m sorry’ in apology for missing lunch. Jun had been inclined to dismiss it as insufficient at first, but now that he has actually tasted the cake (and consumed quite a significant portion of it) he is completely prepared to revise his opinion.
“I’m finishing the other half of that slice, if you’re not having it,” says Mao.
“I was under the impression that we were going to savour this slowly,” Jun points out.
In a startling show of generosity Mao slides the plate across the counter towards Jun. “This cake? Not a chance.”
Kimchi Jigae with tofu and thinly sliced pork belly
They meet on a rainy day, one of those days when the damp seems to cling to Jun’s feet and hands long after he has bundled indoors and removed his sodden coat.
It is precisely because it is raining that they meet; they both take shelter from the unusually heavy downpour in a crowded café. Jun is jostling with some other similarly drenched tourists and office workers in front of the prawn baguettes when someone behind bumps him with a dripping umbrella.
That someone is Sakurai Sho. Amidst the confusion of apologising and frank relief at meeting another Japanese person in the crowd, Jun ends up agreeing to head somewhere else.
They end up in a small café located in the basement of a small Korean supermarket that Jun didn’t know even existed. The forbidding woman at the counter doesn’t give them a menu and Sakurai doesn’t ask for one. Instead, he points at one of the pictures on the wall behind her and says, “Two please,” in English.
After ten minutes another woman emerges from a back kitchen bearing a large tray.
“Kimchi jjigae,” she says, unloading a bowl of rice and a second bowl of boiling broth in front of each of them.
Everything about the soup suggests that Jun might not have any tastebuds left after he tries it. It is an angry red colour, still bubbling fitfully in the bowl with no sign of settling. Amidst the kimchi and the irregularly-cut cubes of tofu are bits of onion and delicately curled slices of pork belly.
“It’s not as spicy as you think it is,” says Sakurai, metal chopsticks hovering uncertainly over his own bowl as he looks at Jun.
“I’ll try it now,” says Jun uncertainly, bringing a spoonful of soup to his lips.
It is like a punch in the face, but in the best possible way. There is a tartness to the broth in addition to its spice, and a warmth that Jun feels in his stomach almost immediately when he swallows.
He has never been a huge fan of kimchi on its own, but he could easily get used to this. There is an extra edge of garlic and onion that adds to the depth of flavour, and the sweetness of the pork belly rounds out the sharp bite of the kimchi. When he puts a piece of tofu in his mouth it shatters smoothly on his tongue, its silken texture and mild taste balanced perfectly and sublimely with the acidic crunch of the kimchi.
The rice, too, is steaming in its metal bowl, perfect white grains just sweet and sticky enough to complement the unapologetic fire of the broth.
This is a dish for a rainy day, someone else’s home-away-from-home food that nevertheless comforts and warms the both of them. Jun, who, in the past week, has only had sandwiches, potatoes and dry, spiced not-quite-rice, finds himself wishing that this meal will never end.
For close to ten minutes they do not speak, methodically devouring everything in the bowls like starving men (which they are). Their only communication comes in the form of small noises of satisfaction that they cannot quite hold back; the little huffing sound Sakurai makes when eating pieces of kimchi that are far too hot but far too delicious to put aside for even a moment.
The forbidding woman doesn’t say anything when she comes to collect their plates and give them their bill, but it is clear that she cannot quite suppress a smile.
Cappucino, sprinkled with chocolate powder and served in a paper cup
Sakurai Sho is a PhD student. He tells Jun he is working on a thesis about Development Economics in the Asia-Pacific region. His two vices are good food, and caffeine of any quality.
“I would administer it intravenously if it was possible,” Sakurai tells Jun. “So it’s probably a good thing someone pointed out this little kiosk.”
The man in the little kiosk makes an amazing cup of coffee. Jun takes a moment to feel sorry that Sakurai cannot tell the difference.
Under the light, cloudlike layer of light foam is coffee that is just the right flavour and temperature - a smooth and slightly nutty roast that goes down easy and leaves a pleasant aftertaste. It is also strong, strong enough to chase away the post-meal lethargy, which Jun appreciates.
Probably the only downside to getting coffee here is the fact that they have to drink it out in the cold, with cars going by at a startling speed down the road beside them.
Apart from that, there is little else to complain about. The coffee is good and so is the company. Sakurai has an amiable way of conversing that easily puts Jun at ease, and the way he listens when Jun speaks is not the absent agreement of a distant acquaintance. Sakurai listens, and nods along, and has insightful things to say about Jun’s current situation working as a stage designer for a company that seems likely to continue giving him a full employee’s workload on an intern’s pay for at least the next six months.
Jun would like to come up with a neat analogy about how good coffee is like a good conversation, but most things he comes up with either don’t fit or sound unbelievably trite. He is glad though, to have found Sakurai in this city of grime and grandeur; someone who understands the strange longing for warm rice and fresh fish, who understands how sometimes the best way to fill the gap of homesickness is to search for food that warms the heart as much as the body.
Nino-Matsu Special Okonomiyaki - served with lotus root, seasonal mushrooms and cheese
“No,” says Sakurai, “No. Go away.”
The person he is addressing is a man named Ninomiya, who is standing over the hotplate with two spatulas in hand, seemingly unhurt by Sakurai’s vehement rejection.
“It’s just one okonomiyaki, before Macchan comes back,” says Ninomiya.
“No,” says Sakurai. “Is it possible to refuse service here? I’m refusing. We can do it ourselves.”
“I’m perfectly happy to do it for you,” Ninomiya says blithely, “I’ll take you through all the stages.”
“We’re Japanese,” Sakurai groans, burying his face in one hand.
Jun glances back at Ninomiya and notices, for the first time, a definite glint of mischief in his eyes.
“He’s actually been banned from making his own okonomiyaki here,” Ninomiya tells Jun. “Because he’s so bad at it.”
“It’s not like you’re particularly good at it, either-” Sakurai argues.
“-Excuse me, owner of the restaurant here-” Ninomiya interjects
“-The last time you made mine you abandoned it,” Sakurai continues. “Abandoned it.”
“I was tending the cash register,” Ninomiya tells Jun, “that’s what I usually do. And I take down all the bookings. Which are multitudinous, and in English, and always confuse Macchan. A lot.”
“It burned,” says Sakurai. He looks so mournful that Jun cannot keep from laughing.
“This is the Nino-Matsu special,” Ninomiya tells him. “Either a Nino or a Matsu has to prepare it.”
Sakurai is now goggling at Jun like he’s just discovered penicillin. “Matsumoto-kun’s a Matsu! He’ll do!”
Ninomiya opens his mouth to protest at that but another voice interrupts him from the entrance to the restaurant.
“You have a point there,” says a tall, slightly shy-looking man whose name-tag reads ‘Ken’ichi’. He is holding a large cardboard box of groceries but manages to make it look weightless as he navigates the narrow passageway, stopping to deposit a folded-up receipt in the front of Nino’s apron. “But do let me prepare it,” he continues, “I’ll be right back.”
Matsuyama Ken’ichi, or Macchan, as Ninomiya calls him, appears to have turned making okonomiyaki into an art form.
Not an ostentatious one, of course - there are no unnecessary flourishes here, no excessive flipping or twirling of spatulas. There is, instead, an economy in his movements that makes him a pleasure to watch, hunched slightly as he shapes the batter into a near-perfect disc on the hotplate, moving deftly to grill the lotus roots and mushrooms while waiting for one side to be cooked.
By the time Matsuyama begins to cut the pancake with his spatula, Jun and Sho are both leaning forward in anticipation. Not even the sound of Nino enthusiastically welcoming a group of guests in English can draw their attention away (although Nino’s energetic Hello, My Name Is Kazunari! Have You Tried Delicious Japanese Pancake? ringing in the background is definitely a close contender).
“Everything?” asks Matsuyama, gesturing to the toppings. At their agreement, he begins to squeeze dark okonomiyaki sauce and mayonnaise in concentric circles over the pancake before shaking an even layer of seaweed flakes on top of that. The bonito flakes soon follow, writhing like live things as they settle on the surface of the okonomiyaki.
“Please enjoy,” says Matsuyama when he is finished.
“We will,” says Jun, reaching forward to manoeuvre a section of okonomiyaki off the hotplate and onto his dish.
The most important thing in a good okonomiyaki, to Jun, is the texture. If the ratio of flour to everything else is not right, it can either become too chewy, or not chewy enough. This okonomiyaki appears to have attained the coveted middle-ground between the two. It is piping hot, and Jun’s first bite elicits an uncontrolled ‘Mmn’ sound that he usually endeavours not to make in public places. The texture is just the way Jun likes it, with just a slight crunch from the cabbage. And the flavour - fish flakes and mayonnaise; the light semi-sweetness of the pancake itself - reminds Jun so distinctively of home that all he can do is hasten to take another bite.
Opposite him, Sakurai is adding liberal amounts of mayonnaise and spicy sauce to his own slice of pancake between mouthfuls. He has a particular way of eating that Jun can only describe as being a cross between endearing and hilarious. It is a pleasure to watch Sakurai devour something because he does so with so much visible joy, appearing almost chipmunk-like as he savours each large mouthful with accompanying noises of contentment.
From where he’s wiping down the hotplate at the next table, Matsuyama watches the two of them demolish the okonomiyaki with great gusto, and cannot resist giving Ninomiya a thumbs-up from across the large room.
Lightly salted onigiri with umeboshi filling and wrapped in seaweed
Jun’s plane lands just slightly past midnight, and when he makes his way out of the airport in a taxi he is greeted by damp streets and steady lights in old buildings, a city half-awake in the darkness.
He takes all of this in during the journey to the hotel, trying to make out possible landmarks under the weird shadows. He is tired, of course; soaked through with travel fatigue. Even so, he still feels a frisson of excitement and fear commingled as he gazes out of the taxi window.
The adventure will have to wait till tomorrow, though. He doesn’t unpack when he arrives in his room; the next morning a young woman who introduced herself on the phone as Inoue Mao will come by to take him to where he will actually be staying in the coming months.
Instead, after Jun has taken his shower and changed into clean pyjamas, he sits at the edge of his bed and takes a plastic airtight container out of his overnight bag. Inside it are two neatly-made onigiri, wrapped in cling film and accompanied by pieces of seaweed. His mother had foisted this onto him despite Jun’s protests that he is a grown man and is, consequently, more than able to find his own food.
That, however, doesn’t stop him from pulling the cling film off the first onigiri and wrapping the seaweed crisply around it. Something about holding a rice ball in his hand is infinitely comforting - always has been, on school trips as a young boy and even when he’d first started working almost half a decade ago.
It is after the first bite, after Jun chews and swallows a pleasantly sticky, solid mouthful of rice and seaweed, that he is thankful that his mother thought of this detail.
White rice, miso soup and tamagoyaki
It is one of those weeks where Jun feels mildly under the weather, the kind of week where the perpetual hint of a sore throat continues to linger every morning. He sleeps too much and very badly, and wakes up to overcast skies and persistent drizzle. There is a cloud over him, almost; his limbs feel heavy, chest tight with some inarticulable emotion.
He wakes up to the sound of people in his flat.
At first he thinks it might be one of his housemates’ friends - maybe Mao or someone else has guests over today. Then he realises that Mao is out of town for work this weekend, and Pedro said he was going to visit his family in Portugal.
With a little groan he rolls out of bed, wandering out into the hallway to investigate.
Jun enters the kitchen to find a stranger preparing tamagoyaki by the stove.
“Hello,” says the man, smiling placidly at him.
“Are you…” Jun begins.
“I’m cooking breakfast,” says the man. “The miso soup and rice is almost ready.”
“How did you get in here?” asks Jun.
“Oh,” says the man, “your housemate let us in. The one with a lot of suitcases.”
“Wait, Pedro-” Jun begins, and then pauses. “Us?”
“Oh, you’re awake,” says Sho, emerging from the toilet at the end of the hallway. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I thought we’d come in to check on you. Mao-chan said you were sick.”
“And?” says Jun, indicating the stranger in his kitchen still blithely rolling the omelette in Mao’s small tamagoyaki pan.
“This is Ohno Satoshi, my housemate,” Sho tells Jun. “He came along to make us breakfast. I still owe you a meal, remember?”
“I thought the lemon cake was supposed to make up for it,” says Jun, bowing slightly when Ohno turns round to give a little wave.
“Well,” says Sho, “it’s not wise to refuse an Ohno Satoshi breakfast. Trust me. I say this from a year’s experience.”
Breakfast is not quite breakfast without rice and miso soup - this is what Jun has concluded. The fact that Ohno has also made rolls of fluffy, delicious tamagoyaki is a welcome bonus.
“These are the only things I know how to cook,” says Ohno. “Besides chahan.”
“That’s why it tastes so good,” says Sho, picking up another segment of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks. “Specialisation.”
There are subtle differences to be tasted when it comes to miso soup; everything, from the way the dashi stock is prepared to the proportion of miso used, contributes to the slight shifts in flavour from person to person. Ohno’s miso soup reminds Jun somehow of his mother’s, warm and flavourful. He has included tofu and mushrooms, together with the wakame, and Jun likes the way the tofu and the slight sweetness of the mushrooms work perfectly together with the savoury soup.
They converse while they eat. Ohno tells Jun about the series of seemingly random events in his life that has led to him becoming a store clerk at a Japanese bookstore in the city. Ohno seems entirely unaffected by the fact that he’s only just met Jun; he merely enquires as to whether Jun is full and wonders if they should have gotten some pickles after all. After the initial niceties on Jun’s part, it begins to feel as if they’ve been eating breakfast together for years.
“And why are you here?” asks Ohno, at some point. It is the first entirely personal question he asks Jun throughout the conversation.
“For work,” says Jun, picking the easy answer first. Then he adds, “And to see the world.”
“Yes,” says Ohno, nodding.
A question like do you miss home does not need to be asked, in such a circumstance. The three of them already understand that as an immutable fact. It is, after all, what has drawn them together in the first place.
Shrimp-and-chive gyoza and yakisoba wrapped in omelette
On one of the sunniest days he has ever experienced since he arrived, Jun meets Aiba. To be more exact, Jun trips over Aiba as he is hurrying through the park. He barely avoids landing face-first in the grass.
“I’m so sorry,” Aiba tells Jun apologetically in Japanese after he’s helped Jun right himself, “I was trying to take a photograph of that squirrel.”
Jun does his best to resist informing Aiba that most normal people do not crouch down on knees and elbows in the middle of a pathway when taking photos at the park.
Instead, he apologises for ruining Aiba’s photograph.
“Oh no, you didn’t ruin it,” says Aiba, whipping out his camera again to show him how the shot turned out.
The squirrel is somehow looking directly at the lens in the photo; posing, almost. Aware.
“It’s very nice,” Jun tells Aiba, meaning it.
“Thank you,” says Aiba, becoming flustered with delight.
He is travelling, he tells Jun. Some months ago he won an innovator’s prize for an interactive kennel he designed, and he’s been exploring the world with his winnings. At some point while they are talking, Jun mentions that he’ll be meeting some friends at an okonomiyaki restaurant.
“Do you want to join us?” asks Jun, surprising even himself.
Matsuyama cooks the gyoza right in front of them, and amidst the sizzle of water hitting the hotplate Aiba introduces himself to Sho and Ohno.
“Stop talking and start eating,” Nino interrupts, emerging from the kitchen bearing three plates of yakisoba wrapped in the lightest of omelettes.
Everything is delicious when served piping hot; the texture of the yakisoba is perfectly done, as always. When Jun bites into the gyoza the skin is light and crispy, giving way to the juiciest of shrimp.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Sho tells Matsuyama, while Ohno nods his enthusiastic agreement.
There are days when Jun finds himself yearning for what is absent, for the places and people he left behind. On these days Sho will inevitably say, try this, or I found a great place for lunch, assembling his own gastronomic map of the city.
Jun is glad he chose to follow along. These are flavours of home, prepared by people Jun has come to know and like. He isn’t sure, however, when exactly it was that he started looking forward to the company even more than the food.
“This is amazing,” says Aiba, taking another bite with an expression of bliss that Jun knows all too well.
“It is,” says Jun, looking around at the others. “It really is.”
End
Read more from BEFORE and AFTER.