The Restaurant of Lost Recipes

Chapter 1

Nori-ben

1

Kyosuke Kitano jumped off the Keihan express at Shichijo station, walked up the stairs and out into daylight, then stopped to gaze at the swirling waters of the Kamogawa. It had been five years since he'd moved from the southern prefecture of Oita to nearby Osaka, and yet this was his first trip to Kyoto.

Slung over his shoulder was a navy sports bag printed with the name of his university, its straps digging into his upper arm. Tiny rivers of sweat were running down his muscular neck, leaving damp patches on his white polo shirt. Squinting against the sunlight bouncing off the river, he looked down at the map in his hand and began walking west.

After crossing a bridge, he reached Kawaramachi-dori, where he stopped and began rotating the map this way and that, swiveling on the spot as he did so. He glanced around, rocking his head from side to side in hopeless confusion.

Noticing a man cycling past with a wooden box of the sort used for food deliveries, he called out: "Excuse me! Which way is Higashi Honganji temple?"

"Straight that way," replied the man, pointing west. "Take a right down Karasuma-dori." He began pedaling off.

"It's actually a restaurant on Shomen-dori I'm looking for," said Kyosuke, jogging to keep up.

The man set his feet down from the pedals again. "Mr. Kamogawa's place?"

"Yes, that's the one." Kyosuke showed the man his map. "The Kamogawa Diner."

"Third right, then the second left. It's the fifth building on the left." With these brisk words, the man cycled off.

"Thank you!" shouted Kyosuke, bowing as low as he could to the departing figure. Counting the streets on his fingers, he followed the man's directions until he arrived at his destination: a two-story building with a slightly drab mortar exterior and no sign advertising its presence. It was all just as he'd been told. Kyosuke put a hand to his chest, took three deep breaths, then slid the door open.

"Hello?" he called into the interior.

"Ah," said Nagare Kamogawa, looking up from the counter he was scrubbing. "Come on in."

Kyosuke was somewhat taken aback by this welcoming tone. "I'm . . . here to request your food detective services," he stammered.

"You can relax, you know. I don't bite. Go on, take a seat." Nagare gestured toward one of the red folding chairs at a nearby table.

"Thank you." Kyosuke breathed a sigh of relief, though there was still something vaguely robotic about the way he seated himself on the chair.

"You hungry?" asked Nagare. "How about some grub?"

"Oh . . . you mean I can . . . eat here?" Kyosuke was struggling so much to get the words out that he seemed on the verge of biting his own tongue.

"You might as well, seeing as you're here! Then, afterward, you can tell us about this dish you're looking for."

"You're a student, then?" asked Nagare's daughter, Koishi, emerging from the kitchen just as her father entered it. She wore a sommelier apron over her white shirt and black jeans. "You look like you're in some kind of sports club. Let me guess: kendo. No-judo?"

"Not exactly," said Kyosuke, smiling.

"But those muscles . . ." she said, eyeing his biceps. "It must be some kind of martial art, right?"

"It's nothing that impressive." Kyosuke accepted a glass of iced tea and began crunching away at the ice cubes.

"Is your university in Kyoto?"

"No, Osaka. Do you know Kindai Sports University? I'm Kyosuke, by the way," he added, getting to his feet as he introduced himself.

"I feel like I've seen you before somewhere. . . ." said Koishi, carefully studying his features.

"Probably just one of those faces," he replied with a shy grin.

"How did you find out about this place, then?"

"Well, see, I live at the university dormitory, and that's where I eat all my meals. I got chatting with the cook about this dish I ate when I was little, and he tried making it for me. But it didn't quite taste the same. When I told him as much, he said I should come here instead. Showed me your ad in Gourmet Monthly."

"Ah, the ad," said Koishi, carefully wiping down the table.

Nagare reappeared with a metal tray. It was laden with small dishes. "This probably won't be enough for a youngster like you," he murmured as he set it on the table. "You'll have to let me know if you need seconds."

"This looks . . . incredible," said Kyosuke, gazing excitedly at the food.

"Tsuyahime rice from Yamagata-extra-big portion of that. Pork miso soup on the side. Plenty of root vegetables in there too, even if they're not all fancy Kyoto specialties. Now, the large platter is a fusion of Japanese and Western cuisine. That there is deep-fried hamo eel with sour plum pulp and perilla leaf. The Manganji peppers are deep-fried too. Try those with my homemade Worcestershire sauce. The small bowl is miso-simmered mackerel with a shredded myoga ginger dressing. The roast beef is Kyoto stock-best enjoyed with a drizzle of the wasabi-infused soy sauce and wrapped in a sheet of toasted nori. As for the teriyaki-style duck meatballs, you can dip those in the accompanying quail egg yolk. Chilled tofu garnished with the minced skin of the hamo eel and, finally, deep-fried Kamo eggplant with a starchy curry sauce. Enjoy!"

Kyosuke licked his lips, nodding along enthusiastically to Nagare's every word.

"The food isn't always this fancy, you know," said Koishi with a wink. "Dad got all excited when he saw we had an eligible young bachelor visiting, and now he's pulling out all the stops."

"Shush, you!" said Nagare, dragging her into the kitchen.

For all his enthusiastic nodding, Kyosuke had almost no idea what any of the food in front of him was. Hamo and mackerel were types of fish, he knew that much. But as for what they might taste like . . . The mention of roast beef, Worcestershire sauce, and curry had come as a relief, but even those parts of the meal looked suspiciously different from anything he normally ate.

After ten seconds or so of silent contemplation, he gripped the bowl of rice firmly in his left hand, reached for one of the duck meatballs with his chopsticks, dipped it in the small bowl of quail egg yolk, set it on his rice, then popped it into his mouth.

He let out a quiet gasp of delight, then immediately began working his way through the deep-fried eel and roast beef, his chopsticks working at lightning speed. Every mouthful triggered a murmur of appreciation.

In all honesty, having never eaten anything he could even compare it to, Kyosuke had no way of knowing what standard of cuisine he was eating. What he did know, instinctively, was that the dishes in front of him gave off the same aura as the world's top athletes. The food filling his mouth right now was simply sensational.

"How is it?" asked Nagare, appearing at his side with a glass pitcher of iced tea.

"I don't really know how to describe it. I mean, I know next to nothing about food. But that was an amazing meal."

"Glad to hear it," said Nagare, pouring the tea. "Cooks like me only get one shot at winning over the customer. If they don't like what I serve them, they won't be coming back. Of course, if they do, I get to do it again and again."

Kyosuke sank into thought, as though pondering the significance of Nagare's words.

"If that's filled you up," he continued, "let me show you to the office in the back. My daughter will interview you there."

"Yes, about that . . ." said Kyosuke, draining his glass of tea. "I was just thinking that maybe I don't need your help after all."

Nagare poured him a refill. "Why? That's what you came here for, isn't it?"

"It's just . . ." said Kyosuke, fiddling with his glass. "After eating a meal like that, my own request feels a bit silly."

"Listen. You came to us because you wanted our help re-creating a meal. Something deep inside you told you to come here-something you can't quite put your finger on. A sort of . . . fog inside you. Are you telling me that fog has cleared away completely?"

"But . . ." replied Kyosuke without looking up. "The dish I want help with is so basic I don't even know if you can call it a 'dish.'"

Nagare looked steadily at him. "I don't know what it is you're after, but I can assure you that there's no such thing as 'basic' when it comes to cooking."

Kyosuke nodded deeply, patted his cheeks, then got to his feet.

"All right, then. I'm in."

Nagare smiled. "Glad to hear it. Follow me." He showed Kyosuke toward the door at the back of the restaurant.

"What are these?" asked Kyosuke, glancing at the photos lining the walls of the corridor.

"Dishes I've cooked over the years, mainly," said Nagare.

Kyosuke's eyes darted from one photo to another as he walked. "You really can cook anything, can't you?"

Nagare stopped and turned. "'Jack of all trades and master of none' would be another way of putting it. If I'd focused on just one dish, maybe I'd have earned myself a Michelin star by now."

"Just one dish, eh?" murmured Kyosuke. He had come to a halt and was gazing pensively up into the air.

"You all right?" asked Nagare.

"Oh, I'm fine," said Kyosuke as they began striding down the corridor again.


Koishi was waiting in the office at the back of the restaurant.

"Please-take a seat."

"Right, then." Kyosuke bowed, then settled in the middle of the sofa opposite her.

"Could you fill this out?" asked Koishi, handing him a clipboard with a form on it. "Don't sweat the details."

"My handwriting's terrible. I hope you can read it." He began scribbling away, cocking his head to one side every now and then as if to think.

"Kyosuke Kitano. Kindai Sports University . . ." Koishi clapped her hands. "Now I remember!"

"Remember what?" asked Kyosuke, somewhat bewildered.

"You're that swimmer! I saw you in a magazine. They said you were one of the big hopes for the future." Koishi's eyes were gleaming.

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Kyosuke, smiling modestly as he returned the clipboard.

"You're going to be in the Olympics, aren't you?" asked Koishi, her eyes scanning the rest of the form.

"Depends how I do in the qualifiers."

"It said in the magazine you were a real all-rounder. Freestyle, backstroke-the whole package."

"Actually, people keep telling me I should just focus on just one stroke."

"Well, we'll be rooting for you." Koishi pursed her lips. "So, what's this dish you're looking for?"

"I can't believe I'm asking you this," said Kyosuke, dropping his voice and looking down at his feet, "but I'd like you to make me a nori-ben."

"Nori-ben? You mean like . . . the bento box? Nori seaweed on a bed of rice, with deep-fried fish or chikuwa tempura or something on the side?"

"No, nothing on the side." Kyosuke's voice was even quieter now. "Just the nori on the rice."

"Just the nori?" asked Koishi, leaning forward. "Nothing else?"

"That's right," murmured Kyosuke, his muscular body hunching in on itself. His voice was practically a whisper now.

"I'm guessing you didn't eat this at . . . a restaurant, did you?" asked Koishi, peering curiously at him.

"My dad made it for me."

"Your dad's bento, eh . . . Well, why don't you just ask him? If you're from Oita, that's not too far away, is it?"

"I haven't spoken to my dad in over five years," said Kyosuke, his voice cracking slightly.

"I . . . see. Do you at least know where he lives?"

"I heard he was living over in Shimane."

Koishi's eyes widened in surprise. "Shimane? Why?"

"Dad was addicted to gambling. That's why Mum walked out on him. Even when he got sick, he insisted the medical fees were a waste of money. Spent all the money we had on keirin racing instead. I guess he's paying the price for all that now. I heard he's crashing at my aunt's place in Shimane while he finally gets treated for his illness."

"Right, then," said Koishi, scribbling something in a notebook. "What about your mum?"

"Remarried. She lives in Kumamoto now."

"And when did she leave your dad?"

"It was the first summer holiday after I started at Oita Junior High, so about ten years ago. Dad bet all the money she'd been saving for a family holiday on a horse race. My little sister went to live with her, but I chose to stay with Dad. Didn't think he'd manage on his own, you see."

"So it was just you and your dad at home, then," said Koishi, turning to the next page of her notebook. "What was his job?"

"He drove a tourist taxi around Oita." Kyosuke smiled bitterly. "Though I think he spent more time at the racing track."

"Right, let's recap. Until you started junior high school in Oita, it was the four of you at home. Then, in the summer of your first year at junior high, your mum left home with your little sister, leaving you in your dad's care. And now you live in Osaka. So . . . when did you leave Oita?"

"Halfway through my second year of senior high school. An Osaka swimming club invited me to move to a school affiliated with Kindai Sports University. I've been living in dormitories ever since."

"So you and your dad lived together for"-Koishi counted on her fingers-"four years, is that right?"

"Yeah. Of course, that meant he had to cook for me. My senior high school in Oita had a cafeteria, but for the three years before that, when I was still at junior high, my dad made me a bento every day."

"And sometimes it was this nori-ben?"

Kyosuke smiled vaguely. "Not sometimes. Always."

"Always?" asked Koishi, her mouth gaping. "You mean . . . every day?"

"I only had myself to blame, really. See, the first time he made it, I made the mistake of telling him I liked it. 'Super yummy,' I think my exact words were. Dad was over the moon. After that he started making it every day." Kyosuke's expression had turned slightly morose.

Koishi sighed. "Got a little carried away, did he?"

"My friends started making fun of me for always eating the exact same thing. I'd hide the inside of my bento with the lid and shovel it down as fast as I could. That's probably why I don't recall much about the flavor. All I do remember is that, well, I did like it." Kyosuke said these final words with conviction.