Table for You
When I told the izakaya waitress — Mutsumi, according to her name tag — that I hadn’t ordered potato salad, she just left the bowl on the counter in front of me and scuttled to the kitchen. I scowled at her back. Should I call her over? No, if she didn’t get my message the first time, why would she get it the second?
I was about to hail the chef, but then I peeked down at the creamy mashed potatoes, the almost luminescent carrots, the translucent slices of cucumber. A lot of effort had been put into this dish. Why not eat it?
I picked up my chopsticks and took a mouthful. The potato was softer than foam. A softness that boosted the solidity of the ham and cucumber. A softness in which salt, sugar, and vinegar, instead of being rivals, enhanced each other’s flavor, or rather, gave birth to a new one.
This was the perfect potato salad.
The next day after work, I visited the izakaya again. Like yesterday, I scanned the wooden boards hanging above me, paralyzed by all the food choices. Tamagoyaki? No, I’d already eaten eggs for breakfast. Grilled saury? Too many fish bones. Chilled tofu? Not today; I was craving strong-flavored food.
I was still fighting my indecision when someone’s head entered my field of vision. Orange yukata, loose bun, milk-white skin. It was Mutsumi, who’d placed a plate holding four pieces of prawn tempura on the counter.
“I didn’t order this,” I told her. “In fact, I haven’t ordered yet.”
She averted her chocolate eyes, nibbled at her cherry lips, then joined the chef in the kitchen without a word.
Maybe she couldn’t hear or speak? No, why would someone hire a deaf waitress? Maybe she had a terrible memory? Whatever. I was craving fried food anyway.
I grabbed a prawn with my chopsticks and inspected it. The body was evenly dressed in fried flour, and it’d been straightened flawlessly, as though it’d been pulled from both ends by strings.
My mouth watering, I dipped the prawn in the tempura sauce and took a bite. The batter was so crunchy it masked the chatter of the customers while I chewed, for a moment, giving me the illusion that I was the only soul in the room. The prawn under this layer was a sponge coated with the saltiness of the sea. No strong odor. No slippery oil.
This was the perfect prawn tempura
That weekend, Mutsumi brought me a rectangular plate holding six pieces of tuna belly.
“Look,” I began, locking my eyes with hers, “I don’t mind eating random stuff. Heck, I’m even starting to enjoy it. Each dish is a surprise — but could you tell me why you’re doing this?”
Mutsumi bit her lower lip, her eyes glued to the counter. Finally, she scurried to the kitchen like a frightened kitten.
Unsure of what to do, I inspected the tuna belly before me. It’d been cut into well-formed bite-sized rectangles. The fat made the surface sparkle, giving them the appearance of rubies.
I picked up one piece with my chopsticks and took a bite. Actually, I didn’t have to chew; as soon as the sashimi made contact with my tongue, it melted like butter. And the taste was so fresh, the image of the sea — waves, whales, seaweed — flowed into my mind, simultaneously filling my heart with a new-found love for cuisine.
This was the perfect tuna belly sashimi.
Mutsumi continued serving me arbitrary dishes. Strange as it sounds, I became used to the service she provided me; or rather, I became relieved, since I no longer had to engage in staring contests with the menu.
So, I stopped asking her questions. I’d just eat, pay, and leave.
On Monday, I had octopus with wasabi — the wasabi shot ecstatically up my nose. Tuesday: grilled salmon — it didn’t let down my expectations. Wednesday: calamari rings — fried just right. Thursday: pork tonkatsu — it left me drooling even after eating it.
On Friday, common sense seeped into my brain. This is wrong. A waitress shouldn’t be ordering for you, even if the food is fabulous.
That’s why, that same day, I resolved to confront Mutsumi, without leaving the place until receiving a clear response.
However, when I stepped into the izakaya, I couldn’t find her. Had she taken a sick day? Cut down her shifts?
The chef attended me instead. “What would you like to order?”
“I would like to ask a question,” I said. “Where’s the waitress?”
The chef smoothed his vanilla-colored yukata. “Mutsumi? Unfortunately, she’s not working here anymore.”
“She quit?” I blurted.
His furrowed brows seemed to say, I shouldn’t divulge the details, but twisting the truth might be worse. “I had to fire her because I saw her giving wrong orders to customers. Not only that. She was cooking the dishes herself, using my store supplies without permission. If the food couldn’t be prepared discreetly, she’d lie about having received the order.”
It took me a moment to process his words, and to utter mine. “She didn’t tell you why she did it?”
The chef shook his head. “That’s another reason I fired her.”
My mind ran through his revelation again. “Wait, you said customers. That means she was doing this to many people?” Not only me? I thought with a sour heart.
“Sorry, customer. Singular.” He squinted his small eyes until they almost disappeared. “Hey, Mutsumi was serving the food to you, right?” When I nodded, with a bow, he added, “I apologize profoundly. Mutsumi also wants to apologize.”
I sprung from my chair. “In person?”
“Not exactly.” The chef fished a folded note out of his yukata and handed it to me. “She wrote this letter of apology and told me to give it to you.”
My eyes bounced between him and the piece of paper.
This was the perfect mystery.
I read Mutsumi’s letter as soon as I stepped out of the izakaya.
Dear Tabei (sorry for making up a name for you),
Actually, this isn’t an apology. It’s more like a confession.
First thing I want to tell you: I can speak. I’m just not good at it. The words I choose are either too bitter or too sweet or too something. So, in the end, I swallow them down.
Writing is easier for me since I can handpick the words one by one. That said, I express myself best through cooking. Food isn’t just something you eat, you know? It’s also a medium of communication. Instead of words, though, you use your hands and knife, ingredients and condiments to express yourself.
That’s why I cooked for you each time you came to the izakaya. I wanted to convey my feelings for you through my food. Yes, you read well. My feelings for you.
I know what you’re thinking: how can I have affection for a stranger? And you’re right — except you aren’t a stranger to me. Excluding your name, I know a lot about you.
How you split disposable chopsticks perfectly.
How you avoid slurping your noodles.
How you tear napkins in two and use them separately (you do this to save trees, right?).
How you gaze out of the window as if waiting for your date.
How it takes you forever to choose from the menu and end up ordering the same dishes.
But you know what I like the most? How you eat. You do it with your eyes shut, as if you don’t want your other senses to interfere with that of taste. As if you’re making a silent prayer. As if eating is the ultimate pleasure — you know, maybe it is. Same as cooking for your sweetheart.
I hope you enjoyed my food, that it wasn’t too bitter, too sweet, or too something.
Mutsumi.
“No, your food was never too bitter or too sweet,” I said, salty tears traveling down my cheeks and neck. “And by the way, my name is Tabei.”
“For the fourth time,” the chef said, his back to me as he cooked in the kitchen, “I can’t give you Mutsumi’s address or phone. It’s against policy.”
“But this is an emergency,” I pleaded, spreading my hands flat on the counter.
“And what that emergency might be?”
A broken heart, I almost said, but rapidly realized the stupidity of the statement.
“Look,” the chef began, turning around, “maybe Mutsumi will show up here one of these days. Sure, I fired her, but we didn’t end on bad terms. Plus, she loves eating izakaya food, not only cooking it.”
I nodded to the chef, recalling what Mutsumi wrote in her letter. Food is also a medium of communication. What was she trying to tell me with her dishes? Probably the same over and over: I have feelings for you.
Putting my hopes in the chef’s theory, I went to the izakaya from eight to eleven p.m. every day. For a whole week.
Mutsumi didn’t show up on Monday (after almost an hour, I ordered octopus wasabi).
Nor on Tuesday (I chose grilled salmon this time).
Or Wednesday (calamari rings).
Or Thursday (pork tonkatsu).
On Friday, I stood up and said goodbye to the chef without ordering anything.
With a faded glimmer of hope, I looked around the neighborhood for Mutsumi. Since she’d worked at the izakaya every day, there was a remote chance she lived nearby. I checked parks, parking lots, pachinko parlors, all kinds of public spaces. I did this for a whole week.
On the last day of my vain search, hungry and dispirited, I switched my target to an izakaya. Why not visit the one I frequented? Because the food there would give me the same message again and again: Mutsumi is gone for good.
I didn’t have to explore for too long. Two blocks from the old izakaya, someone had opened a new one. Framed bamboo door, fish paper lamps, a sign with Friday’s special cocktails — it seemed to be a nice place.
Inside, I greeted the chef, sat on a chair at the counter, and scanned the menu. Kaarage? No, I’d been eating too much fried food lately. Wagyu beef? Too expensive. Potato salad? Bad idea: it’d remind me of Mutsumi, and it surely wouldn’t taste as good as hers.
I was trapped in this tornado of hesitation for almost ten minutes. When another five had passed, a pair of delicate hands put a plate of sizzling yakitori skewers before me. They were sleekly stacked, and of a carefully selected variety: chicken heart, beef tongue, shiitake mushrooms, deep fried tofu. They had the lushness of aroused lips, and the tan of someone who’d sunbathed naked at the beach the whole summer.
I looked up from my plate, smiling foolishly.
By the way, I just published a short story collection.
