Part 2 (1/2)

”Natsu's Brewery?” the woman suggested. the woman suggested.

A prequel series about Natsuko's grandmother, who battles and overcomes the traditional exclusion of women from sake making.

”Read it.”

”The Chef?”

A traveling chef for hire, Mr. Ajisawa uses culinary knowledge to solve clients' problems, which at first glance seem unrelated to food.

”Sorry.”

”Train Station Bento-Box Single Traveler?”

Dai and his wife, Yuko, run a bento-box lunch shop. For their tenth wedding anniversary, Yuko presents Dai with a special train ticket so he can travel around j.a.pan indulging his pa.s.sion for bento-box lunches sold at train stations. ”It'll be a nice vacation from me!” says Yuko, who stays home to mind their shop.

”Read that, too.”

”Emba.s.sy Chef?”

Mr. Osawa, a twenty-eight-year-old chef, gets a job at the j.a.panese emba.s.sy in Vietnam, where his deft kitchen skills help the amba.s.sador overcome various diplomatic crises.

”I don't think so.”

”Third-Generation Tsukiji Fish Market Man?”

A human resources manager at a troubled bank, Mr. Akagi is ordered to lay off one hundred employees. He feels guilty, so he lays off ninety-nine and then lays himself off. Later, he goes to work for his father-in-law at Tokyo's famous Tsukiji fish market, where he's ostracized because he lacks fish knowledge.

”Sorry again.”

”Best Chinese?”

I had read only Book One, but I didn't get into the plot line, which was about a boy born in nineteenth-century Szechwan Province who turns out to be a cooking prodigy.

I was about to leave when the woman made one last suggestion.

”How about Ramen Discovery Legend Ramen Discovery Legend?”

”What?”

The cover of Book One showed a photograph of a bowl of noodle soup topped with bamboo shoots, a slice of pork, and several squares of dried seaweed. Next to the photograph, an ill.u.s.trated young man was holding out an ill.u.s.trated bowl of ramen in his left hand. He was looking straight at me, and his right hand was clenched in a fist.

”Go ahead,” he seemed to be saying. ”Try it!”

I purchased purchased Ramen Discovery Legend Ramen Discovery Legend Book One and decided to search for a sus.h.i.+ bar in which to read it. I was driving along Clement Street when I noticed a small storefront with a j.a.panese sign. Was it a sus.h.i.+ bar? Yes, it was. Its name, Murasaki, was written vertically down the side of the door in hiragana. Hiragana symbols are like letters in the alphabet, except instead of standing for consonants and vowels, each once represents a whole syllable. (Technically, therefore, hiragana const.i.tute a syllabary, not an alphabet. An example: Book One and decided to search for a sus.h.i.+ bar in which to read it. I was driving along Clement Street when I noticed a small storefront with a j.a.panese sign. Was it a sus.h.i.+ bar? Yes, it was. Its name, Murasaki, was written vertically down the side of the door in hiragana. Hiragana symbols are like letters in the alphabet, except instead of standing for consonants and vowels, each once represents a whole syllable. (Technically, therefore, hiragana const.i.tute a syllabary, not an alphabet. An example:is p.r.o.nounced ”mu.”) You can write all j.a.panese words in hiragana if you want to-and in kids' books, that's how it is. But in adult writing, some strings of hiragana are replaced with kanji, the ideographs inherited from the Chinese.

When to use kanji and when to use hiragana is a matter of convention and style, but sometimes the decision conveys meaning. For example, if Murasaki Murasaki had been written in kanji, it would have been just one character, had been written in kanji, it would have been just one character,, which means ”purple.” But, like I said, it was spelled out in hiragana:. And since (like Roman letters) hiragana have no implicit meaning, they give rise to h.o.m.onyms. So Murasaki Murasaki could have meant ”purple,” but it also might have been a reference to the sus.h.i.+ chef's code language. could have meant ”purple,” but it also might have been a reference to the sus.h.i.+ chef's code language.

I learned about the sus.h.i.+ chef 's code language translating a newspaper essay while I was a student at International Christian University. The essay described how sus.h.i.+ chefs developed the code so they could talk business in front of customers. For example, agari agari usually means ”rise up,” but in the sus.h.i.+ chef's code language it means ”tea.” usually means ”rise up,” but in the sus.h.i.+ chef's code language it means ”tea.” Menoji Menoji usually means ”the eye kanji,” but in the sus.h.i.+ chef 's code language it means ”five.” (The connection is that it takes five brush strokes to write the eye kanji, usually means ”the eye kanji,” but in the sus.h.i.+ chef 's code language it means ”five.” (The connection is that it takes five brush strokes to write the eye kanji,.) In the sus.h.i.+ chef 's code language, murasaki murasaki means ”soy sauce.” means ”soy sauce.”

Something about Murasaki looked right, and it wasn't just that the name might have been a reference to soy sauce in the sus.h.i.+ chef's code language. Through the window I could tell that there were only a few tables and one chef.

When I walked inside, he welcomed me from behind the counter.

”Ira.s.shaimase!”

He looked about Tetsuo's age, but he was thinner and smiled more. Behind him, a calligraphy painting of a single kanji character-aras.h.i.+-hung on the wall.

Aras.h.i.+ means ”storm.” means ”storm.”

The chef motioned me to sit at his counter, and after surveying the contents of his refrigerated case, I ordered hirame hirame, maguro, saba, maguro, saba, and and uni uni to start. to start.

When the chef put a plate of his sus.h.i.+ in front of me, I reached deliberately for the hirame hirame. In Kanda Tsuruhachi Sus.h.i.+ Stories Kanda Tsuruhachi Sus.h.i.+ Stories, the sus.h.i.+ chef's memoir, Moro-oka divides sus.h.i.+ into four types: white-flesh stuff (hirame, tai tai), red-flesh stuff (maguro, katsuo katsuo), s.h.i.+ny-skin stuff (saba, kohada-s.h.i.+ny-skin stuff is usually pickled), and other stuff (sh.e.l.lfish, etc.). He says customers are supposed to eat the white-flesh stuff first because if they eat red-flesh or s.h.i.+ny-skin or other stuff first, they'll overwhelm their palates with fat or vinegar, and they'll be unable to enjoy the white-flesh stuff 's delicate flavors. I was hoping that by reaching for the white-flesh hirame hirame I could convey to the chef-without even speaking j.a.panese-that I knew what I was doing, but he didn't seem to notice. I could convey to the chef-without even speaking j.a.panese-that I knew what I was doing, but he didn't seem to notice.

Whoa. Did I see what I thought I saw?

To my left at the counter, a few seats away, a j.a.panese man was eating sus.h.i.+. And plopped in the corner of his wood tray was a green clump. Even from a distance of several place settings, I could make out its coa.r.s.e, grainy texture-the telltale sign of freshly grated wasabi. The green clump on my sus.h.i.+ tray was smooth and featureless. Powder-based wasabi.

The chef must have seen me staring at the man's fresh wasabi.

”Kare wa joren da yo,” the chef whispered. the chef whispered.

He was saying that the man was a regular customer. Fresh wasabi was apparently the chef 's version of a loyalty reward.

”How did you know I spoke j.a.panese?” I asked.

The chef laughed but didn't say anything. Maybe he had had noticed me eating the white-flesh stuff first. noticed me eating the white-flesh stuff first.

The Murasaki chef went about his business and didn't engage me in further conversation, so I pulled out Book One of Ramen Discovery Legend Ramen Discovery Legend and began reading it at the counter. The story's main character was twenty-seven-year-old Kohei Fujimoto, an entry-level executive at Daiyu Trading Company. During the day, Fujimoto wears a suit and acts like an ordinary salaryman. But at night, even though it's against company policy to moonlight, he secretly runs a ramen stall in the park. Fujimoto's dream is to achieve and began reading it at the counter. The story's main character was twenty-seven-year-old Kohei Fujimoto, an entry-level executive at Daiyu Trading Company. During the day, Fujimoto wears a suit and acts like an ordinary salaryman. But at night, even though it's against company policy to moonlight, he secretly runs a ramen stall in the park. Fujimoto's dream is to achieve da.s.sara da.s.sara. The word is composed of the kanji character, datsu, which means ”to separate from,” and which means ”to separate from,” and sara sara, the beginning of the word salaryman salaryman. Fujimoto wants to leave salaried life so that he can open his own ramen restaurant, but first he has to have lots of ramen adventures. Often he is accompanied by Ms. Sakura, a secretary at Daiyu, who knows about his secret ramen life. In the first episode, Fujimoto is having lunch with his boss at a ramen restaurant near their office. Fujimoto declares the broth substandard and makes a derogatory comment, which the owner of the restaurant overhears.

”Who are you to criticize my broth?” the owner retorts. ”I simmer my pig bones and chicken carca.s.ses for ten hours, and I serve over six hundred bowls of broth a day. Shut up, unless you think you can do better!”

The episode ends with Fujimoto defeating the owner in a ramen duel. Fujimoto wins by concocting a broth from the freshest free-range Nagoya chickens and the highest-quality kurobuta kurobuta pork. He simmers it for twenty-four hours, reminding the owner of an earlier time, a time when the owner, too, simmered his broth that long, when the owner slept in his kitchen and woke up every few hours to skim off fat. Fujimoto reminds the owner that his ramen is his life. The owner comes to understand that Fujimoto has criticized his broth out of love, and he pledges to do better. pork. He simmers it for twenty-four hours, reminding the owner of an earlier time, a time when the owner, too, simmered his broth that long, when the owner slept in his kitchen and woke up every few hours to skim off fat. Fujimoto reminds the owner that his ramen is his life. The owner comes to understand that Fujimoto has criticized his broth out of love, and he pledges to do better.

I was in the middle of the next episode when I noticed that the j.a.panese man with the fresh wasabi was staring at my comic book. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe a year or two younger than me. From his suit and tie I deduced that he had come straight from work.

He leaned over and spoke to me. His English was very good.

”You like ramen?” he inquired.

I looked up from the page I was reading.

”Not really. I just bought this book.”

The man resumed eating his sus.h.i.+. But a few minutes later, he addressed me again.

”Sorry to bother you, but have you ever heard of Ramen Jiro?”