THE CHEF LAUGHED WHEN I STARTED CRYING. “Daijoubu desu ka?” (Are you ok?) he asked. “I’m ok, it’s spicy, but I like it,” I said in basic Japanese, and he laughed harder after I said it. His laughter stood out in this small sushi restaurant near Tokyo’s financial district, and both staff and customers turned to see the gaikokujin (foreigner) tearing up with the wasabi. I still had five more tuna nigiri pieces on my plate. There was more crying to come.
“Why you in Japan?” The chef asked me in broken English. He had a loud voice and held eye contact longer than comfortable.
“I’m studying Japanese,” I said, holding a piece of sushi midair waiting for the exchange to end so I could eat it.
“Oh, muzukashii, ne? (it’s hard, isn’t it?)”
“It’s only been a few weeks, but yeah, it’s hard.”
He grabbed a handful of rice and a slice of salmon and shaped them together into a nigiri piece.
“What food do you like?”
I thought for a moment, “I like Ramen”
“Oh yes, ramen, me too.” he said, “I take you to a ramen place”
I went quiet. I don’t know this guy. We can barely speak each other’s language, and he looks like a middle-aged gangster who had to take a regular job to lay low after a hit gone wrong.
“…ok,” I said out of politeness, but immediately regretted it.
“Takadanobaba station,” he said, “Sunday. Noon. ok? ok?”
I guess I can’t back down now, “…ok, ok.”
The days leading up to Sunday, I kept going back and forth between showing up or not. He must pray on trusting foreigners, I thought. He’s going to rob me. Kidnap me. Drug me and take my kidney (any or all of the above). That type of invitation is exactly what you are told to avoid when traveling abroad.
But what if he’s just friendly? Japan is safe, I thought. Also, It would be rude not to show up.
I was trying to justify a bad decision.
Sunday came. He was waiting for me outside Takadanobaba station as agreed. “Ohayo” (hello), he said and took a puff out of his cigarette. The way he smoked seemed more like compulsion than enjoyment. I greeted him back and glanced around, scanning for “accomplices.”
The chef looked clean-cut today, as if he was out on a date. Slicked-back hair and good smelling cologne (if only he hadn’t overdone it). Dark blue buttoned-up shirt with a cream vest on top that called attention to his beer belly. Below the waist, a pair of white fitted jeans, and polished black shoes. Every piece of clothing on its own was of good taste; the crime was putting them together.
“It’s this way,” he said, and started walking.
“How far is it?”
He took the last puff of his cigarette and immediately lit another one. “Not far.”
We walked side by side in silence. He was avoiding eye contact this time. The few times he looked at me, he gave me a forced smile. For the most part, he glanced at his phone, and every other time he did, he typed a message. His hand trembled when he texted, though it looked more like impatience rather than nervousness, as if we were running late for something.
After several blocks, the chef stopped and turned to face a building on the right. “This is it,” he said, “come.”
Huh… It’s really a ramen place. I guess I’m safe for now.
The shop was small and built around functionality. No decorations, no tables, just a red vending machine at the entrance from which we got our ticket order and a “U” shaped counter big enough to seat twenty. The open space inside the “U” worked as the passageway for the only waitress to go in and out of the kitchen and serve the customers, something she did with quiet precision.
No one talked, and the few exchanges with the waitress were whispered. But the place wasn’t quiet; it was filled with a loud cheering of slurps, as if everyone agreed on how good the food was. I joined in. The first sip of the duck based broth hit me like no ramen I’ve had before. It was heavy with fat but felt light in the mouth, and the thick scent of meat was balanced with the freshness of green onion and ginger. As good as it was, I couldn’t enjoy it. The sushi chef looked at me often while I ate. “Oishii? (good?)” he asked, midway through the meal. I nodded and replied as best I could with my mouth full of perfectly chewy noodles, “Oishii.”
We slurped the remaining of our bowls and walked outside. The chef lit up another cigarette and took out his phone to send a text.
Was he trying to gain my trust with the food, and now he’ll make his move?
“What are you doing next?” I asked, looking to set up an excuse to leave.
He gave me a confused stare, as if he was planning to spend more time together. “No plan, you?”
“I have to go study for class tomorrow,” I lied.
“oh…ok, ok.”
“Thank you for the meal; it was delicious.”
He pulled out a business card and gave it to me. He pointed at the bold Japanese characters written in front and said, “Watanabe,” then pointed at himself and repeated “Watanabe.” I brought my right hand to my chest and said, “Nick.” We waved goodbye and parted ways.
Maybe he was just being friendly, after all.
I came back to the sushi shop the next day and the day after that. It became my routine. And as my Japanese got better Watanabe and I started having longer conversations. We went for food again, and visited museums. He proved to be a great host, making sure I had a good time, and insisting on picking up the bill; an argument I could never win. He liked to talk about his native Hokkaido, and about his only son, who he helped train to become a professional fighter, and how proud he was of him. I told him about life in Canada and how different it was compared to life in Japan. He enjoyed learning about those cultural differences; they seemed to shock and amuse him at the same time.
The day before my flight out of Tokyo, I stopped at the sushi shop to say goodbye and get my tuna nigiri fix. Watanabe welcomed me with a big smile as I sat at the bar directly in front of him, my usual spot.
“Are you happy to go back?” He asked after I finished my meal.
“No, I love it here. I wish I could stay.”
“So desu ne (is that so?)”
“Japan is the best”
“Ichiban! …Number one,” He lifted his index finger in the air. “Arigatou (thank you),” he added and did a quick bow.
“I want to keep learning Japanese,” I said, “so, I think I’ll come back next year.”
“Next year. Ramen,” He pointed back and forth between him and me.
“Mochiron (off course),” I said and stood up to leave.
“Chotto matte (hold on a moment).” He washed his hands and grabbed something from under the counter. Then, he offered it to me.
I wasn’t expecting a gift; much less the perfect gift. It was a sushi book, half in Japanese and half in English. He managed to encompass my experience in Japan and our friendship in a single object. I didn’t know what to say to that level of thoughtfulness. I wanted to hug him; some feelings can only be expressed through human touch. But it would have been inappropriate. The Japanese are not big on displays of affection, especially in public, and especially in the workplace. I limited it to a head bow and an “Arigatou Gozaimasu” (thank you very much). Then we both said our “Sayonaras.”
I WAS BACK IN TOKYO A YEAR LATER. I walked past Watanabe’s restaurant but didn’t see him inside. Maybe he has the night shift, I thought. I’ll come back later. I headed to Shinjuku park and met a Japanese friend for Hanami (flower watching).
“I love cherry blossoms,” I said as we sat under a Sakura tree, “too bad they only bloom for a week or so.”
“Yeah, but that’s what makes it special” She put her head back and looked at the tree branches moving with the breeze, “do you know ‘mono-no aware’?”
“What’s that?”
“Hmm, hard to explain. Chotto matte (hold on)” She took out her phone and searched for it. “It’s a bittersweet feeling of appreciating beauty knowing that it won’t last,” she read.
I let the thought sink. “…I like that.”
We both went quiet for a moment and watched the pink leaves falling around us with each gust of wind.
Deep into our conversation nearing dusk, I began talking about the sushi chef; of our gastronomic “adventures” and our unlikely friendship given the language barrier and our age difference (He was probably twenty years older than me).
“I love that,” she said, “that’s so cute.”
“I haven’t seen him since I came back.” I said, “Wanna come grab sushi where he works? It’s not far.”
“Sure, I’d like to meet him” She grabbed her purse and stood up.
We walked into the shop. It had just opened for dinner hours, and the only person in view was one of the chefs setting up the counter.
“He’s not here,” I said. “It’ll have to be another day.” I turned around and moved toward the door.
“Wait, maybe he’s in the back,” She said. “I’ll ask for him”
She approached the chef arranging the counter and talked to him in Japanese. I stayed near the door, ready to leave.
I didn’t understand the words, but there was something about the chef’s tone, or maybe it was his body language; I felt something was wrong. After a few exchanges, my friend finally turned to me to translate. She didn’t need to say it. I saw it in her face.
“Watanabe died.”
“What?… When?” My first question was a reflex, the second, a useless need to understand events in time, as if they would change the fact.
“Almost a year ago. He had cancer.” Her face turned sadder the longer she looked at mine. “He didn’t tell you?”
“No.” My memories started morphing, colored by the news. All my interactions with Watanabe took on a new meaning. His joyful attitude, his banters, even his laughter when I teared up with the wasabi; it all meant something different now.
That’s why he invited me out even though I was a stranger, I thought. He was trying to enjoy the last few months of life as much as he could. Just having fun, seeing the beauty in everything, meeting people, enjoying meals, living.
“I remember you,” Said the chef to me in Japanese, slow enough so I could understand, “you used to go for ramen together.”
He turned around and opened a cabinet on the wall behind the counter. Inside it was a box with a small stack of business cards. He took one and turned back to face us.
“Doozo (please, take this)” I moved closer and took the card. It was Watanabe’s. I had thrown out the one he had given me the year before. I didn’t see the need to keep it. The same piece of cardboard I considered trash back then was now a relic to cherish.
The Next morning, Tokyo’s crowded streets felt empty; all the people walking around me were just part of a moving background. I’ve heard that grief feels like carrying a weight, but it hasn’t been like that for me the few times I’ve felt it. Yes, there is a side that feels heavy and pulling you down. But there’s also lightness. Not in a good way though, more like I imagine it would be to lose a limb; you are lighter, sure, but at the expense of having less of yourself.
There are also fleeting moments of gratitude, “At least I had the chance to meet him.” But with every grateful memory comes a corresponding guilt, “Why didn’t I value our friendship more when I had it?” And with the guilt, the hypocritical truth that if he were alive, I wouldn’t appreciate our friendship as much as I mourned it. The value came with the loss, and without it, nothing would have changed. Still, I wish I could pay him my respect; show him that there was one more person he made a mark on, even if mostly in retrospect.
ANOTHER YEAR PASSED, AND I TRAVELED TO TOKYO AGAIN. I stood outside Takadanobaba station, waiting to meet someone for the first time. I thought about Watanabe and remembered when we met there years before.
That’s probably him, I thought. The young man walked toward me, his face unmistakably sculpted by years taking punches.
“Ohayo!” (hello!) he said with a smile.
“Nick. Yoroshiku (good to meet you),” I said as we shook hands.
“Watanabe, Hikaru”
“Come, It’s this way,” I said and started walking. “Your father loved this ramen.”
In loving memory of Watanabe-San
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