‘The yuzu has a wonderful aroma, too,’ said Nobuko, bringing the bowl close to her nose. ‘That’s from a village called Mizuo in the mountains west of Kyoto. Fragrant, isn’t it?

‘See, the owner actually lived in part of the ryokan, and I used to play on her veranda. When it got to about three o’clock, she’d always bring me out a snack. Nothing too sugary – it was always baked sweet potatoes, or sticky rice with adzuki beans – just something to keep me going. But what I remember most vividly is her mackerel sushi.’ ‘So,

‘Will tea be fine?’ asked Koishi, bringing over a black lacquer tray. On it was the mackerel sushi, arranged on a long, narrow Koimari-ware dish. ‘We have sake too.’

‘Well then, Mr Taro Yamada. Let’s get to business. What dish are you looking for?’ asked Koishi. ‘I’d like you to help me with a certain kind of mackerel sushi.’ ‘What kind, exactly?’ asked Koishi, scribbling away with her pen. ‘The refined type they serve at the Izu restaurant? Or something a bit more rough and ready, like you get at Hanaori?’

‘Winter, fifty-five years ago. I imagine it was a chilly day just like today. I believe you and this gentleman would have arranged to meet at Sanjo station on the Keihan line. He probably wanted to show you Shimogamo Shrine. These days, the train runs all the way to Demachiyanagi, but back then you had to walk north along the banks of the

‘So you call it Kurama-style in Kyoto. Where I’m from, if you simmer something with sansho pepper, that’s Arima-style.’ ‘Must be a case of local pride then. Kurama and Arima are both famous for their sansho, aren’t they?’

The moment Tomomi tasted the dish, he involuntarily closed his eyes. That sweetness of the egg, mingling with the slight bitterness of the tiny sardines. The nutty aroma of the sesame oil . . . it was all just like back in the day. Tomomi leaned forward and, in a slight breach of etiquette, hovered his chopsticks back and forth over the various

‘There’s also dessert – sorry, I mean the mizugashi course. So please take your time,’ said Koishi, shrugging her shoulders. ‘That’s right, Koishi. There’s no such thing as “dessert” in Japanese cuisine. The fruit served at the end of the meal is called mizugashi. We’re not in France, after all!’ said Tae, her nostrils flaring.

‘From top left,’ began Nagare, tucking the tray under his arm, ‘Miyajima oysters, simmered Kurama-style, miso-glazed baked butterburs with millet cake, bracken and bamboo shoot stew, chargrilled moroko, breast of Kyoto-reared chicken with a wasabi dressing, and vinegared Wakasa mackerel wrapped in pickled Shogoin turnip. In the bottom right you