The Kamogawa Food Detectives

‘Can I ask you something?’ said Asuka, looking Nagare in the eye as she stood up. ‘Of course,’ said Nagare, returning her gaze. ‘Why do you think I remember that spaghetti in particular, out of all the other dishes I ate with Grandad?’ ‘Well, this is just a guess, but . . .’ Nagare paused and took a breath. ‘I wonder if this trip was the first time

Asuka watched nervously as Nagare transferred a series of tiny plates, each smaller than the palm of his hand, onto the lacquer tray in front of her. ‘These are so pretty!’ she found herself blurting out. ‘Oh, they’re a real mix. Antiques, old Western plates, some by modern artisans . . .’

‘I’m just glad I spotted your advert in Gourmet Monthly,’ said Tomomi, breaking into a smile. ‘But that doesn’t even give our location, or any contact details!’ said Nagare, smiling. ‘All it says is Kamogawa Diner – Kamogawa Detective Agency – We Find Your Food. People go up and down the Kamogawa river looking for us.’ ‘Plus you don’t even have a s

‘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?

‘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 hav

‘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.

‘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?’

In Kyoto they say the real cold of winter only strikes after Setsubun – the day in early February when, traditionally, people scatter beans out of their front door to ward off evil spirits.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Yamamoto, but I have to say this is a pretty odd request. This sushi you’re describing doesn’t sound very tasty at all! There are plenty of Kyoto restaurants that serve incredible mackerel sushi these days – but all you care about is this weird version of yours.’ ‘You’re still young, aren’t you? All you care about is ea