Sublime

The chocolate cake was good, Momo said. We had milk, too. Warm milk. In the shop, I noticed that the back of Momo's neck smelled. It smelled sweet. Her growing up repulses me. It is not her growing that disgusts me, but the growing itself. She casts off unneeded things. So many things. She can't help herself. And so I pity her. Her youth, her

Suyako dipped her first piece of tonkatsu in the ponzu sauce, then brought it to her mouth. She chewed carefully on it a few times. Then her face broke into a gentle smile. ‘Delicious.’ The word wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, but seemed to burst from her mouth. For her second piece, she chose the spicy sauce. This time, before taking a

There are very few peoples in the world who like fluffy, sticky rice. Just the Japanese, Yunnanese, and Nepalese. Also only a few like nattō, or sticky, fermented soybeans. The people who lived here before there was a Japan or a Japanese people were part of that cultural sphere in ancient times.

‘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,

‘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?’