The Kamogawa Food Detectives (Kamogawa Food Detectives, #1)

by Hisashi Kashiwai

‘Nabeyaki-udon. You know, vegetables and chicken simmered with udon noodles.’

‘At my age, it’s not quite the whirlwind romance you’re imagining. It’s more about companionship – you know, someone I can share a cup of tea with.’

‘Well, things can taste very different depending on how you’re feeling,’ said Nagare, an understanding look in his eyes.

‘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.

‘No, it does matter. If you mess around with language like that, it’s culture that suffers. Traditional Japanese sweet dishes are in decline precisely because people insist on calling them English words like “dessert”!’

‘The idea of happiness pitching up in my life like that all of a sudden – it terrified me.’

‘You’re still young, aren’t you? All you care about is eating the tastiest food you can. Get to my age and you’ll realize that nostalgia can be just as vital an ingredient.

“We get used to things too easily. You think something’s tasty the first time you eat it, but then you start taking it for granted. Never forget your first impressions.”

‘Married couples are complicated things, Koishi. Sometimes separating just means you’re each able to follow the path you want. Some couples get divorced precisely because of how much they care about each other.’

‘You can be separated in all sorts of ways, and end up very far away from each other, but the bond between you never breaks.

By the fourth dish, Asuka’s eyes appeared to be moist with tears. By the fifth, they had begun to trickle down her cheeks, and by the seventh she was fully weeping. She kept dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. Koishi, feeling like she couldn’t just stand there, leaned over. ‘Are you okay? Feeling out of sorts?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ replied Asuka, smiling through her tears. ‘It’s just so . . . good. Whenever I eat delicious food, I always seem to start crying.’

Asuka gazed at the five dishes remaining in front of her. She’d come here to get help with a dish from her past, but now she couldn’t help thinking that maybe that was just destiny’s way of bringing this food into her life. It really had moved her deeply.

‘How was that, then?’ asked Nagare, appearing by her side as soon as she set her chopsticks down. ‘Thank you. Delicious doesn’t even cover it. My heart is all aflutter!’ Asuka put a hand to her chest and took a deep breath. ‘Glad to hear it.

The restaurant had fallen silent, and the only sound that could be heard was that of Asuka sipping on the roasted green tea. After each sip, she’d let out a little sigh. She repeated this process several times.

‘Well, like I said, it was Napolitan-style spaghetti. With a ketchup-based sauce. And sliced frankfurters.’ ‘Just your standard Napolitan spaghetti, then,’ murmured Koishi, crestfallen. ‘Wait. It was yellow!’ cried Asuka, slapping her thigh. ‘Yellow? But isn’t Napolitan sauce normally red?’ ‘I think it was a mix of yellow and red . . .’

‘We had the spaghetti, then got on the bullet train and went home. I think I was crying all the way.’ ‘Tired, were you?’ asked Koishi with a grin. ‘I think so. But more than that, it was the spaghetti. It was just so . . . delicious, you see . . .’ ‘Ah, of course. You start crying whenever you eat something tasty.’

‘If your grandfather took photos on the trip, why don’t you just look at them? Have you tried digging them out?’ ‘One of the first signs of Grandad’s dementia was that he started throwing things away at random. You know – his bankbook, his registered seal, even wads of cash. Shoved them all in a bin bag and chucked them out with the rubbish. His photos were in there too . . .’ Asuka’s voice had dropped to a murmur.

‘He used to live with me and my parents, but then he started throwing away all sorts of important things. That’s why he’s been in a home for the past couple of years.’

‘Tell me – what made you curious about this spaghetti all of a sudden?’ ‘Well, firstly, I want to eat it again. But more importantly, I want my grandad to eat it. If I can, I want to take him back to the same restaurant.’

Asuka worked some of it into a forkful of spaghetti, then inserted the whole thing into her mouth. ‘What a combination!’ she said to herself. Tears were running down her cheeks. Her thoughts turned to memories of her grandfather. Her primary school entrance ceremony – and after that, middle and high school too. He’d always been the one who was there for her – not her mother or father, but Chichiro. Her grandfather. ‘Looks like we got it right, then?’ asked Nagare, emerging from the kitchen. ‘Yep,’ Asuka replied simply as she dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief.

When she was done, she gazed at the now-empty dish for a moment, before joining her palms together and thanking Nagare for the meal. ‘How old is your grandfather now?’ asked Nagare, who had been watching her finish the meal. ‘He turned seventy-five last month,’ replied Asuka. ‘Still young, isn’t he! Well, I hope this spaghetti triggers some memories.’ ‘I hope so too . . .’ said Asuka in a quiet voice.

‘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 your grandfather treated you like a grown-up.’ Asuka’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Until then, you’d probably always just been given whatever everyone else was having. But this trip marked the beginning of your life as an individual, and that plate of spaghetti was the proof. Your own meal, all to yourself – right there in front of you. You must have been over the moon.’

‘That was probably also why you started crying whenever you ate something delicious. Your grandfather must have taught you that eating good food wasn’t just about enjoying it, but also being grateful for it. That lesson must have lingered somewhere deep in your memory.’ By now, Asuka’s eyes were wet with tears.

‘Must have been tough on your father too.’ ‘Oh, he managed just fine. Actually, he got married again less than a year after she passed away. To the woman who looked after my mother at the hospital, no less.’ A frosty smile had risen to Hisahiko’s lips.

‘I spent the next six years of middle and high school living with my stepmother and her daughter. I was the interloper in their happy family, see? Oh, I hated it. As soon as I finished school, I ran away from home, swapping Okayama for Tokyo.’

The interview is next month. They want to ask about all sorts. The secret to my success, my daily routine these days – and there’s a part where I have to talk about a dish my mother used to make for me.’

‘All I knew was that if I ever had a comfort food, that was it,’ said Hisahiko, pursing his lips.

‘It was the spring holidays just after I’d finished middle school. I’d gone to register at my new high school, and by the time I got home Sachiko had already made dinner. She’d gone out somewhere with Miho, and when I wandered into the kitchen I found two pots of nikujaga sitting there.’

‘I tried them both – and they tasted completely different,’ said Hisahiko glumly. ‘One of them was much tastier than the nikujaga I was used to. It was filled with cuts of beef. That was Sachiko and Miho’s stew. Mine was the other one, which had no meat in it. But when she served it, there was some meat in there. I guess she lost her nerve and added it at the last minute . . .’

‘Well, for some reason, whenever I try to remember my mother’s nikujaga, I think of mountains.’

‘Take a look at this.’ He turned his screen in Koishi’s direction. ‘What is that? French cuisine?’ asked Koishi, squinting at the phone. ‘It’s the nikujaga from my childhood – as recreated by Yoshimi Tateno,’ said Hisahiko, smiling with both cheeks for once. Koishi’s eyes widened. ‘The meat is A5-grade Matsusaka beef, and the potatoes are Northern Rubies from Hokkaido. Both of the finest quality.

‘This is . . . my mother’s cooking?’ Hisahiko leaned over the tray and began inspecting it in minute detail.

‘This is nikujaga the way your mother made it. Koshihikari rice from Hiroshima. Cooked so that it’s all soft and sticky. Apparently you liked it that way.’ ‘I did? But how did you . . .’ ‘Let’s talk about that when you’ve finished. On the side you have extra-pickled Hiroshimana cabbage. And the miso soup is with a sea bream broth and poached egg. All your favourites, I believe. Please, enjoy!’

‘How was that, then? Bring back some memories?’ asked Nagare, appearing with a Mashiko-ware teapot in his hand.

I’m afraid. Mr Kamogawa, this isn’t the nikujaga that my mother made – it’s the way Sachiko used to make it. You must have misunderstood me – I wanted you to recreate it the way my real mother made it, not my stepmother.

‘Hang on a second . . .’ said Koishi, flustered as she glanced between Hisahiko and Nagare. ‘So you do remember, then,’ declared Nagare, calmly. ‘It’s just as you say: this is the nikujaga that Sachiko used to make you.’ ‘But that’s not what I asked for!’ chuckled Hisahiko ironically as he pulled on his beige coat. ‘Actually, I think you’ll find it is,’ said Nagare, looking Hisahiko right in the eye.

‘I requested my mother Kimie’s stew. This was Sachiko’s stew. Almost everything about it was different. There’s simply no comparison!’ ‘Ah, but there is. In fact, it’s the exact same dish.’ ‘How could it be?’ said Hisahiko, turning red in the face. ‘My mother and Sachiko were quite different people.’

But,’ continued Nagare with a gentle smile, ‘if you do have time to listen to what I have to tell you, please – take a seat.’

Nagare showed Hisahiko a photograph of a small, single-storey house with a red, corrugated roof. ‘She’s still . . . living there?’ said Hisahiko in surprise as he took the photo. ‘Miho got married seven years ago, and Sachiko has been there on her own ever since. Your room is still there too – just the way you left it.’

‘Now, about this nikujaga. It turns out the recipe is one that your mother passed on to Sachiko. She wrote it in here,’ said Nagare, placing a faded notebook on the table. ‘What ingredients to use, how to flavour the broth – it’s all there in detail. Sachiko was kind enough to let me borrow it.’ ‘Cooking for Hisahiko,’ read Hisahiko, glancing at the title on the front page before hastily opening the notebook.

‘When your mother was in poor health, she knew she wouldn’t be able to look after you for much longer. She asked Sachiko to take her place, as your father’s second wife. You were a fussy eater, so she decided to write down exactly what you liked.’ ‘And she gave Sachiko . . .’ murmured Hisahiko, his eyes eagerly scanning the pages. ‘Nikujaga is on the fifth page,’ explained Nagare. Hisahiko hurriedly turned to the recipe.

your mother Kimie used a famous brand of potato from Akasaki, not far from the island. Dejima potatoes, they’re called – and still popular to this day. The onions were from Awajima, and the soy sauce from Shodoshima.

‘But what about here, where it says “Yamato-ni”?’ asked Hisahiko, his eyes glued to the notebook. ‘Does that mean she used . . .’ ‘That’s right. Canned meat,’ said Nagare, placing a can on the table.

You weren’t a fan of meat with a lot of fat on it, which was why your mother used the canned stuff, which was reliably lean. And, seeing as she and your father ran a warehousing business, she probably had ways of getting her hands on it. ‘The word “yamato-ni” must have come up in your parents’ conversations,’ continued Nagare, pointing at the characters emblazoned on the can. And, seeing as yama can also mean “mountain”, I reckon you assumed that was what they were talking about. A kid your age would have known no better.’

‘The reason you remembered the stew having a reddish tinge is because when you were little you didn’t like carrots, and so your mother would mash them up before they went in the stew.

Now, as for that time you found two pots on the stove. The reason one of them didn’t have any meat in it was because Sachiko was using the canned stuff for you. It’s already cooked and seasoned, so she would have just popped it in when the stew was ready to serve. As she must have realized, it’s so lean that if you boil it too long it turns all tough.’

Your tastes might have changed as you got older, but Sachiko followed your mother’s recipe to the letter. She’s a very conscientious woman.’ Nagare showed him a photo of Sachiko standing in front of her house. ‘She’s so small now,’ said Hisahiko, his eyes glistening slightly.

‘You only ever ate one type of nikujaga stew, Hisahiko. One mother simply handed the baton over to another.’ ‘So Sachiko went to the trouble of making a separate stew, just for me . . .’ murmured Hisahiko, gazing into space as he remembered the two pots on the stove.

I caught a glimpse of it just now, and it’s certainly a good fit for your image. Canned meat would come across a little rustic, wouldn’t it?’ Hisahiko remained silent, still running a finger across the notebook. ‘Sachiko is very proud that you’ve made such a name for yourself, by the way. She’s got this scrapbook full of cuttings from articles about you. Very grateful for that sizeable allowance you send her every New Year too. Though she hasn’t touched a single yen of it.’

But she’s also worried you might come tumbling down again one day,’ explained Nagare in an almost admonishing tone. ‘On the off-chance that happens, she wants to be able to give you the money back. It doesn’t matter that she’s not connected to you by blood – she’s always planning for her child’s future. That’s what parents do.’