For a century, Japanese restaurants have poured heart and soul into crafting dishes that match the season, artfully presented on delicate tableware.
In small media reports, the craftsmen's spirit shines, their martyr-like dedication humbling.
From a practical view, though, rigid traditions and hands-on methods lack efficiency, far outpaced by assembly lines.
Economics has a concept of "indifference"—different preferences yielding identical outcomes.
Like some lone-wolf ninja favoring a silent blade draw, or others shouting for a team boost before striking. Both end in defeat, zero contribution, utterly useless.
Finding a restaurant in Japan is similar. Documentaries hype sushi gods and rice masters, but most small joints are interchangeable.
Standard fare—katsu, tempura, ramen, curry—hovers around average. Not haute cuisine, cheap, just filling, no high hopes needed.
By contrast, convenience stores are a bachelor's holy grail. A single spice packet makes decent tea-soaked rice, not to mention curry sauces, sashimi, grilled eel…
Rice bowls suddenly seem complex.
Takizawa figured living near a 24-hour mart meant never cooking again.
Except in rare cases, like tiring of rice balls, getting heartburn from fried chicken, or sukiyaki.
The broth was kelp and garlic, clear as tap water, with a dab of lard for faint oiliness. The dip? Plain soy sauce.
The sides filled the table—beef, lamb, tofu, cabbage, mushrooms, ham.
Too healthy.
"This is their signature. Try it!" Shinobu said warmly.
Takizawa's face fell, a pang of sorrow hitting him. Far from home, even mild spice was a fantasy, split pots a dream, his pride in tatters.
No tripe or duck intestine either. Sigh.
He exhaled but managed a sunny smile, grabbing a plate and chopsticks. "Let's cook."
The clear broth rippled.
Women are emotional creatures.
Especially Sakura, a social savant since middle school, reading moods like a pro. She sensed Takizawa's low spirits, his smile more professional than genuine.
Apologizing now would drag them back to awkwardness.
So she acted.
"Want a drink? Soda? Beer? Sake?" Sakura paused.
"This barley tea's fine. You and Sakura-san pick something," Takizawa said, recalling Sakura's dislike for alcohol's smell, avoiding any annoyance.
"You just turned legal, right? Drank yet?" Shinobu asked carefully.
"Nah, pineapple beer doesn't count. I sip alone at home, bored, but I'm not hooked."
"Youngsters are so casual. You're skinny—probably skimping on meals. That's no good. Sleep and food matter. Eat up today," Shinobu said, concerned.
"I eat small, frequent meals, no big deal," Takizawa said.
"Don't be shy. This beef's thin—cooks fast, gets tough if overdone," Shinobu said, plucking a slice from the frothy broth and placing it in his bowl. "Try it."
Hard to refuse, Takizawa dipped it in soy sauce and ate.
Tender, salty, ordinary.
"Delicious, right?"
"Sure."
"Lamb's ready." Sakura clumsily fishing from the pot.
"This tofu soaks up the broth—super tasty."
"The soup's richer now with all these ingredients. Have a bowl—warms the stomach, soothes the soul."
"Their pickles are homemade, cool, crisp, great with rice. Just veggies? Want fried rice?"
Takizawa stared at his piled-up dishes, speechless. "You two eat, too. Don't fuss over me."
"No worries."
"Sakura-chan's growing, too… help me out."
"She's got surplus nutrition, gained a bunch," Shinobu teased.
"No way! My weight's the same!" Sakura snapped, embarrassed.
"But some clothes don't fit anymore, right? They did last year," Shinobu muttered.
"Gaining's fine. Modern kids chase skinny looks, starving or getting surgery—backwards," Takizawa said. "Health's first. Plus, fuller figures are appealing!"
"So you're fine with me being 'fat'?" Sakura asked.
"Fat's great! Bodybuilders bulk up first. Fat's your foundation. Design-wise, round shapes scream warm, reliable; sharp triangles are aggressive. Iconic cute mascots? All chubby and cuddly."
Takizawa hummed, expounding.
"Plus, weight loss is inspiring—'chubby's potential' comes from that. Transforming from average to stunning has big impact. If you're already gorgeous, no matter how you dress, it's same-old. One misstep, and it's 'time's a butcher.'"
"So fat's good—shows strong absorption, balancing cute charm with swan-like potential!"
Flawless logic, a master of modern straight-talk, citing classics with flair.
Perfect.
"So you do think I'm fat?!" Sakura glared, pressing.
"…"
Takizawa ate the bland beef silently.
"Girls should aim for refinement," Shinobu said, seasoned.
"Why bother? Looking good's just for others. He's all polished, but brushes off girls hitting on him—contradictory much?" Sakura pointed at him. "Dad's right—rely on yourself. A full wallet builds confidence, not doubt."
"Solid upbringing," Takizawa nodded, recalling her parent-mandated apology, impressed. "You're mature for your rebellious age, taking it to heart."
"We have family talks every so often," Sakura said.
"That serious?"
Takizawa, from a strict household, was stunned. Family meetings meant crises—like getting caught smoking or playing cards behind school, debating college, or dodging blind dates.
"Just normal chats—concerns, worries," Shinobu said, smiling. "Since this year, your name's popped up in Ayane's stories. Like her crushing you at ping-pong, you teasing birds and getting pecked, or strangers mixing you up."
"Classic misdirection, flipping roles, smoke and mirrors," Takizawa clapped.
"Events are real, just spiced up," Sakura said stiffly.
"We always ask one thing: do you approve of our parenting? Are we doing right?" Shinobu said.
"That's beautiful," Takizawa said softly, after a pause.
His childhood wasn't rich but held fond memories.
For many, the first cruelty comes from blood kin.
Families should be warm, like the world should be peaceful—a heartfelt wish. Kin can bring comfort, but their wounds cut deeper than strangers'.
Sakura growing up in such a home, polite yet spirited, was enviable.
"You're pretty great, too, Takizawa-kun," Shinobu said gently.
"Just making do with an upbeat attitude, not quite enough but better than most."
Compared to street sleepers or net café drifters, his struggles were small.
"You two, eat up, don't just watch."
"Don't be shy. You barely ate. More!" Shinobu insisted.
"…"
Over dinner, the spice-loving soul choked back tears, downing six plates of bland beef, three bowls of egg fried rice, and heaps of veggies—not savoring but mechanically swallowing.
"I'll walk you to your cab," Takizawa said, rubbing his bloated stomach.
"We'll catch one up ahead," Shinobu said, holding a bag of takeout for the napping, medicated family pillar.
"Then I'll head out. Thanks, Sakura-san… and Sakura-chan for piling on the food."
They parted on the bustling, neon-lit evening street.
Shinobu watched the boy's slow steps fade into the crowd's shadows.
"His clothes are worn."
"Hm?"
"Not being crushed by life makes him a hero."
"Alright, Ayane, grab a cab—home time!"
The lively mom hugged her daughter, pulling her along.
Sakura glanced back once.
***
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