In Japan, Mr. Shirota is a famous bluegrass banjo player. Yes, I will be picking up several of his CDs to bring back to Eastern Kentucky. But today’s meeting in Kamata is not about music. Today is about dumplings.
I’ve met Shirota-san twice before today. The first time was in an instrument store in Ochanomizu. He was playing an awesome old-timey banjo tune that mesmerised Randy, my partner, who just stood there to listen and to watch. After that impromptu performance, we ended up exchanging numbers. The second, “official” meeting was a week later. After playing some tunes together, we shared Chinese food at a nearby restaurant that Shirota San really liked. He spoke to the owners as if he knew them well—to the owners, how is the little one? to the chef, Is your hip pain better?– and then to us, he recommended a few dishes including the spiciest Ma Po Tofu that I have ever eaten. Today is my third meeting with the master musician, and I am eager to try what Shirota-san thinks is the best gyoza place in his home town in Kamata.
Randy has already returned to Kentucky, so I’m going to meet Shirota-san by myself. I transfer onto the train from Ooimachi to Kamata. It’s early on a Sunday morning and the train is nearly empty. Oimachi is a town for restaurants and pubs, so I shouldn’t be surprised to see an asa gaeri, ‘morning returnee,’ passed out and sprawled messily on the seat of the train. I worry that he might be dead, but as the train pulls into Kamata as the terminus, he stirs when the conductor comes and nudges him awake. The guy stumbles out, squats by a pillar on the platform and falls promptly back asleep. I am relieved he’s not dead but now I understand why the Sunday morning regulars ignored him.
Given that Kamata is a party town, the platform at the station is surprisingly desolate. There are various coffee shops, lunch box counters along one side and across from it is an entrance to a department store I decide to meander through. Meeting time is 11am, and I am two hours ahead of schedule. Happily, time passes quickly. At 10:45, I head to the arranged meeting place which, yes, is a Starbucks. He is not there, so I check my phone to see if he had contacted me.
No message.
Sighing, I look to my left, and there he is, smiling at me in an aloha shirt.
“There you are!” he exclaims. “I couldn’t remember what you looked like!”
Ha ha. Funny guy. We laugh and start walking.
Destination, dumplings!
Shirota san walks really fast. I also walk fast but he whips through the crowd like he is trying to win a race. As we weave through the crowd, he says, “Let’s get there quickly so we can have a good seat!” We pop outside into the traffic, cross the walkway and head into a small alley with neon signs all over. Pubs, clubs, restaurants, signs everywhere. It’s quite overwhelming. Other people are rushing to get to their beat-the-traffic-lunch destination, so they, too, can get a good seat. He points at a pretty large restaurant sign with a glass showcase in front of fake plastic Chinese food. “That’s it! Let’s go!”
That’s it? I am underwhelmed but say nothing.
As we walk in, he greets the staff, “Hey again! How are you? How’s the chef today?” He’s friends with these folks too. The restaurant just opened its doors and it’s already more than half full. He wasn’t kidding about needing to hurry to get a good seat. As we plop ourselves in the closest table, Shirota san says, “I come here all the time! The chef here has relatives in most of the Chinese restaurants in the neighborhood but I think his dumplings are the best.” He opens the menu and asks me what I would like. I tell him that I will eat anything he chooses but I have to have the gyoza dumplings. He says, “And you will drink beer?” “Sure!” I reply. I rarely drink, especially in the middle of the day, before noon even, but beer just sounds right. We settle on Ma Po Tofu with rice and gyoza dumplings, plus beer to wash it down.
The drinks arrive in frosted glass mugs. Kanpai! We clink mugs. Cheers…for what? The CD release, yes! Dumplings? Double yes! They’re big and plump and look a bit like fat webbed fingers. There are little dishes for us to make our own dip of soy sauce, chili oil, and vinegar. We make deep salty puddles, then grab surprisingly large and heavy dumplings with chopsticks, and soak them in the concoction. “It’s hot, be careful!” Shirota-san warns. Cautiously, I tooth the edge, then take a real bite. It is stuffed with juicy pork, cabbage, garlic, and chives. It is good, yes indeed. We both chug our beers as the Ma Po Tofu arrives in a huge bowl along with fried rice. Shirota san says, “Para para rice!” Not sticky, as Chinese fried rice should be. The Ma Po Tofu is dark reddish brown, thick and shiny with chunks of tofu and small lumps of ground pork. Not as spicy as the version in Ochanomizu but it has plenty of heat. The fried rice has been tossed with savoury oil, eggs, scallions, and peas. We savour our food, talk a little bit about the music, our kids, some coincidental birthdays and the cat on the cover of his new album that looks so much like my own cat and so forth until the last grain of rice is gone.
Shirota-san insists on paying for the meal, as he says he is a happy-go-lucky social-security-earning citizen who can afford this cheap and amazingly delicious lunch. However, the meal is not done.
“Wanna eat Japanese sweets?” he asks hopefully. “There is a really good place not too far from here but it’s a bit of a walk.”
Walking? I smile inside. No problem. “Let’s go!” I exclaim.
It’s unseasonably hot and windy, and the river path is stinky. Wherever we are going, it’s not especially close. Eventually, we swing into a small road too narrow for vehicles and lined with willow trees. This uphill path also seems to go on for a while. There are people walking to and fro, some older houses on either side. The road widens and intersects with a bustling boulevard and Shirota-san realises we have come too far.
“I go up to the shrine on that hill every morning,” he apologises as he gestures vaguely ahead. “The shrine has 100 steps and I run up and down it twice every morning to keep in shape!” We are now backtracking and…“Oh!” he exclaims. “Here is the road! I went a block too far.” He quickly locates the sweet shop he had in mind. As we walk into air-conditioned bliss, Shirota-san greets the shop lady: “Hello there, how are you today? Do you have those sweet dumplings for me, the ones that I love so much?” The lady is all smiles recognising Shirota-san, but she replies in disappointed tones, “I am so sorry sir, they are sold out! We have the Fu Manju though. They are really nice. Would you like them instead?”
Fu Manju is a dumpling made with wheat flour filled with sweet red beans. It’s good, but we both prefer Yomogi Mochi, which is green mochi with Japanese mugwort leaves pounded into the sweet rice. I decide to buy a large quantity as a treat for my parents, and Shirota-san also buys some to bring home. “Wanna eat some of these now?” he asks with a hopeful smile. “I know a perfect place where we can eat them; it’s just up the road.”
Sure, I nod, thinking that I could eat a dozen by myself, but also that this outing has a lot of unexpected stops. I was not expecting this itinerary, but chalk it up to him wanting to show me his favourite spots.
To my surprise, the ‘up the road’ destination turns out to be a laundromat high up on the hill. No one is doing laundry inside. Outside, there is a small table and two chairs. An unexpected location for a picnic, and yet it is strangely wonderful.
We settle into the chairs, inhaling the magnificent view while making ourselves comfortable. For a while, we simply sit and say nothing, too busy resting our bones to eat or talk. After a while, he starts to explain why we are here. There is an odd weight to his words. Quietly, he tells me his son is a bodybuilder who would routinely go through the exact same food course we just completed. After downing Gyoza dumplings and Ma Po Tofu at the restaurant in town, his son would make the climb, stop in the sweet shop, and buy those sweet dumplings that Shirota-san had wanted me to try, and eat them right here in the laundromat. The only difference was the quantities consumed. That, plus the fact that the son also had a whole loaf of bread and a pork cutlet on top of everything else.
His son now lives in the US. They hadn’t seen each other in a while.
I don’t say anything but nod in understanding. Because now this outing has a different meaning.
All this time, I’d thought we were eating really good dumplings but we were really traversing his memories. Using the language of food, Shirota-san was telling me that he was missing his son. I am here in his place, not as a stand-in but as a guest.
“Well, then,” I reply, “let’s take a selfie and send it to him!”
As we arrange ourselves for the camera, posing with the Fu Manju and Yomogi Mochi in our hands, Shirota-san has an immense, joyful smile on his face. It is a smile of satisfaction, as if his soul was well fed. My heart is full.
