June 22, 2023
The story is inspired by the Japanese and Korean Drama series 'The Midnight Diner.' Enjoy.
Warning: Occasional OOC and Corniness.
The greenery turns into vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows as the days pass. The notorious summer heat relents, urging many to trade light clothes for turtlenecks and overcoats. A particularly cold nip in the air with the occasional gale wanes the traditional drive for a late Friday night. The diner is slow and dwindling.
Behind the bar, my soft hums harmonize with the radio; the music mingles nicely with the background chatter. It almost puts me in a lull as I skim through a book on preserving fruits and vegetables.
I bought it a week ago after my neighbor gave me persimmons along with the request, I make Hoshigaki —my mouth waters at the thought. Dried persimmons are a classic Fall delight. The sweet tomato doppelganger will be a nice treat when ready.
Look.
Halfway down a page, my focus shifts. Eyes on the front doors, for something, urge me to glance. The entrance door slides open on cue to reveal a tall figure.
Red hair. Reminiscent of sugar maple leaves. It complements them along with the season.
Green eyes. Behind thick black frames is a green forest, deep but full, just like summer.
The stranger's attire hides their frame: a dark-blue long puffer jacket cocoons to retain any heat possible.
I watch them stand at the threshold, peeking in to scan the diner until our eyes lock.
A stunned look falls on their pale face.
I suspect I sport a similar expression. Uh…
"H- hi! Welcome." Ugh, don't stutter. As I stand up and close the book, I smile, beckoning the guest in with my glance.
He returns the hello along with a soft smile. Relief washes over me, and a silent cheer resonates as the stranger complies with my request. He slides the door close and strides to the corner bar seat.
"Welcome to the Midnight Diner. Have you ever been here before?" I ask out of obligation, but I could likely guess his response.
"No, it's my first time."
"In that case, here, we have only one item." I point to a chalkboard behind me.
"As long as we have the ingredients, and the chef can make it?" The customer reads out loud as he takes off his coat.
"If I have the ingredients and know how to make the dish, I'll gladly serve it for you." A skeptical look contorts on his face, but I smile as this is the usual response I get.
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"As long as you have the ingredients?"
"And I know how to make it!" I reply lightheartedly.
The youth is apprehensive but nods. He sits down and looks thoughtful as he formulates a response. I wait patiently. However, intentionally or not, I stare at him.
One word. Tired.
Dark, sunken eye bags. Eyes are fighting to stay focused. His lean build doesn't help the picture.
Fatigue is not uncommon at this hour, but he looks utterly deprived.
"I'm not sure- ugh-" A voice pulls me from my trance. The customer groans and hunches over to hug his stomach. "Ite- te- te," he mutters, body tense and face scrunched up in pain.
"Are you okay?!" I fret.
"Ahh, yeah. Don't worry. I'm a little stressed, so this happens. I'll be better with some food." He attempts to reassure me though his voice leaves me unconvinced. "Right, so the food…." The youth trails.
Sensitive and stress-induced stomach pain. No signs of sleep. My eyebrows crease as I feel sympathy. Before I know it, my mouth moves on its own.
"If you don't mind, could you let me choose your meal?"
"Huh?"
"I won't make anything extravagant and charge you crazily." I clarify to rid of any suspicion. "I just thought something warm and easy on the stomach would be good." I reflectively scratch my cheek. "So may I…?"
He blinks up at me with an unreadable expression. My face pleads with him to agree.
"Thank you, that sounds good." I beam at his response.
"Anything you're allergic to or dislike?"
"No, nothing really."
I nod, and with that, I hop to the kitchen. "Right, it won't be long."
I turn to leave, but not before his stomach lurches again, inciting a painful expression on his face.
I hasten my steps.
At the stove, white rice simmers in the donabe. To the side, I place diced scallions onto a small ceramic dish. There are four side dishes: green onion, umeboshi, strips of seaweed, and torn-up salted salmon.
Should I include more? Half of these alone are toppings.
With that in mind, I return to the fridge, and my eyes land on the egg carton. I fish out four eggs before returning to the counter.
The eggs' insides plop into a metal bowl. Four separated orange yolks lay in translucent whites. I whisk them with chopsticks till it's an inseparable liquid. Now sprinkle over salt and sugar, measure in some mirin, beat it, and pour. The eggs sizzle upon contact with a hot oiled-rectangular pan. The mixture quickly solidifies as I spread it thin, taking the shape of the container. Just before it thoroughly cooks, fold the eggs over each other like paper before pouring in another batch. Repeat, repeat, and repeat.
Finally, I plop the multi-layer omelet onto a plastic wrap-covered bamboo mat to help shape the omelet. Food isn't just about taste; presentation is critical. After wrapping it, I step away to check on the main star of the meal.
In the donabe, the water and rice had melded into a semi-thick grainy soup, clear waters now an opaque white. After last-minute touches, I scoop it into a bowl and set it on the tray alongside the other side dishes. Back to the omelet, I unwrap, cut it into even-thick slices, and then plate it. With a whole tray in hand, I exit the kitchen.
Irie Shōichi: an inventor, mechanical engineer, and entrepreneur.
Since his youth, Shōichi has had an insatiable obsession with gadgets, machines, and the like. At first, it was the toaster. How did the bread turn brown? Where did the heat come from? What happens when I put something other than food in it? The family ate a lot of toast that day and enforced meals without cutlery for a week, much to the displeasure of their son.
Afterward, it was the TV. Where did Doraemon go? What does this button do? Then it was the washer and dryer, the dishwasher, the fridge, and the list continues. This went on for a few months. Shōichi had to touch and play with every appliance in the house until satisfied. Eventually, even this was unsatisfying. He wanted—no needed—to know how things worked.
Shōichi's parents thought it was cute at first. Harmless curiosity never hurts anyone; it's natural for kids to explore their environment. If anything, their son's exploratory behavior was a positive sign. Oh, how right they were.
After returning home from the elder sister's tennis match, the trio returned to a horrific sight in the living room. Almost every machine in the vicinity had its body and joints unfastened and parts, screws, and bolts scattered about. Somehow Shōichi got hold of the toolbox, and coupled with leaving him home alone for a few hours, it was the perfect opportunity for crime. It took the better part of a month to figure out what went with what finally.
The parents banned Shōichi from touching anything electronic or gadget-like for a month, during which they tried to find other less disorderly outlets for their child's inventiveness. The father enrolled Shōichi in the local robotics club in Namimori. The rest is history. Shōichi eventually explored rockets, computer programming, mobile mechanics, and many other avenues.
The youth racked up a long list of extraordinary accomplishments in due time. Winning numerous awards in local and global robotics, rocket, and programming competitions. Shōichi earned a bachelor's degree in science and engineering three years before his peers and now works steadily toward a master's. His inventions, initially for curiosity and convenience, have caught the interest of businesses and investors. After various talks and persuasion, his creations are being commercialized wide-spread globally. But many of these are knick-knacks, yet to advance and pass the limits to more significant and revolutionary projects, ideas that top scientists and secret organizations would love to exploit.
Irie Shōichi is intelligent and talented.
A few weeks ago, Shōichi's home base of operations had finally become inoperable. Bolts, tools, metal sheet scraps, alloy bundles, and machinery have overrun his parent's basement. Despite Shōichi's fervent disdain to move, it was clear an upgrade was in order. As Shōichi tirelessly surveyed newspapers, flyers, and meeting agencies for a new place to turn into his workshop, his parents and sister silently celebrated the move. Finally, their basement could return to being a basement, and the household could be free of clatter and bangs. A makeshift soundproof room could only help so much.
After a few weeks, he decided to rent out an empty warehouse on the outskirts of Namimori furnished with a kitchen and bathroom. Away from the neighborhood so as not to bother others, especially since he plans to do more substantial experiments that would undoubtedly need an outdoor field. Clear of the main streets to avoid drawing suspicion and looks. However, he was still close enough to allow a ride on his bike to get him to the edge of the Namimori shopping district. He had access to necessities and recently found a hardware store about a few blocks away in case he needed extra parts. They even took custom orders to the glee of Shōichi. He had moved in within a month, and the new lab had unintentionally become his new home. If he wasn't inventing, he was doing business, leaving no time to return home, let alone rest.
But he rarely sleeps…
Shōichi was on a business call with a company in America, working out details on a product he had sold to them. Shōichi did his best throughout the virtual meeting to stay patient and respectful. Still, the talk drove him in circles as the conversation went in circles. No matter how much they insist, there are no cheaper alternatives to the product's parts. The conference concluded with to-be-continued. The youth bent over in pain, hugging his stomach due to the collection of nervousness and stress. Additionally, like a bad habit, he had skipped another meal. Shōichi's stomach is now punishing its owner for not caring for it.
Shōichi crawls to the fridge, hoping to seek relief and nourishment with food, only to be disappointed at its barren content. Thinking back on it, the last shopping trip was a month ago. He glances at his watch and realizes the time is 2 A.M. Unfortunately, going without eating was not an option this time; the last meal was the night before. Yes, he didn't eat all day yesterday, and now it was today. Thus, he makes the executive decision to venture out to the 24-hour convenience store.
… and forgets to eat.
The hungry youth strolls through the streets on an electric bike, wearing a blue jacket over a simple white tee. The drive was quiet and unexciting, passing by many closed stores–until the first lit store in five blocks appeared. Shōichi slows down, and as his bike approaches, a wonderful smell wafts. Unconsciously he stops his vehicle in front of the building and looks it over. To his surprise, it's a restaurant. He perks up once he reads that it has a considerably late closing time. In a split-second decision, Shōichi parks and locks his bike to the side, and strides up to the place.
At the entrance, he slides the door open and peers in. First, he notes a few people inside merrily enjoying their food. His eye sweeps through the restaurant, taking in the interior until, in his peripheral vision, he realizes someone is staring at him. He redirects his attention, and their eyes meet. Shōichi stares back dumbly.
"H- hi! Welcome."
The greeting pulls him out of a stupor, and he realizes he is just standing there. He must have looked silly. Shōichi considers walking away, but the brunette stranger is the first to make a move. He shoots a soft smile that beckons Shōichi. Earning his surprise and subsiding his nervousness, he returns the gesture and shuffles into the warm ambiance.
The young worker takes his order, allowing Shōichi to take in his surroundings. The shop wasn't exactly unknown to him; he goes by it on his way to and from the grocery store. But that was during the day. If he had taken slightly more interest in this place on his way past it, he would've realized the strange hours on the door. Well, better late than never.
The diner had a quaint appearance. The orange ambient lighting matched well with the dark wooden furnishings. The toasty warmth contrasts the outside, making the environment feel lax and welcoming.
Shōichi glances over at the other customers. Three older men and women wearing formal attire chat with a couple whose fits are more casual and appropriate for the weather. He gets the impression that rather than one, two different parties just got acquainted and merrily became friends over a meal.
The couple enjoyed some nabe while the others had yakitori and booze. The visual stimulation makes Shōichi's stomach lurch and grumble. Unconsciously he almost drools. As the calm and warm environment soothes his stress, sleep beckons him, but the desire for food keeps him awake.
Irie Shōichi is a genius who forgets to take care of himself.
"Here is okayu. Served with green onions, nori, umeboshi, salmon, and tamagoyaki." I set the dish before the customer, who delightfully eyes the food.
The dish is straightforward, rice porridge with various sides, but the young man stares at the meal as if it was the most incredible thing in the world. I hear his stomach toil as if urging its owner to hurry and eat. He digs in gladly.
Shōichi, rather than adding toppings, settles to attempt the soup in its untainted form first. He cradles a small portion with a spoon and slurps it. The opaque sustenance renders a simple yet pleasant flavor that melts onto his palette. Warmth pools in his stomach, and a clean and nourishing impression settles in with every ingestion. It leaves a sense of familiarity.
A proper meal. For Shōichi, it's been a prolonged absence from adequate and nutritious food. Through sole fault of his own, immoderately absorbed in experiments, projects, and business, he opts for convenience store food and instant ramen. Now that he thinks about it…
Shōichi nips into an umeboshi and relishes in the sourness. It spikes his energy and appetite—an instance of familiarity returns.
… he's been absent from home as well.
I smile. Watching the youth enjoy the simple dish before him. Nothing special, just something tasty that's also easy on the stomach. Fortunately, it already looks to be doing wonders. I part and head back into the kitchen to start up another order.
Shōichi munches the tamagoyaki with a slightly sweet taste and custard texture.
For every item and for every bite it... reminds him of home.
Shōichi's family is, for the most part, ordinary. But his initially frequent permanent visits to the lab made him negligent. The last reminder of home was when his sister dropped off the food their mom had made for him a few weeks ago.
He looks thoughtful as he slurps up more soup. It soothes and heals his body.
A visit home would do him good. He makes silent promises to visit more often to see his family. A content smile renders at his vow and remains till not one drop of food is left.
Irie Shoichi: a boy who often forgets to eat, sleep, and care for himself.
But, for the first time in ages, his ails are alleviated.
From a simple dish made of rice and water to a homemade meal away from home, Okayu.
Terminology:
Hoshigaki - dried persimmon.
Donabe - a clay pot.
Okayu - rice porridge.
Nori - seaweed.
Umeboshi - pickled ume fruit, common in Japan. Has a distinct sour and salty flavor.
Tamagoyaki - Japanese-style rolled omelet.