Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(51)
“No,” I say simply. “I don’t know.” Even though I kind of do. The AGG have no shame when it comes to the bathroom. Some of our best friend moments were born there.
He shrugs it off and his smile broadens, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Let’s do dinner tonight. Somewhere lavish and ridiculously expensive where they’ll throw rose petals at our feet.” He takes his phone out, scrolls through it. “Have you ever dined kaiseki?”
“Don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a must, then. You’ll need something a touch dressier.” He peers at me. “The chef I’m thinking of doesn’t mess around. Takes himself very seriously.”
Mariko chimes in. “Perhaps a silk kimono would do?”
Yoshi turns his attention to her, a devilish look on his face. “A kimono would do nicely. You know, I don’t think we’ve formerly met. Cousin, why have you never introduced me to your lovely lady-in-waiting?” He bows to her.
Mariko actually blushes. It’s so easy to fall under Yoshi’s charms. “I’ll need a good hour to get her ready,” she says in a pleasant tone she’s never used with me.
Yoshi flourishes another bow, looking at her as if she invented cake. “Of course, I’m your servant in all things. You know, if my heart wasn’t otherwise engaged to a certain woman that hides weapons all over her body…”
Oh good God, enough. “Yoshi,” I say, trying to communicate with my eyes.
“Right. Yeah.” He turns to me. “I forgot myself there for a moment. Good thing Reina isn’t the jealous type. Though I wish she was.” He stares at her longingly for a moment, then goes back to his phone. “I’ll make reservations for us.” He glances up, then shouts to a staff member unloading a perforated duffel as he dashes off. “Careful with that, there’s a live animal in there.”
* * *
We dine in Gion—the geisha district, Kyoto’s heart and spiritual center. There are rickety teahouses, master sword makers, and women dressed in kimonos. The restaurant is by invitation only and seats seven, but the chef prefers to keep the guest count under five. His name is Komura, and like the bamboo farmer Shirasu and his son, his two daughters assist him. The sisters light candles in bronze holders and place them around the room. The restaurant is a converted home, the walls a deep ebony stained from years of smoke from the open hearth—it’s called kurobikari, black luster. It’s a hidden gem nestled between a pachinko parlor and an antiques shop.
The table we kneel at is made of thick wood, its surface weathered, worn, and polished, honed by years of hands and plates and cups of tea.
Yoshi smiles, a gleam in his eyes. “Tell me everything. Do you love Kyoto? Hate it?” He wears a satin suit and matching tie. His hair is slicked back. Very debonair. All that’s missing is the white ferret around his shoulders. Famous designer Tomo Moriyama will be debuting live animals as part of his Fall Collection during Tokyo Fashion Week, and Yoshi has one of the first “samples.” The chef wouldn’t let him bring it in. Luckily, Yoshi came equipped with some sort of harness leash for the creature. One of the bodyguards is walking it right now.
I take a deep breath. Hard to do since my waist is cinched so tight. Mariko certainly worked her fairy godmother magic. My kimono is teal silk stitched with silver threads to mimic rippling water and embroidered with multi-colored lily pads. Hair pulled back in a low bun with a chrysanthemum pin complements the outfit. “Kyoto is a dream,” I say quietly. While the restaurant’s atmosphere is relaxed—soft lighting, pillows to recline on, low voices, a single silk tapestry on the wall—it is also a cultural minefield, full of places where I might misstep. This whole thing could blow up in my face. I check my posture, the way I hold my ohashi, and remind myself how to bow to thank them at the end of the meal—gochisōsama deshita. My smile is genuine. “Even better now that you’re here,” I say.
Together we sip the aperitif, a sweet wine. Then the sisters bring the second starter—hassun, bite-sized appetizers arranged like tiny jewels on the plate. We cease movement and conversation while the plates are laid down. Once the sisters leave, Yoshi says, “Oishisō.”
“Oishisō,” I repeat. Looks delicious.
Our conversation resumes and Yoshi says, “I’d been meaning to visit. An old schoolmate lives here. His name is Jutaro. He’s a former aristocrat who moonlights as a wild boar dealer.”
Whatever that means. I smile.
Yoshi waits for me to begin. In Japan, the most honored guest eats first. That’s me. “Itadakimasu,” I say, keeping my back straight as I take a bite of prawn. In kaiseki, the focus is on the food’s essence and is reflective of the rhythms of the seasons. The meal is heavily influenced by nature. It’s May, so our menu will be inspired by spring and feature bamboo.
Yoshi observes me warmly as he digs in. “Look at you. You’ve changed.”
I set my ohashi aside. “I haven’t. I’m still a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?” Yoshi takes a drink of water, eyeing me above the rim. “You have. I look amazing, but you look even better. Change isn’t the worst thing. Perhaps you could give me some tips. I’d like to improve my media image. You can teach me.”
The sisters clear our plates and bring the second course, bamboo shoots boiled in spring water. I cup the lacquered bowl in my hands. “Media image?” I ask between sips.