If you go north from the station for a while, there’s the Central Shopping Street that runs parallel to the coastline. This one has more of a tourist-oriented feel compared to the station-front shopping street, with a younger customer base.
The udon shop “Jinroku” in the back alleys there had the air of a hidden famous establishment. Although it was only hidden in atmosphere, since it was frequently featured in guidebooks, it was always crowded.
The table seats were full, but we were able to sit side by side at the counter seats for three.
From the back of the shop: me, Iwama, Kannabi, in that order. Across the counter, I could see a middle-aged man who appeared to be the owner skillfully plating dishes. In the back of the kitchen, boiling water was vigorously steaming.
“The specialty here is thick, firm hand-pulled noodles. You can really tell with the chilled noodles, and the chilled niku-miso udon in particular is the signature menu item.”
Iwama and Kannabi nodded in understanding at my explanation, and Iwama and I ordered the chilled niku-miso udon while Kannabi ordered curry udon.
“The aroma of spices, you see, led me astray.”
Kannabi offered something like an excuse.
“When you go to an udon shop or soba shop, sometimes you suddenly smell curry, right? Even if it seems delicious, when your mouth is in the mood for Japanese food, you can’t order it. Since this time it’s a shop Delta brought us to, I was able to avoid being troubled by that dilemma. Thank you.”
I’d certainly thought curry udon smelled delicious after catching its scent before, but I’d never actually ordered it. It was a story I could kind of understand but also kind of couldn’t, but I could understand that this mysterious classmate was surprisingly logical in thinking about her own decisions. And she was more talkative than I’d expected. I also felt like I’d been casually called Delta, but well, I wouldn’t worry about the small details.
“That’s good to hear.”
I gave a safe response for now.
The curry smell was getting stronger. On the other side of the counter, roux was being poured into a bowl. When dashi was added on top of that, warm steam flowed over, a blend of Japanese fragrance and spicy stimulation melting together. As Kannabi said, it was a smell that made you think “I want to eat that.” However, considering the taste of chilled niku-miso udon, that was a trivial matter.
Warm noodles were plated in the curry udon bowl, while noodles firmed with water were plated in the chilled niku-miso udon bowls. The owner skillfully plated pork from a tupperware container. Mizuna, chopped carrots, wakame.
“Here you go, sorry for the wait!”
Three udon dishes were completed simultaneously and presented on a tray before us. The moment I received it, a heavy weight was transmitted to my arm.
“Wow, it looks delicious!”
Iwama let out a small exclamation.
The white noodles, as thick as fingers, were roughly textured as befitting hand-pulled noodles, and stuck out here and there like tree roots from the sesame-miso soup that filled the bowl sparingly. The pale green of mizuna and orange of carrots, along with the dark green of wakame, vividly stimulated the appetite.
“Itadakimasu.”
The three of us put our hands together.
I first sprinkled the scallions from a separate plate on top of the udon, then mixed ginger with the pork. The key was not to dissolve it in the soup from the start, but to gradually diffuse the ginger as you ate.
The first bite.
At this shop, you couldn’t slurp the noodles. Not a matter of manners—it was physically difficult. The ultimate thick noodles were so heavy that just lifting them with chopsticks tired your fingers. When you put them in your mouth, their elasticity always surprised you. These weren’t noodles to suck up with a slurp, but noodles to slowly chew.
When I filled my cheeks with noodles, the sweet miso-dashi with its mellow sesame flavor stimulated both my taste buds and olfactory epithelium. Each time I moved my jaw to chew, the aroma of wheat chased after it without losing.
“Mm-mm!”
Iwama made a sound that, from the intonation, could be understood as “Delicious!” Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and the meaning was obvious from her expression alone. After slowly chewing the noodles, she opened her mouth again.
“It’s delicious! I’ve never eaten this taste or texture before!”
“You can’t really eat this anywhere else.”
Both Iwama and I headed for our second bites. Kannabi was working hard trying to cool her noodles by blowing on them.
For the second bite, I mixed in pork. The pork belly that had been boiled and then chilled once had its fat melt smoothly in the mouth, spreading sweetness. The aroma of ginger supporting it. There was no way this wouldn’t go well with miso-dashi.
Looking over, Kannabi was still blowing on her noodles and hadn’t managed her first bite yet.
“What is it?”
Perhaps noticing my gaze, Kannabi’s black eyes turned sharply toward me.
“Are you sensitive to hot foods?”
“Curry udon is different from other udon because the viscosity of the soup is high, so it doesn’t cool easily. Since it doesn’t evaporate easily, heat of vaporization isn’t removed, and since convection doesn’t occur easily, heat transfer also doesn’t happen easily.”
I felt a little favorable toward how her explanation was so theoretical.
“I see. Take your time.”
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Without waiting for me to say it, Kannabi resumed her blowing.
In the meantime, Iwama, who had eaten another bite, seemed to become interested in the side dish on the tray.
“Wait, is this maybe…”
She lifted the small plate as she spoke. It was the complimentary ohitashi.
Each of our three trays had the same thing. Boiled, moist green leaves and white stems were modestly arranged, but looking closely, there were blue-purple petals mixed in. A mountain vegetable perhaps? Since they were pressed and the shape of the leaves wasn’t clear, I couldn’t immediately identify them.
“That’s boiled katakuri ohitashi.”
Having apparently been watching Iwama’s behavior, the owner cheerfully told us.
Hearing “katakuri,” memories of plastic bags inevitably floated up, and I desperately shook them from my head. Meanwhile, Iwama’s eyes were sparkling.
“I knew it! Since there were flowers in it, I thought it might be. So you can eat parts other than the underground stem too.”
“Yes. Everything from flowers to roots is edible. Though if you eat too much you’ll get an upset stomach.”
Told by the owner, Iwama and I tried a bite of the ohitashi. The texture was softly yielding, and beyond the dashi I could sense the spring aroma characteristic of mountain vegetables and a faint sweetness.
“Delicious! It has no bitterness at all.”
Since Iwama gave an expressively abundant reaction for both of us, I just had to nod.
Still, for Iwama to recognize it as katakuri even though the flowers were discolored was impressive.
“So the petals change color when boiled. From pink to purple.”
“Right! Even when you carefully dry them they turn purplish. Anthocyanin, maybe?”
Plastic bags fluttered through my mind again.
But from Iwama’s tone, it seemed she’d actually dried katakuri flowers before. Which meant that katakuri might have been—
No, stop it. What good would probing into that do? It was pointless to think about.
I brought the conversation back to the ohitashi.
“If you make it into vinegared food, the pink color might return. From becoming acidic.”
“That’s true, definitely! I’ll try it sometime.”
The owner looked at us having such a conversation with an amused expression.
“At this time of year they’re out in the thickets. They’ve probably mostly opened already, but the buds are the best time to eat them. It might be good to leave the roots as much as possible so they’ll sprout again next year.”
After giving just that advice, he turned his back to us and began draining freshly boiled udon.
“It takes eight years to bloom after storing nutrients underground. I’m curious about the taste of the roots too, but you’re right that we shouldn’t harvest too many. I don’t want to upset my stomach either.”
Going to harvest them was probably already decided.
Kannabi, who had finally finished eating her cooled first bite, turned her eyes toward Iwama.
“Rio, you’re knowledgeable.”
“Del-chan taught me.”
“About katakuri (dogtooth violets)?”
I saw Iwama’s expression freeze for just an instant.
“Y-yes! We happened to be talking about katakuri starch in the classroom, right?”
“Ah… yeah. What was it, when we were talking about that Daira-something.”
We hadn’t done anything shameful, but perhaps Iwama was being considerate to avoid revealing the fact that we’d gone together to the famous romantic spot on the mountain behind school. I played along with the story.
But I didn’t know if my acting was sufficient. Kannabi’s sharp gaze turned this way, and my spine chilled even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Hmm, interesting.”
“…What is?”
At Kannabi’s statement, whose emotions I couldn’t read, my tone became unintentionally guarded.
“Looking at ohitashi and bringing up anthocyanin doesn’t usually come up.”
Does it not?
“Ah, you’re right. Sorry for talking about weird things during the meal…”
“Why are you apologizing, Rio? This is a compliment.”
While saying that with a cool expression, Kannabi’s second big bite immediately after was apparently too hot, because she drank water with teary eyes.
While basking in the satisfaction of the thick noodles, we first headed toward Tsunagai Hachiman Shrine.
We walked through the lively Central Shopping Street. Along the spacious sidewalks flanking the bus route, diverse shops lined up from old tofu shops to stylish cafes. The foreigners we occasionally saw were probably tourists. Even for me living locally, just walking made me feel cheerful. It was just right for digesting our meal.
After advancing for a while, the shops broke off and a large south-facing stone torii gate appeared imposingly.
The historic Hachiman-sama had vast grounds from around here, near the shopping street, to the green, wooded mountain slope. That alone made it substantial enough to be a walking course. Starting with cherry blossoms, diverse trees were planted, and in the grounds that had become half park-like, numerous auxiliary and branch shrines were placed.
Passing through the torii, the approach path continued between trees.
“They’re huge trees!”
Iwama looked up at a giant cedar tree and said. Standing out distinctly taller than the surrounding cedars, paper streamers hung around its trunk.
“This shrine was founded in the Kamakura period, and apparently trees have been treasured since then.”
I stopped and pointed at a standing sign installed beside the cedar tree.
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