Chapter 7

And isn’t it intriguing? Here I am, by 99 Main Road, and I need food and need Ai to say to me that old

‘You

Ikigai

Cooking’

which sounds as a kind of haiku coming from the ancient times to me.

I smile to myself as my mind reproduces her strange way of talking, with that eternal gap between the words Ai produces. It makes a curious effect on me. As if lost in an ocean of time or something, I find myself in the need of filling the space between, traversing a land of confusion where these terms are deeply —and strangely— related.

By the way, I didn’t know either what an ikigai is. So I had to look it up, as you should be doing right now. Don’t feel ashamed about it.

But I will go easy on you. Ikigai means ‘your goal in life’, to make the simplest definition. As you are probably aware, it is much more than this, comprehending a lot of nuances and individual and social implications which encompasses the whole Japanese culture. You know, finding a —sorry, the— ikigai is not an easy thing to do. So, just for the record, let me fill the space between words for you: what really blows my mind is Ai already knowing it.

My ikigai, I mean.

‘But I gotta get back, Ai’. As I write it, she stares at my white blackboard with the deepest concern.

‘Where? Why?’, she asks.

I guess I take too much time to answer, so I deserve the glance she casts over me.

‘Home, of course. London. Haven’t you ever considered getting back to your country?’, I write her back.

Yes, Ai is Japanese. You won’t probably care where she comes from, but I really think being from Japan makes a whole difference to me at this stage of life, now that I have come to understand that people come in and go out of your life and they don’t have to be kind or friendly. And you can say that this has nothing to do with geography. Well, I agree.

But I am not explaining myself, sorry. Let me rephrase: the very first time my eyes met Ai’s, she took a bow right in front of me. My heart jumped like a kangaroo and, gosh, how can I put this in words? I… I knew I was facing someone special. We made a connection and I started to learn from her. So many things. Not only words or concepts. Ways of seeing, ways of feeling and believing. Don’t know, it’s hard to tell. I guess it all sums up to this: cooking.

Three thousand words wouldn’t be enough to illustrate what I am trying to say. How can I put this? I know you wouldn’t believe it, but let’s put it this way: I have never been on the talkative side. Especially, after the incident —which is such an obvious thing to say, once you know that I lost my words and I had to learn how to talk again from scratch—. But this was not the case with Ai. Since the very first time I saw her, I couldn’t stop writing on my white blackboard for a second: ‘I have never seen a place like this, this is such a lovely fountain, where does the water come from, what’s the name for the lichens in Japanese, I love your kimono, is that the name for it, isn’t it? And for the fish? And for these chopsticks? Itadakimasu? Sorry, say that again?’. I haven’t stopped talking —I write, yes, but I feel like it’s a real conversation— to her since then.

So dear is Ai to me that I can’t imagine a day without paying her a visit up in 99 Main Road. I guess what I really mean —and, yes, that must be part of the process too, thank you, Ms Therapist— is that I need her. And that’s the reason why I talk and talk and I feel the impulse of knocking at her door every time I pass by. Like now.

By her subtle smile and the way her face expands when we meet, I can tell that she doesn’t mind me writing so much, nor where I come from or the things I used to do or why no word comes out of my mouth. She stares at me silently and makes no judgement. I guess it’s her oriental way of life, which is why I am learning so many things from Ai. She brings that fresh air of focussing on small things and the well-ordered places and the soul and the zen stuff.

As I was saying, she is a silent woman, too. As far as I know, Ai seems to have been living in Northgate-on-Sea forever, but she can’t really speak English. Don’t get me wrong, she says more things with three isolated words than many people with an English & Literature PhD. So she talks very rarely, but when she does it’s like she kind of melts one word to the next one, mostly with a long lapse of time between. Sometimes I really doubt that she has talked at all. Maybe she’s got a kind of superpower to make understand.

For instance, I remember a story she told me once. Or maybe I dreamt of it, ‘cause I swear I can only recall three words coming out of her mouth. OK, maybe four. It was a family story about how her grandmother or her great grandmother or the mother of her great great grandmother, whoever she was, found love by cooking.

It happened in a long long winter in Japan, so long that it was rumoured that cherry trees would never flourish again and there would be no more sakuras, their sacred flower. Ai’s ancestor was the only daughter raised by a couple who owned an inn by the western road to Kyoto. And it must had been quite a popular inn —or maybe the road was—, ‘cause it attracted a lot of visitors and they were coming and going or just passing by all day long. One fine morning, among them, a clear voice found its way to Ai’s ancestor, who was in the kitchen —she was the cook, in fact, and was not allowed to leave the stoves— and she thought she could fall in love with the owner of such a distinctive and beautiful voice.

‘Ramen for the traveller on table two’, said her father with his pitiful sharp tone when he came into the kitchen, ‘and make it fast and tasty, daughter, for he is prominent man and he seems in a hurry!’.

Being the girl young and blind, there was no reason for her to wait for any other signal than the voice still reverberating inside her heart. So eager for love she was, that she thought she would die if she couldn’t get acquaintances with the stranger.

After a while, and having imagined and evaluated her father’s fierce face when he’d noticed her curiosity for the stranger, she came to the conclusion that she had no other way to be close to the visitor than cooking. Something that, lucky her, she had been doing her whole life. For example, the girl knew how to cure her mother’s frequent and piercing headaches by adding a pinch of lavender haze on her meal. Or how to make her father a merrier man after a long day at work making a traditional stew full of herbs that she picked up on the mountains, by the abandoned village where he grew up; whenever her father tasted it, his ill-tempered mood surrendered and he started to smile and, after a couple of sake glasses, she could hear him mumbling along old tunes from his younger years. Or she could even say things like ‘Happy anniversary or I am sorry, I won’t do that horrible thing again or Please, let me sleep a little bit more’ just by adding certain ingredients to her dishes or arranging them in different ways.

So she prepared for the stranger a very special ramen with a pinch of waiting herb and other spices of her own private knowledge. Of course, the girl put her whole heart on the task and left nothing to chance: she decided to serve it in one of the old golden-rimmed bowls of the family service, which were said to be not only beautiful and valuable, but magical as well, for they had been decorated with sakura flowers on the bottom of each piece by an ancient potter. And the traveler tasted the ramen and so moved was by the flavor and by the image of the engraving when he emptied the bowl, that he decided to stay for the evening. He sat there, finding no explanation for his sudden desire of spending his valuable time in that modest inn by the road, since he was a royal postman with an important letter in his bag.

At dinner, the girl cooked for their guest a soup with a pinch of dream-love herbs that only could be found by the Rainbow Cascade and he mysteriously decided to spend the night, which was long and full of unsettling dreams. By breakfast, after tasting the toasts with the girl’s special jam, the stranger bursted into the kitchen and kneeled and proposed her to marry him, crying tears of happiness for having found the love of her life.

When the father tried to bring the royal postman to his senses —her daughter was blind and she had no dowry at all— the traveler said ‘That must be the reason for the saying’, laughing and kissing his future wife. With eyes full of tears, he went out to the middle of the road where he shouted and screamed with his beautiful voice to whoever wanted to hear him ‘Love is blind, fellow travelers, love is blind and now I can see!’. And when he managed to wipe his eyes out of tears, the postman saw that the winter was gone and all the cherry trees were full with sakura.

This is, more or less, the story of Ai’s ancestor and the true meaning that cooking has for me, in short. But you won’t have a real perception of the real gist of tales like this one if you don’t get to know Ai: she must be a million years old and she wears traditional kimonos that transport you to a different time and place. Her hair is always clipped tight behind her nape with a couple of chopsticks, and I suspect she has never cut it. It is white as the snow of the story. Her eyes seem somehow white, too. I know it’s impossible, but believe me, it’s not.

Have you ever watched those samurai’s movies where everything is about tradition? Well, that’s the spirit. Being with her is sort of a ritual for me. Like a time for healing, outside the fury and the noise and the thunders of the everyday life. Not that I am furious or that Northgate-on-Sea is a noisy town at all —well, maybe in summertime—, but you know, we all have our own issues. Or thunders, as Ms Therapist said when I told her about loosing both my parents in that car crash and everything that lead to my crisis. But, I don’t want to waste your time in sad things.

Let’s focus on Ai.

Please let me explain the elements in a regular visit to Ai’s place:

1. The door. Doorways are metaphoric places. They leave the past things behind and give way to the future. But a door is mostly present. Ai’s carved door seems to have the faculty of attaching you to this moment you are immerse right now. Even when it is usually ajar, as waiting for you, I knock. But the knocking sound it’s not as you may expect. It is more profound.

2. The bow. I have already mentioned it, but it’s never enough. She always takes a bow. I do the same. I have learned she likes distance and I think I have understood: her bow is so beautiful. Even more than an embrace between old childhood friends. It’s like connecting. I am sure that’s how trees root. Or something.

3. The seat. She offers me a seat at the low table near the fountain. It is a non-existing seat, just a spot on the floor, but it’s full of hospitality and homely cosiness. I don’t take it, by the way. I make her seat instead and she smiles. She seats on her non-existing seat on the floor with an impossible agility for a woman her age. I think that I will never know her real age nor how she can bend her knees that way and squat with such a balance. Every little thing she does is so harmonious. It’s inspirational for me.

4. The kitchen. Ai’s kitchen is industrial size, with many stoves and all the stuff you could expect in a big restaurant. In fact, she must be feeding half Japan, part of Korea and maybe China. I sometimes wonder if all the people that come and go at her place are really her family or what. That’s another Northgate mystery and, believe me, I have asked her. But a silence and a smile came instead of words. I like to imagine everyone’s is welcome at Ai’s. So, whenever I see all the dirty pots and the dishes, I step into the kitchen and I clean everything I find for her. As I say, Ai is a busy woman, working so hard to provide food for all these people, whoever they are. I know she is having troubles with her hands. They are like claws now. Maybe the age, dunno. Rheumatism, arthritis. Whatever. I like helping her the way she likes helping people and I reckon she must be tired of serving and cooking. That’s why I do it for her. I help the helper. Like serving the servant, I guess, which should be the way to live a humble life, according to Avner. Or to Kurt Cobain. Or maybe they took it from an oriental praying, who knows.

5. The cooking. I put rice to boil while I chop the vegetables. I cook three volcano omelettes —two for Ai and for me; I set aside the other portion in a case thinking of a possible meeting with Sally Queen. I do it my way, of course, but Ai taught me how to prepare it and took her time to explain to me that one day I would be able to cook them like her ancestor, who was the best cook ever and who knew how to use herbs and species and ingredients to get people to do things for her, you know the story because I have told you already.

Anyway, I assume that’s another reason why she feeds so many people: she learnt the skills from her mother and her from hers and so on in a chain which goes as far as the beginning of times. But here is the thing: even when she spends the day cooking and serving and everything, she never charges for her services. I guess what I am trying to say is that Ai’s place is exactly the opposite to a restaurant, in case you made a wrong impression. I would kill for cracking up this mystery, but every time I come up with the subject, she smiles and says nothing.

6. The bowls. I serve the rice and the vegetables in those old bowls I love: look at them, they have gold rims, here, here. There, too. Like cracks which were repaired with gold and some kind of gluing, don’t know what it means but I really think it's like scars with people. She said one day, not long ago, that these two bowls belonged her grannie or whoever her ancestor was, too, so they must be very dear to her —are they the ones in the story?—. I think she never uses them and that’s why they are not in the dresser with the other dishes and plates and cutlery she displays for the feeding times. Have I mentioned that these plates have a couple of sakura flowers? It’s such a lovely thing to be seen that I almost cry when I am eating the food and I discover the cherry flowers at the bottom of the bowls. And I guess that’s the answer for the question I raised before.

7. The ceremony. Eating is no game when you are with Ai. It’s a kind of ceremony where everything’s arranged. I take the dishes to the low table where she is seating and waiting for me. She stares at me. She does that lovely gesture with her hands, as if she were catching the air with them and getting it into her nostrils. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes and you can see the smell is getting through her lungs and that it’s becoming a part of her. Not before she opens her eyes again, she waves her hand and waits for me to cut the omelette. I think of a volcano eruption, of course. She chuckles and nods her head, waiting for the egg to spill over the rice. Sometimes I think it’s ok, sometimes I think she is telling me that the eggs are overcooked and they should spread like magma over the rice and. And. Always and. Cooking is an art, truly. I hope one day I will see something in her eyes and I’ll know I have done it as it must be done. Like her ancestor.

Then we eat. I apologize about the omelette. The consistency, the quality of the eggs. The, the, the. I keep on writing on my white blackboard. She listens to me. You know, she reads and nods. As we eat, she tells me about a legend or a story that comes to her mind. She does it with her few words and all those spaces between I told you before. In fact, after her story, I am normally confused and can’t help asking something about it. Something like her ancestor’s magical cooking skills. She smiles and, with another four words —‘horseshoe, sex, night, stranger’—, manages to explain the backside of the story: the ancestor girl could be blind, but she was no fool; after the first meal, she went to the stalls and took off the horseshoes of the postman’s horse, so he would not be able to leave the place. And after the dinner —no doubt the meal she cooked was up for something— she gave herself to the stranger in the dead of the night, as her parents were confidently threading on Morpheus’ territories. Maybe that was the meaning of the ‘unsettling dreams’ expression in the story.

And that’s a part of the ceremony, too. When I come back from Ai’s spaces between words, I end up thinking that the story she’s just told me spreads in my imagination like the magma getting out the volcano’s mouth, you know, invading the mountain and the lands and getting somehow to the sea.

As I said, just my imagination, maybe.

Then, the end of the visit. I smile, write a ‘Gotta go now’ and I stand up. She takes a deep bow. I take a bow back. No matter how deep I try, hers always seems deeper. So I laugh and kiss her.

And that’s how it goes on a regular visit to Ai, really. Of course, she knows today is not like any other day and she says ‘Wait’.

She goes to the kitchen with the dishes and the chopsticks, I hear the water and she comes back with them on her claw-hands.

She offers them to me.

Well, it’s a strange move.

‘Dinner - Important’, she says.

I stare at her. Don’t dare move a muscle. Dinner? Is she really saying what I think she is saying?

‘Avner and girlfriend - Ikigai - You cook, uh?’.

Oh, come on. You gotta be kidding me. Does she know, too?

After closing the door and walking for a while, I turn around. And I realize about the strangest thing: Ai’s place is white. Again, like the snow in her story. So everything is related here in Northgate.

Whatever it means.

© Enrique Armenteros Caballero, 2025

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