Illustration by Cansu Hangül
The brass bell rang a welcome as I opened the door and the strong Arabica coffee aroma swept over me. A Horace Silver jazz piano solo was picking up its tempo. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark wood-paneled interior.
This cozy cafe had hardly changed since my last visit years ago. I’ve tried to tell people about it, but I still don’t know if it even has a name. The neon sign in the window just has a music note with a coffee cup as its head. Directions are impossible in this rats’ maze of streets. I got here today just by instinct and muscle memory.
It’s not the kind of place for a first date, certainly not to impress someone. But maybe useful as a test. How might your date react? Turn up her nose at the worn-out décor? Raise an eyebrow at the jazz? Or, just sit back in the red vinyl booth and nod to the music? That’s how I knew. You were a keeper.
You loved the spaghetti Napolitan, which I used to tell you was just ketchup sauce. I usually had the omurice with hayashi sauce. After a few visits, the old couple owners knew our regular choices. “Welcome back, Miss Napolitan and Mr. Omurice.” It was hard to try something new after that.
Whenever the wife brought out our meals, she would look at us and remark, “What a well-matched couple. You’re so perfect together.” I wondered if you were blushing from embarrassment or guilt. We would just smile and laugh in reply.
Today, I found a corner booth. The place was empty, so I had my choice. Is anybody working even? I pulled the menu from between the condiment bottles. The choices were similar but not quite the same as before. More sandwiches, fewer entrees. Hmmm, less cooking involved maybe.
A man in his thirties parted the curtain from the kitchen and welcomed me. Ah, maybe the old couple have retired. Time for change, I suppose. Well, then, “Hi, could I have the Napolitan spaghetti, please.”
With a few minutes to look around now, I started to pick out more details. Newer concert posters, though still local jazz. Some plastic plants replacing the fresh flowers. More duct tape on the vinyl seats. Minor repairs and updates to keep the place going but still close to the original look. Struggling a bit? Some old Tatsuro Yamashita playing now. So, the music was no longer strictly jazz. I guess you can’t escape the resurgent popularity of 80’s City Pop.
“Here you go. Please enjoy.” My heaping plate of pasta arrived.
“Thanks. I used to come here often when I was a college student. An older couple working here back then.”
“Really? Those are my parents. They still come around to lend a hand but are mostly retired now. Have you been away awhile?”
“Yes, I moved east for work. I’m just in town for a couple of days.”
“Well, welcome back. I hope my Napolitan is up to my father’s standard.” He pulled a bottle of Tabasco from his apron pocket and another with Parmesan cheese. “Enjoy.”
Let’s see. You used to pile on the cheese. I’d laugh at how much Tabasco you poured on too. Maybe not as much for me. It looked like traditional Japanese Napolitan with some mushrooms, green peppers, bacon and tomato sauce. Let’s give it a twirl.
Ha ha! Yes. I can see why you enjoyed this so much. So simple, yet so satisfying with that sweet and sour taste of ketchup. Funny how happy food can make a person, considering this wasn’t even my favourite dish. I just remember the smile that came across your face at the first mouthful. You usually wouldn’t talk for the next few minutes. Did you even take a breath?
The steady beat of Akira Ishikawa on drums brought us back to 1970’s Japanese jazz. More to smile about. When we first started coming here, we knew nothing about jazz. If we heard something we liked, we would ask the owners, who gave us the full rundown on the artist. The concert posters near the entrance eventually enticed to a local live club. Our record collection of essential masters slowly grew. I wonder what happened to those LPs? I’ve managed to collect a few of those favourites as CDs, but mostly I make do with streaming playlists now. I do miss that thrill of hunting down a specific album in out-of-the-way used record stores. Maybe I need to start up again.
I was lost in my happy world of music and pasta, eating to the beat, and didn’t notice if anyone had come in. The cook was back in the kitchen.
“Napolitan’s my dish, isn’t it?” You sat in the booth across from me, chin resting in hands, elbows on the table. I stopped mid-chew. “What are you staring at with those big eyes? Did you think you were the only one who still came here?” That teasing sparkle in your eye hadn’t changed. You still looked the same as I remembered, down to the favourite flower print dress.
“So, how is it? You really don’t have enough cheese in there though.” That mischievous smirk was challenging me to reply but I couldn’t. I was frozen.
You nodded your head in time with the music, George Benson’s Affirmation, your favourite. We wore out that Breezin LP. “This place is still great, isn’t it? The same old vibe. I wondered when I would run into you here.”
“It’s great to see you here too, but, I… don’t understand.”
“He speaks! If I knew you were in town I would have, I don’t know, dropped by earlier maybe. But, hey, you look like you’ve put on some weight. Are you sure you should be eating so much pasta?”
“But, I…”
“Just kidding. You know. I guess it’s a sign you’re living a happy life, not stressed and hungry.”
“I guess.”
“I’m glad. That’s all I needed to hear – that you’re doing okay. Even without me around to tell you how to properly enjoy spaghetti.”
“Fine. Just a little more cheese and Tabasco then.” I picked up the bottles and gave each a couple of shakes over my dish.
“Was there something wrong with the sauce?” the cook asked, standing over me, looking puzzled.
“No. Not at all. Just a recommendation from a friend”, who was now nowhere around. “She always used to eat it like this, so I thought I’d give it a try.”
“Ah, I recognize you now! On the photo wall. There’s a picture of you two. I remember my parents telling me about your friend. Sorry to hear about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. A photo?”
“Yes. Down the back hallway towards the washrooms.”
I got up to take a look. This was new. Thumbtacked to the walls of the narrow hall were dozens of old photos of customers. Many were starting to fade and turn orange. I recognized a few faces, old classmates or friends.
And there we were. I was wearing my usual uniform of polo shirt and chinos. You were wearing the same navy blue dress with white flowers I had just seen you in. I don’t even remember having this photo taken but both of us had big smiles. In front of me was a giant omurice. In front of you, spaghetti Napolitan.
Douglas Shimizu is a Japanese-Canadian artist, born and raised in Vancouver. He studied International Relations with an Asian focus at UBC, after which he worked and studied in Kyoto for several years. Now back in Vancouver, he has been working on various genres of art including drawing with the Vancouver Urban Sketchers group. His poetry and short stories have appeared in Ricepaper, as well as Polar Borealis, a Canadian online science-fiction magazine, and Aurora Award-winning anthology, Stellar Evolutions.