A Serving of Hope Quotes

“That’s what good food is about. Fancy ingredients and secret sauces might linger in the mind, but they’re not what reaches your heart. What matters in this business is what you can really do for your customer—how you connect with them on a deep, emotional level.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“People often avoided eel because it had the sharp fragrance common to river fish, and Masaru was usually one of them. Even when he enjoyed it, something about the aftertaste bothered him. When it was cooked kabayaki-style with sauce, he could just about bear it, but this was shirayaki, meaning there was no seasoning to mask the flavor. Masaru had always believed this to be a problem inherent in even the highest-quality eel—but he was astonished by how clean and light this one tasted.
In fact, Masaru had never tasted eel like it. It had all the delicacy of white fish like sea bream or flounder, combined with the rich savor of yellowtail at the peak of its season. He had thought lightness and richness of flavor were two ends of a spectrum, that they couldn't possibly coexist— but this shirayaki proved otherwise.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“You cook the noodles, add the same toppings as with keihan—boiled chicken, sweet-simmered shiitake, and shredded omelet—and pour chilled chicken broth over the lot. It’s a clever idea—and perfect for summer, when hotter dishes lose their appeal. Even after moving far from the island where she grew up, Kaneko still carried its flavors deep inside her. As for that sweet milk, it’s another Amami specialty.”
At a signal from Nagare, Koishi set a carton of milk in front of Saki.
“Hanada no Miki?” read Saki. “Can’t say I recognize it?”
The carton was decorated with a red sun and blue waves.
“Miki is a traditional fermented drink enjoyed in Amami and Okinawa. People used to make it at home, but these days there are dedicated manufacturers. It’s basically rice, sugar, sweet potato, and water. Very sweet when it’s fresh, but as it ferments it turns a little sour—which is why children were usually given it right after it was made. What you sipped on with your noodles was, of course, Kaneko’s homemade version—freshly prepared.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“What’s the difference between ayame and kakitsubata irises?”
“Ah.” Nagare gave a pained smile. “You’re referring to Tae’s obi.”
“Yes. I mean, I’m sure you can tell them apart in real life, or in a photo. But from the pattern on an obi?” Saki gave an unconvinced frown.
“She always wears that one at this time of year. Apparently, ayame only bloom in dry places, like fields, whereas kakitsubata grow in wetlands.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“Horumon-udon sauce?"
"Tsuyama, not far from Mimasaka, is famous for its horumon-udon. Udon noodles stir-fried with offal—real comfort food. Of course, the sauce varies depending on the restaurant, but at home people make it with this stuff. It's not bad as condiments go, and versatile too. Miyuki used it to season her shogayaki."
"Soy sauce, miso, sugar, mirin, syrup, garlic, ginger, sesame oil, sesame, chili pepper..." Toshio read from the label, before setting the bottle back down on the table with an oddly detached air. "Well, that makes sense. If there's ginger in the sauce too, no wonder the flavor's so strong.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“So the filling was salmon?”
“Yes. Among the many dishes on the menu, the most prized was the sake no sakabitashi— sake-marinated salmon. A delicacy that takes a huge amount of time and effort to prepare.” Nagare showed her another photo.
“It looks amazing,” said Shiori.
“That wasn’t all, though. Yasuhiko had the idea of mixing chopped pieces of soy-marinated salmon belly into the filling. The okami remembers being impressed by that. Said it must have given it an even richer flavor.”
“That sounds like Yasuhiko. He always wanted to add some little flourish of his own.”
Nagare smiled warmly. “The okami told me that they use Koshihikari rice from Iwafune at the restaurant. Even told me the exact supplier they use, so I was able to get hold of some. The nori’s from the Sea of Japan, while the filling, as I’ve just explained, is identical. All told, I believe it’s the exact onigiri you ate that day. Of course, it might not have tasted quite the same to you. I put my heart into making them, but there’s no way I could rival what Yasuhiko was feeling as he worked the rice. Not even a master chef could. When you’re making onigiri, technique only gets you so far. It’s the emotion you put in that really counts.”
“Right. I guess that’s why he chose to make them.”
“Nowadays those ‘onigirazu’ things are all the rage— more like a rice sandwich than a rice ball, and you don’t even shape them by hand. That’s no way to make a meal. Onigiri taste good because they’re molded with feeling. You think of the person who’s going to eat it, transfer all that emotion to the palms of your hands, and press the rice together lovingly. That, to me, is what an onigiri is all about.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“The fish’s belly had split open as it was grilled, releasing its golden roe. She’d heard people say that, because all the nutrients went to the eggs, the flesh of late-season ayu lacked flavor. Now she knew how wrong they were. If anything, the taste seemed richer than that of young ayu caught in the spring, while the yuzu miso added a bright, citrusy aroma that really lifted the dish.
Next she turned her attention to the oboro tofu, adding a dab of kanzuri to the sea urchin on top. The sharp fermented heat of the chili paste paired perfectly with the rich creaminess of the tofu, which practically melted in her mouth. It was a combination that stirred something inside her. Maybe that was because of a jar of kanzuri had been a constant presence in her family’s fridge. Whenever they’d wanted to spice something up, or boost or tweak a flavor, it had always been the kanzuri they reached for. It had gone into the dipping sauce for somen noodles and been slathered onto bowls of white rice; sometimes it had even been stirred into ramen. She’d had it with tofu plenty of times, but never with the addition of sea urchin.
Hamo eel, meanwhile, she knew as a Kyoto favorite— one that was usually in season in summer, around the time of the Gion Festival. She hadn’t known you could even catch it in the autumn. She tried dipping it in the mustard miso. It tasted so good she almost groaned aloud.
She didn’t remember ever trying venison before, but it turned out to be surprisingly easy to eat, probably because it had been deep-fried. Compared to something like chicken kara-age, the flavors seemed richer and deeper.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“The long plate in the top left is salt-grilled ayu filled with rice. Try that with the yuzu miso. Next, in the Oribe bowl, you have the oboro tofu topped with fresh sea urchin. Perfect with a dab of kanzuri chili paste. The blue-and-white porcelain bowl at the end is kumiage yuba—the delicate skin that forms on soy milk. That comes dressed in Tosa vinegar. The glass plate below it is parboiled hamo eel— try that with the plum vinegar or mustard miso, whichever takes your fancy. Next to that, in the steamer, are the squid shumai dumplings. Nice with the sesame paste and a bit of coriander. And to the left of that is the grilled autumn eggplant in a ginger glaze. On the bottom row, the square dish is simmered Omi beef, which goes very well with a dab of the mustard paste. Then you have the Tatsuta-style deep-fried venison, and finally anago eel steamed with a layer of cucumber.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“Finish with a dash of Obuse milk. Wait, there was milk in it?”
“That’s what makes it different from the one at the Silver Diner,” Koishi explained. “Your mother knew how much you loved milk as a little boy, so she always stirred a bit into the soup. Not just any milk either. The local brand you’d grown up with.” She showed him a photo of a carton labeled Obuse Milk.
Kenichi’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I haven’t seen that label in years.”
“It’s a neat trick. Softens the sharpness of the miso,” Nagare commented. “Your mother has chef’s instincts.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“He lifted a slice of thinly cut potato. It was so soft it was on the verge of falling apart, and the instant it touched his tongue it seemed to melt. Its earthy sweetness was balanced beautifully by the savory miso flavor that had permeated it.
At the bottom of the bowl, he could see thin, translucent slices of onion. These, too, had been cooked right through, and practically dissolved in his mouth.
He lifted the bowl and sipped the broth.
“This is it,” he said, the words slipping almost unconsciously from his lips.
The miso was neither too harsh nor too sweet. Its soft, rounded flavor spread gently from his tongue to his throat, then settled in his stomach.
Now his eyes fell on the mound of rice in the indigo-patterned bowl. Taking a strip of the pickled nozawana, he curled it around the white grains and brought them to his mouth.
Memories were beginning to stir inside him. He lifted the soup bowl once more and inhaled the steam. It was the exact aroma that had filled his nostrils on those bleary school mornings.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope

“His late father had loved eel, but their hometown had never had a decent eel restaurant. Even after he fell ill, he would often ask for it, and Kenichi's mother would drive nearly an hour to a place near Zenkoji temple to buy kabayaki, eel grilled in a soy-based sauce. She would slice up one of their own cucumbers, mix it with thin stripes of the eel, and dress it with sweet vinegar before setting it down in front of his father.
Out in the countryside, eel had been a rare and expensive indulgence. He remembered being allowed a single bite, but the faintly muddy flavor of freshwater eel hadn't exactly charmed his taste buds. The uzaku he was eating now, though, felt like an entirely different dish.
He decided to return to the Kyoto vegetables. He took a slice of the onion and ate it plain— and was astonished by its sweetness.
He'd eaten onions all his life, in endless stir fries, stews, and salads. But no matter how they'd been cooked, they'd always just been... well, onions. Sharp, pungent, and never like this. It was as sweet as fruit.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, A Serving of Hope