Chapter Text
Onigiri Miyas
Knock yer socks off good food by Chefs Atsumu Osamu Atsumu and Osamu Atsumu Osamu
Kiyoomi takes in the sign, written in chicken scratch scrawl, with its childish history of competition illustrated by the number of times the chefs’ names have been erased and/or crossed out to put one before the other. There is another sign next to it that says “Real sign coming soon!” that appears to be at least a few years old.
He looks down at his planner, with its long list of restaurants to visit and review. Motoya had worked tirelessly to create this list, calling countless small towns to ask for local gems, trawling every possible review website. “The big newspapers only ever go to the same places, the Michelin-establishments. We gotta showcase the little guys, Kiyoomi.” Kiyoomi, who had spent most of his career at Tokyo Shimbun reviewing Michelin-starred restaurants, had made a snide remark about how happy he was to leave a well-paying job to start a doomed food revolution, but had accepted the list anyways.
Taking out his phone, Kiyoomi calls the only number in his contacts. Motoya picks up immediately.
“Why have you sent me to the middle of nowhere to review what appears to be the most dysfunctional restaurant in Hyogo? Oh and by the way I’ve only just seen their sign so far.”
“Good morning to you too, Kiyoomi,” Motoya answers. Kiyoomi hears a shuffling of papers, Motoya already at his desk at 6:30 AM.
“So you’re at Onigiri Miyas now? I was hesitant at first because it had pretty mediocre reviews, mid 3s mostly, but if you dug into the reviews themselves, all the bad reviews were about service. All the reviews about the food were glowing.”
“Service matters, Motoya.”
“I called the neighboring towns, and people immediately said Onigiri Miyas when I asked for recommendations. Like across the board, Onigiri Miyas is the place to go if you’re a local in the area,” Motoya continues, ignoring Kiyoomi. “One of the reviewers said he travels five hours every first Saturday of the month for lunch and considered moving from Tokyo to Osaka to be closer.”
“Anybody can write a review on these websites, Motoya. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the chefs wrote that himself judging from the ample personality displayed on their signage.”
“Just eat lunch and then you are free to leave,” Motoya sighs, “Give it a chance, Kiyoomi. Inagawa is supposed to be beautiful this time of year. Why are you up so early, anyways?”
“Sun woke me up. No one’s heard of blackout curtains in this town.”
“They’ve never had to host a vampire before, I suppose. What are you going to do for the next couple of hours?”
“Contemplate what I was thinking when I quit Tokyo Shimbun to freelance for your online newspaper where I get paid a quarter of what I was to be forced to travel to bumfuck nowhere.”
“I pay you in good will and kindness and Inagawa is twenty minutes from Osaka.”
“Like I said, bumfuck nowhere.”
“Alright city boy, be nice to the country folk, get some fresh mountain air to clear out your cobwebs and moisturize your dry, cracking skin. I’ll talk to you later.”
When Motoya hangs up, Kiyoomi looks up again at the signs and lets out a deep sigh.
“Sorry, we ain’t open yet.”
Whirling around, Kiyoomi stares at the man who had materialized behind him. He’s dressed all in black and holds two large sacks, one in each arm, muscles straining under the apparent weight. His hair is bleached blonde with a darker undercut, and he has fixed a curious gaze on Kiyoomi, eyes light brown, almost golden in the early morning sun.
“I’ll… come back later,” Kiyoomi says.
“Visitin’? Or new in town?” the man asks.
“Visiting,” Kiyoomi mutters.
“Ah, well, nothin’ really to see here until the overpriced tourist traps start openin’ up. You could go to Inagawa Observatory, but it’s a hike.” The man’s Kansai accent is heavy, but not as grating on Kiyoomi’s ears as his seatmate’s on the train to Inagawa the previous night.
“I’ll just go back to the inn,” Kiyoomi says, praying the man will just let him go.
“You eat breakfast yet?” the man asks.
“I… haven’t,” Kiyoomi replies.
“Come on in then,” the man continues, brushing past Kiyoomi and opening the door to the restaurant with his foot.
“Oh, no, wait,” Kiyoomi says, flabbergasted, “I’ll just come back when you’re open.”
“Samu, we have a customer,” the man yells, “Get the fuck up.” He looks over his shoulder at Kiyoomi and gives him a lopsided smile. He drops the bags of rice on the ground with a thump, then flips the sign on the door from Closed to Open.
“We’re open,” he says, turning on the lights, “Welcome to Onigiri Miyas.”
---
The inside of Onigiri Miyas is small, but tidy. Kiyoomi’s restaurant brain immediately begins to analyze the flow of the seating, whether the number and types of tables and chairs have been designed to maximize turnover. The restaurant’s main focus is a long bar, and Kiyoomi can see workstations set up in full view of anyone sitting there. A bold choice, with the chefs under constant surveillance. He frowns when he thinks about customers’ spittle coming into contact with the food, but then he sees that a raised glass barrier has been erected to prevent this, so clean that Kiyoomi didn’t even notice it until he saw the reflection of the lights. Kiyoomi can’t dock them any points for hygiene. Yet.
“Samu,” the man yells again.
Kiyoomi hears thuds and then another man emerges from the back. Apart from the hair color, a normal black, the man is a doppelganger of the first. The man rubs his eyes and yawns, and Kiyoomi feels even guiltier for his impromptu arrival.
The “Samu” man stares at him, then looks at his brother, and Kiyoomi can tell they are having a long, unspoken conversation that involves a lot of glances toward Kiyoomi, who is feeling suddenly very bedraggled and out-of-place.
“I really should come back during normal business hours,” he says, preparing to make his exit.
“I’m Miya Osamu, that idiot is Miya Atsumu. You’re joinin’ us for breakfast, and we won’t take no for an answer.” Osamu puts on a nearby apron and moves to wash his hands at a sink along the bar. “What are ya feelin’ for breakfast? We were gonna make buckwheat pancakes, but we can do somethin’ else.” Atsumu joins him behind the bar, washing his hands at another sink, sneaking more looks at Kiyoomi who begins to wonder if he has a clump of sunscreen on his face.
“Pancakes are fine,” Kiyoomi says, watching as the twins wash their hands methodically, getting under the fingernails and on the tops of their thumbs, parts of proper handwashing that are normally skipped. Many people would assume that chefs understood the importance of clean hands, but Kiyoomi had spent enough time behind the scenes in kitchens to know that wasn’t the case.
“What’s yer name?” Osamu asks.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he replies.
“Sweet or savory, Sakusa-san?” he continues, pulling out various containers.
“Savory.”
Atsumu groans. “Another one of ya. Savory pancakes should be illegal. Pancakes are supposed to be drowned in syrup and whipping cream. Maybe a few strawberries, but just for the pretty colors. Samu always wants to add sundried tomatoes and herb butter and shrooms, which makes it a fuckin’ pizza, not pancakes.”
“Shut yer trap, Tsumu. The way you eat pancakes, you might as well just drink straight from the syrup bottle. The sweetness from the pancakes is elevated by the salt, ya dumb pig,” Osamu replies.
As the twins bicker loudly, Kiyoomi begins to see why Onigiri Miyas gets less-than-stellar reviews for service.
Despite their snipes, however, they work seamlessly together. As soon as Kiyoomi had said “savory,” Atsumu, even with his grievances, had added another bunch of chives and handful of mushrooms to the ones he had already put on the cutting board, and swiftly chopped them, placing them in a bowl that Osamu slid his way without being prompted. Atsumu, on a separate cutting board, had then begun working on thinly sliced strawberries, before taking out another bowl and adding what looked like an unnecessary amount of heavy whipping cream.
“You’re usin’ too much salt,” Atsumu moans when he looks over at Osamu preparing the batter.
“I’m addin’ what Ma told us. You have a problem with Ma’s recipe?” Osamu glares back. (He hasn’t been using any measuring devices, so Kiyoomi doesn’t know how he can be so certain. Neither twin has.)
“Ma says my pancakes are fluffier than yers,” Atsumu sniffs.
“Go get me some eggs. I’m tired of hearin’ ya complainin’.”
“I’m busy.”
“And get some buttermilk from the fridge while yer out there.”
Groaning, Atsumu puts down his bowl and stalks away.
“Ah shit, I forgot to tell him to grab some tahini too. Be right back, Sakusa-san,” Osamu sighs. And then he disappears as well.
Kiyoomi, suddenly met with blessed silence, takes a few calming breaths. He looks down at his watch, which tells him that only fifteen minutes has passed since he called Motoya, rather than the entire week his body is telling him he’s spent in Inagawa. It’s only seven AM, and Kiyoomi is exhausted enough to crawl back into bed for the rest of the day. He briefly contemplates sneaking out and getting on the next train back to Osaka. But the twins have already made a three-person (perhaps even more than that) portion, and Kiyoomi hates to waste food. He’ll have breakfast and then leave, telling Motoya he gave Onigiri Miyas a chance at a meal.
He gets off his seat and wanders around the restaurant, taking in the décor.
It’s eclectic. There’s a newspaper article from ten years ago where Onigiri Miyas is mentioned in a tiny paragraph about new restaurants opening in Inagawa. A picture of two onigiris with faces drawn by either a child or an artistically-disinclined adult. A framed 1,000 yen bill with the caption, “the first time Sunarin actually paid us for a meal.” A photo of the twins standing in a rice field with another man. Both grin wildly at the camera, while the man in the center has on the tiniest of smiles. A photo of a high school volleyball team, in which Kiyoomi can see both twins front and center, Osamu with his hair dyed grey. He leans closer to read the school name. Inarizaki. Kiyoomi has a sudden memory of the red and black uniforms, the annoying school band, the ambiguous black banner displayed on the opposing stands. But he doesn’t recognize the twins. He checks the date of the team in the photograph and realizes they are a few years younger than him.
Yelling informs Kiyoomi that the twins are returning, and he heads back to his seat.
“Sorry for the wait, Sakusa-san,” Osamu says, “Vabo-chan 2 didn’t give us any eggs today so we had to go steal some from Aran.”
“It’s because you haven’t been giving her enough compliments,” Atsumu says, “Beautiful gal needs more love.”
“Or you forgot to feed ‘em yesterday, ya dumbass.”
Kiyoomi marvels at the tiny eggs sitting in a small bowl on the counter. He can’t remember the last time he saw fresh eggs used in a restaurant, most unwilling or unable to sustain the volume needed unless they were raking in money like the Michelin omakase restaurants in Tokyo. His mouth begins to water when Atsumu heats up two skillets, and Osamu finishes making the batter.
They make pancakes at the same time, arguing over which is better, though Kiyoomi is certain they are identical in size and height. The twins work quickly, piling up stacks of pancakes on three plates, Atsumu pausing every few pancakes to add a dollop of cream, splash of syrup, or spread of butter between the layers. When they’re finished, Osamu works on the savory pancakes, sautéing mushrooms, making what looks like a tahini chive spread, while Atsumu piles his plate with whipped cream and then spends an inordinate amount of time artfully placing strawberries on the stack. It seems like a lot of work for his own breakfast, but Kiyoomi can appreciate the attention to detail when Atsumu frowns and moves a strawberry two centimeters to the left.
When they finally finish, they carry the three plates to a table and beckon for Kiyoomi to join them.
“Welcome to Inagawa,” Atsumu says, picking up his fork and looking eagerly at his plate.
“Gonna get us some juice. Start without me,” Osamu says, “Orange juice okay for you, Sakusa-san?”
“Just water, please,” Kiyoomi replies. When Osamu gets up, Atsumu puts his fork down immediately, looking forlornly at his pancakes while he waits.
“He said we could get started,” Kiyoomi points out.
“I can’t start eatin’ till Samu is here too,” Atsumu says, “Feels all wrong.”
Interesting, Kiyoomi thinks, watching Atsumu shift in his seat, even sitting on his hands as he licks his lips. Finally, Osamu returns with three glasses. As soon as he sits down, Atsumu begins eating, or more accurately, shoveling pancakes into his mouth. Osamu gives him a disgusted look, before essentially doing the same. The twins are silent as they eat, too busy chewing for any more arguing.
Kiyoomi looks down at his plate with its generous amount of food. Picking up his fork and knife, he cuts a piece, making sure to get a bit of everything onto his fork, and puts the bite in his mouth.
---
When Kiyoomi was young, he ate a perfectly healthy, if not particularly inspiring, balanced diet of fruits, vegetables, carbs, and protein, always made in the Sakusa family kitchen. “You will live to 200,” his mother had told him, “The studies all show that the traditional Japanese diet is perfect for longevity. You never know what kind of nonsense they put in restaurant food.”
Then, when Kiyoomi went to college, Motoya had taken him to a restaurant for the first time, an experience that Kiyoomi dreaded. “This place is my absolute favorite. It’s run by this ancient couple from Kyoto. A hidden gem in the middle of Tokyo. You’ll love it.” As Kiyoomi looked over the menu, the frown on his face grew at the unfamiliar dishes, panic welling in his chest when he thought about fat content and sodium intake. Motoya had apologized to the waiter profusely when they still hadn’t ordered after half an hour, Kiyoomi absorbed in looking up each dish on his phone.
Finally, the owner had come to their table, a smile on her face. “I’ll make you something off the menu,” she had said, “A dish I feed to my great-grandson on his birthday every year.” Too polite to decline the personal offer, Kiyoomi nodded. When she placed a huge bowl of oyakodon in front of him, Kiyoomi had stared at her, questions about calorie count and oil quantities on the tip of his tongue.
“It’s good for your soul,” she said, putting a hand on her heart, and then shuffling away.
Kiyoomi had eaten the entire bowl, continuing past the point where his stomach ached, and Motoya had been too kind to make fun of him for a few sniffles. Each bite was more heavenly than the last, dashi, soy sauce, mirin on pillowy rice, tender chunks of chicken, silky eggs, contrasting with the crunch of green onions and the unconventional bursts of sweet corn scattered throughout.
The restaurant had closed a few weeks later when the woman passed away. Kiyoomi never ordered oyakodon again, too terrified that it wouldn’t live it up his precious memory. He became a restaurant critic when he graduated university, writing each of his reviews with a bowl of oyakodon, food good for the soul, on his mind.
---
After finishing his breakfast, Kiyoomi sits at the table, contemplative. It had taken him longer to finish his meal, and the twins had left him alone at the table with their apologies. Kiyoomi can hear them in the kitchen, Atsumu’s sing-song voice and Osamu’s softer tone. After barely an hour with them, Kiyoomi can already tell they are two wholly distinct people who nevertheless work like a dream together.
“It’s good for your soul.”
He stares at his plate, scraped clean, and considers the simple mushroom. Prone to becoming rubbery if cooked for too long at the wrong temperature, but dangerous if not cooked enough, the taste of raw mushroom an unfortunate one despite its prominence in sad salad bars. These mushrooms were perfect, flavorful umami bombs with a delicate sear. He also could not find any fault with the pancakes. Despite buckwheat’s finicky tendency to become tough, the pancakes were fluffy, with consistent air bubbles that soaked up the bit of syrup and tahini sauce that paired well together. Each bite had been a blessing. The twins had made a flawless meal for their own breakfast, with the air that this kind of food was commonplace for them. Neither of them had asked Kiyoomi what he thought, as if it was assumed that the breakfast would be good.
Kiyoomi thinks about oyakodon again. About tiny restaurants on small streets. About food good for the soul.
“Want anythin’ else?”
He looks up to see Atsumu hovering nearby, hands stuffed into his apron pockets.
“Just the check,” Kiyoomi says.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Atsumu replies, waving him away.
“I insist,” Kiyoomi frowns, “I am a customer, so I am going to pay.”
“I kinda dragged you here,” Atsumu says, slightly sheepishly, “And Samu and I were happy to have company. It sucks having to eat with just him all the time.”
(They hadn’t said a single word to each other all through breakfast, too absorbed in eating).
“It was a delicious meal. This is a restaurant. I will be paying,” Kiyoomi says, pulling out his wallet.
“Samu, a little help,” Atsumu calls, and Osamu appears beside him.
“Omi-kun keeps tryin’ to give me money,” Atsumu whines. Kiyoomi, shocked at the sudden nickname, can only stare.
“Tsumu made ya come here,” Osamu says, “And we were happy to have ya. Having meals with just this loser is a drag.”
Kiyoomi almost laughs at the identical comments, but he’s still struck mute by “Omi-kun.”
“The fact that you practically licked the plate clean is payment enough,” Osamu continues, picking up Kiyoomi’s plate. Kiyoomi flushes at this.
“It was very good,” he says.
“Of course it was, the Miyas made it,” Atsumu laughs.
“I really wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving without paying,” Kiyoomi says.
“Tell yer friends about Onigiri Miyas,” Atsumu winks, “And come back to see us again, how’s that?”
“I’m only here for the day,” Kiyoomi says hesitantly.
“Come back for lunch then. You can’t leave Inagawa without trying some of our onigiri,” Osamu says.
“I’ll… come back for lunch,” Kiyoomi says, “And I will tell my acquaintances.” Acquaintances being the thousands of people who read his reviews, his following still loyal even after leaving Tokyo Shimbun.
“We’ll save a seat for ya,” Atsumu says, lingering after Osamu returns to the kitchen, giving Kiyoomi a happy smile as he leaves.