Tuesday, October 27, 2026 : Part of What Is
© 安岡喜晴 (JoyShine)
At night, we went to a restaurant on Kitakoji Street.
Kyoto machiya lined the street, and between them, a light.
As if drawn by that light, we headed for the wooden gate between the machiya.
Through the gate, a narrow stone-paved path stretched on toward the back.
Beyond the door at the end, seats were lined up along a counter.
For drinks, we went with ginger ale made with natural water from the town of Nose.
The first dish to come out was seared wagyu in a thick lotus root sauce.
A lotus root has many holes.
Spaces where there should be nothing are part of its shape.
"Not there" doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
What isn't there is also part of what is, the lotus root teaches me.
Next, beef tataki.
The tataki was topped with fig.
A fig bears its fruit within, its flowers never visible from the outside.
But that doesn't mean it has no flowers.
The flowers really are blooming, inside the fruit.
Then, a small rice bowl with sirloin and takuan.
Takuan is daikon that has gained a different flavor over time.
Time pushes things into the distance and makes us forget them.
But there are also things that are only born once time has passed.
Next, a bowl of beef shabu-shabu soup.
Takuan takes a long time to change.
Beef shabu-shabu changes in just a few seconds.
It doesn't always take a long time to change a life.
Then, a tenderloin sandwich.
Not meat alone, not bread alone, but one dish.
The ingredients are still the same, and yet, when they come together, a flavor that wasn't there before is born.
After that, beef tempura.
It changes its form to fit the outside world, while holding something inside that doesn't change.
Compared with ten years ago, my body, my way of thinking, and my experiences are all different.
Even so, I'm still myself.
And then, a roast beef salad.
If I try to savor the roast beef, the vegetables take the supporting role.
If I try to savor the vegetables, the meat takes the supporting role.
The dish itself hasn't changed. What has changed is the way I'm looking at it.
A white sherbet, like snow.
From the moment it touches the ground, snow is destined to disappear.
But just because it melts away doesn't mean it never fell.
Lasting forever is not the only proof that something existed.
The last dish to come out was pear gelato.
The seasons never go back from winter to autumn.
But on a plate, they can.
We can't bring back time itself once it has passed.
But we can once again meet the time that has passed.
The meal may be over, but that night goes on in my memory.
Maybe an ending is the place where experience begins to turn into memory.