Mondays can get crazy busy

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Get ‘Papa’ on a good night at our local izakaya and he’s the most charming man.

On a bad night, when the customer orders just keep coming and when he likely imagines perturbed eyes on him waiting for his next dish to come up, he does that click/snap sound with his tongue. Then, even worse, there follows an audible sigh.

Tchk…hhhhhhh.

The click is a shock. But it’s the sigh that worries me. It drips with exhaustion. He is the only person cooking at this izakaya.

I hope it’s simply exhaustion with tonight, with the volume of orders. But could it be an exhaustion with life itself? The exhale of a tiny 70-something man who 41 years ago opened his own establishment which by any measure is a success. Yet is it all now simply draining?

In a larger izakaya, you’d never hear it. That click-and-sigh would be held back from us in a closed kitchen, or at least muffled by the overall evening din.

But get one of the counter seats here and you’re within three feet of the man and his tiny slot-like kitchen space…which is no more than a stained aluminum counter and a few burners. He’s pacing left and right, in perpetual motion like a juggler, slicing fresh sashimi, watching chicken wings begin to smoke on the grill, turning shrimp tempura in boiling oil, and forming onigiri with his wettened cupped hands.

He takes a quick gulp of water. An intricately sliced and delicately presented abalone drizzled in ponzu pops onto the counter. Two plates piled high with hand-made tempura follow right behind.

“Another order of eggplant and miso for Morimoto-san,” Mama calls out from the main room just steps away.

Tchk…hhhhhhh.

It’s guilt inducing. I’ve seen customers actually gaze down into their laps when he does it. Sometimes they look out of the corners of their eyes at each other, wince, and make silent expressions that seem to say, “We didn’t want to be a bother…”

You get to feeling it would be best not to order that next plate of fries. Who knows, you might be the guy who finally pushed the old man past the brink. The one to get a rubbery squid tentacle flicked in your face. Followed likely by way more than a sigh.

Don’t get me wrong. On good nights when the orders are more drinks-heavy—Mama’s responsibility—Papa is mostly beams of light. He has a twinkle in his eye, almost St. Nick like, and a natural boy smile that leaps to his face.

I’ve noticed he likes to jump into customer conversations just when you don’t expect. Last Tuesday was like that.

Ma-chan, a 37-year old divorced guy, had just told his mate that his current live-in lady expects small gifts when he comes back from seeing his friends…even after something simple like a bowling night. “I had a girlfriend like that once too,” rosy cheeked Papa interrupted, popping his face over the counter into a conversation nobody knew he was listening to.

“I realized I couldn’t afford her,” Papa continued uninvited. “I married her instead.” He giggled and chin-pointed toward Mama who was pouring three mugs of draft.

Glad he did, I thought. Mama is the only thing that keeps this izakaya humming, fun, and friendly. If it were Papa alone or with some random staff hires I’m sure we’d have Tchk….hhhhhh every night.

The other evening Toru and I were at the counter. The joint was packed and orders were flying. Papa was just starting into the sighing. His granddaughter then came in with a guy who we all had to assume was her boyfriend.

He was a “dude.” He looked to be about 19 I’d guess, three or so years older than granddaughter. He had a lip piercing, a few neck tats rising out of his tee (were they flames?), and some rings on his fingers. I wouldn’t say he was Emo, as he looked fairly alert and wasn’t wearing black. His hair was bleached.

A memorable sight in our little neighborhood let’s just say.

We know granddaughter from a few years ago. She had been roped into counter-and-drink duties a few times when her older brother—an incredibly useful kid who seems to have the restaurant business in his blood—was unavailable. Unfortunately, granddaughter does not have the same skill set. I remember for instance teaching her what sake is and how it is poured correctly into a customer’s glass.

So a few nights ago she plopped down at the counter two stools down from us, and the beau sat to her right. Not really reading the room, they ordered about five dishes and a few beers, and there it came.

Tchk….hhhhhh.

After only a few sips of their beers, granddaughter rose from her stool and made her way behind the counter to help Papa with some simple dish construction. She must have been wordlessly signaled by Mama that her throat would be slit open right then and there if she didn’t jump to it.

No complaints. She moved to the fridge to begin removing a few needed ingredients, and she backed Mama up with some beer pours at the tap. Her date, to his credit, piped up, “I can help. I am happy to! I worked in a joint in Shibuya.”

Papa shut that down immediately. “No thanks. Enjoy your beer,” he said. Then he hhhhh’ed again.

I asked Toru for another sake. We do this when Papa and Mama are under the gun, and she more than allows it so she can continue focusing on the rush from others in the main room. Toru moved to the floor fridge, lifted the bottle of sake out, and poured me a fresh one.

“Mama, Jack is having another sake. Make sure to add it to our bill!” he yelled.

Mrs. Itoma was leaving the pub, and like she often does on her way out, she stopped to chat. I call her “Mrs. Itoma” even in Japanese. She seems to like the oddly bestowed western-ness.

I’d say she is in her early seventies. She always dresses funky, and well. I think her clothes cost a lot. Her slim-fit trousers and poofy designer blouses look just right with her short bob haircut. She has a lower-register raspy voice, kind of like a Cher who smokes and drinks, and looks like a woman who never really slowed down in life. She’s off-and-on hospitalized with this and that, but climbs right back up on the horse, so to speak, each and every time.

Mrs. Itoma is a landlady, she lives on the ground floor of a 15-unit apartment building that’s on property that belonged to at least her great grandparents. She goes out to eat every night. “I don’t cook. Never have,” she laughed dismissively when I once asked if she ever whips something up at home.

I’ve never seen her drive, but Toru says he has seen Mrs. Itoma tooling around in her bright yellow 2020-something VW Beetle—convertible of course. He says she wears big Marlo Thomas ‘That Girl’ sunglasses and a long silk Mitsukoshi scarf when behind the wheel.

She told us that when she was younger she was an early purchaser of the Mazda Miyata. “It was hot pink with an Alpine AM/FM in the dash,” she says with the smile of a lady who has never behaved. “The thing ripped.”

She looked toward the exit. “Gotta run. I’m off now to an unagi spot my friend has always wanted to show me. It’s in Hatagaya.” She was already a bit unsteady on her feet from Lemon Sours, so I wondered how she would get all the way out there.

“Take a cab ne,” I said. “By the way, Murata-san was saying he tried the unagi place next to the station here. He said it was 30,000 yen a serving.”

“Murata?! That old toad?”

“Uhhhh yeah. He says it was pricey but well wort—”

“Now, that’s why I really hate that guy,” she cut me off. “Murata is such a huge liar. All full of bluster and bragging, and he doesn’t have a yen to his name. Trust me, the guy has never stepped into that restaurant. He is bust.”

I love Mrs. Itoma, but I have to say I never know when she herself is truthful. She’s an infinitely interesting whirlwind of a lady, but something tells me half of her own tales may be concoctions—who can say?

The rush passed, and granddaughter was back sitting at the counter with her dude. I suppose Mama wordlessly relieved her of the part-time duty.

I wondered what granddad and grandma felt about her date that night. Something tells me they really don’t care either way—correctly perceiving it as an issue (or not) for their son to sort within his own family. I also think Papa and Mama have seen a lot being in the evening pub business—a kid with blonde hair and a lip pierce dating their granddaughter can’t be that great of a mind blow.

I noticed Papa was now schmoozing with a friend of his who had joined the counter. They talked of a new bar that had opened across the highway in Hatsudai. “We need to go sometime. Gimme a shout about 9PM someday you want to go—we’ll close up here and let’s go together,” Papa said to his mate, all smiles.

I saw the opening. I ordered a grilled rice ball for Toru and I to share. Papa beamed and said, “Hai!”

There was no click, no sigh.