Dinner with the Fam (Part II)

Whenever I’m feeling a little sabishii in this impersonal city, I seek out my parents for camaraderie and home cooking. My Otosan and Okasan, that is. They own Daruma restaurant. Daruma is a rare inviting place in a land where I constantly play the intruder. Jerry, another gaijin patron, said it best: “This is one of the few places that foreigners aren’t just tolerated, but are welcomed.”

I approached the glowing red lantern. Something was amiss. Where was Otosan? I always run into him before entering the restaurant. From his doorstep perch he flags down the regulars walking along the alley. They require no beckoning. Like conditioned animals they know where to find food, and habitually have done so for 5, 10, 15, or 20 years. Few females penetrate this good ol’ boys atmosphere. The wood paneled interior and cigarette haze clouding naked bulbs ooze masculinity.

Hicca, another familiar face, has also vanished. Her increasing duties at the radio station have forced her to abandon her part-time post behind the counter. Naaoki (“Now”), her 38 year-old replacement, refills customers’ glasses while sipping his own draft beer. His signature style includes overalls and a Slice trucker cap to keep his dyed golden brown hair from covering his eyes. Now’s casual style fits well with Daruma’s no frills service. I spotted Now ashing into the sink soaking plates. Later he filled sho chu glasses with chunks of ice that had splintered onto the floor.

With Hicca gone, Jerry restored my bilingual lifeline. This native New Yorker is as much of a regular as anyone else on a stool. He feels so at home that he lobs scallion stalks into the garbage behind the counter. “It’s the one good thing I do for my body,” he said of his nightly plate of vegetables. A kindergarten teacher by day, Jerry is a chef at a sports bar he co-owns in Shinjuku 3-chome. He’s the size of an industrial refrigerator at his restaurant, or 10 times that of one of his students. His recently shaved head adds to his unmistakable presence.

The stools flanking me are both occupied, but a man relocates himself so that the two English speakers can chat. Jerry’s arrival enabled me to catch up on family affairs; the language barrier had really kept me out of the loop.

Otosan was in the hospital. Liver cancer. My stomach churned at the news. He’s been battling the disease for some time and undergoes periodic checks, but is slowly losing the pitched battle. “The Old Man,” as Jerry calls Otosan, gave up smoking years ago, but occasionally hits the bottle. I recalled his flush nose and cheeks on prior visits. Although beyond 70, his heart remains full of generosity even though his mind sometimes misses a beat.

Such as the time when I ordered ika malu (grilled squid rings). Otosan removed the white creature from the freezer, only to put it back and select a larger one. Instead of unwrapping the plastic and popping my meal into the oven, he placed it on a stack of empty crates next to the oven. 10 minutes later, with a small gesture, I politely reminded him to turn up the heat on the box.

Daruma’s aura wasn’t the same without him. Miles Davis was silent. Absent were toothless grins, friendly pats on the back, and announcements that I was an English teacher…and looked like Tom Cruise. “The first thing I notice when he’s gone is that the prices go up,” Jerry dryly stated. “The Old Man’s been discounting my meals for 15 years. Probably yours, too.”

That leaves Okasan in charge. “Ma” on occasion has welcomed me with a free sampling of edamame, sashimi, or carrots in fluffy paste. “She’s got a real mean streak in her,” Jerry warned, signaling for another beer. Ma hangs on to her husband’s bygone habits and also mooches off customers. She catches her breath from cooking to inhale a cigarette with a businessman before moving down the line to help herself to a swig of a customer’s beer. She freely fingers a cuttlefish tentacle from my neighbor’s plate. Nobody complains. We’re all family at Daruma, even the white overseas relatives.

More shocking news: the family tree has to be redrawn. Otosan and Okasan have two daughters, but Hicca was not one of them. Jerry’s revelation saved me the embarrassment of expressing concern over Hicca’s ailing father, who I should have realized is far too old to be her father in the first place.

Daughters include Masa, who is on her second husband, and Aya, who works only Fridays. Masa’s makeup is a pleasant feminine touch amid a grimy interior. Aya, however, radiates beauty. She’s a former supermodel. A picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger pecking her on the cheek hangs on the wall. According to Jerry, the parents used to “pimp out” their daughters to lure male customers. Their flirtatiousness was a proven recipe to drive up drink tabs. But those days were a few husbands ago. Aya since “has put on some pounds,” and is a married mother.

I popped bite-size kawa ebi (river shrimp) into my mouth. It was 22:30, and customer traffic had switched to a net outflow. Jerry and I continued to talk. He mentioned how he lost his own Japanese wife a few years ago, but didn’t want to dwell on it. 22 oz. bottles of Sapporo piled up between us, which Jerry corralled to his side to indicate they went on his tab. He was in a generous mood after settling a lawsuit with a cab company. Three years ago, while waiting on a corner, a cab maneuvering close to the curb to pick up a passenger crushed his ankle. The settlement wasn’t as much as he had hoped for, but he risked not getting one Yen if litigating.

We bid farewell to the family as the plastic wall clock struck 23. Ma was on her last cigarette, and ready for a good night’s sleep. “You interested in some debauchery?” Jerry asked, mounting his bicycle. The night was young. “Go down to the end of this block, turn right, and then make your first right. Wait for me there.” “You mean just right over there?” I said pointing to the supermarket straight ahead. “Don’t point! Just meet me there,” he scolded. The darkness of evening was just a Silhouette…[to be continued].