The Mentaiko That Day Tasted Like Regret: Ganso Hakata Mentaiju (Nishinakasu Branch)

The day I was guided around Hakata by a Tokyoite

I was in a community for writing Kindle books.

There were about seven thousand students. The teachers numbered thirty. I was one of those thirty. Being a teacher didn't mean I was important or anything. It just meant that thirty guys who knew a little bit about writing Kindle books had gathered together.

One day, Mr. Ozora, who lives in Tokyo, decided to come visit Fukuoka.

Mr. Ozora is also a teacher in that community. We have met many times online, but this was only the second time meeting in person. The first time was when I went to Tokyo to appear in a commercial as an AI expert, and he acted as the organizer. That was when I first met Mr. Ozora. Meeting someone in person for the first time is a strange thing; the face you've been seeing on a screen is standing right in front of you in three dimensions, and your brain just can't keep up.

We decided to meet in front of the Angel Post at Hakata Station.

For those who don't know, the Angel Post is a giant heart-shaped mailbox at Hakata Station with a golden angel clinging to the top—a rather peculiar object. It seems to be a famous spot for couples to take photos, but I think a sixty-eight-year-old man and a man in his fifties standing in front of it together makes for quite a sight.

Mr. Ozora appeared looking dashing in an Adidas tracksuit. He was even making a peace sign. I was wearing a khaki knit cap. The weather in Hakata in October was warm enough to go around in short sleeves, but my knit cap is a matter of fashion conviction, so the season didn't matter. By the way, I'm not bald. A rude student once asked me, 'Is there no hair under there?' Since that happened, I refuse to take it off even if it kills me.

Anyway, I had been making plans for this day.

I had been thinking that I should treat the Tokyoite who came to Hakata to some delicious tonkatsu. There are good tonkatsu restaurants in Hakata. Hakata isn't just about ramen and motsunabe.

However.

Mr. Ozora said this to me in front of the Angel Post.

“Mr. Usami, that sounds good, but wouldn't you like to go to the mentaiju restaurant in Nakasu?”

For a moment, I didn't understand what he was saying.

I, who live in Fukuoka, was about to be guided to a Fukuoka restaurant by someone from Tokyo. What could this mean? Having lived in Fukuoka for five years since moving from Tokyo, I didn't even know the restaurant Mentaiju existed.

Perhaps that's just how locals are. This was the perfect example of 'the darkest place is under the lighthouse.'

The restaurant was in Nishinakasu.

“Ganso Hakata Mentaiju.” A white noren curtain and paper lanterns. A calm atmosphere with the warmth of wood. I took a photo of Mr. Ozora giving a thumbs-up in front of the stairs at the entrance. This man is truly good at posing in front of a camera. I've been a photographer for over forty years, so I know for sure.

When we went inside, we were shown to counter seats overlooking a small garden of bamboo and stones. The lighting was dim, and the wooden table felt warm. First, we ordered draft beer. Mr. Ozora was smiling broadly while holding his glass. I was sitting across from him, still wearing my khaki knit cap.

“Cheers.”

The beer was delicious. I always wonder why beer tastes so good in the middle of the day, but I just wonder about it every time without ever finding an answer.

Then, the mentaiju arrived.

The moment I opened the lid, I was speechless.

Inside the Arita-ware lacquer box, Ariake seaweed was packed tightly. Resting on that sea of seaweed was a whole piece of kelp-wrapped mentaiko, lying there with a heavy presence. White sesame seeds were sprinkled over it, shiso leaves were added as a garnish, and shredded chili peppers were tangled around it like red threads.

I thought this was more of a work of art than just a dish.

There was a small container on the side filled with a special sauce, and I was told to pour it over the top. I poured it. I ate it.

It was delicious.

Thousands of times better than tonkatsu.

Well, it's not that tonkatsu is to blame, but the sensation of the popping texture of the mentaiko, the briny aroma of the seaweed, and the sweet and savory umami of the sauce all rushing in together was on a completely different level from tonkatsu. I chose the 'basic' spice level, but even so, the spiciness that gradually spread across my tongue was pleasant, and the rice disappeared in an instant.

Mr. Ozora was watching my face with a smile.

'Right?'

It's not 'right.' Why did a Tokyoite know about this place while I, living in Fukuoka, did not? I had no idea where to direct this sense of injustice. Since there was nothing I could do, I raised my hands and feet and danced wildly to hide my embarrassment. That's a lie.

The conversation flowed.

We talked about Kindle, communities, and the future of publishing. I was already on my second beer. Rolling my chopsticks on the wooden table, we realized we had been talking for nearly two hours.

That was when I told Mr. Ozora about my illness.

I told him that I was losing weight rapidly even though I was eating normally. That I was extremely tired. That it was hard to wake up in the morning. That I didn't know what it was, but I felt like something was wrong deep inside my body.

Mr. Ozora's expression changed.

The gentle eyes that had been smiling until just a moment ago suddenly narrowed sharply.

'Have you been to a hospital?'

His voice was serious.

I absolutely hate hospitals. I hate shots, I hate that distinct smell in the waiting room, and I hate that moment when someone in a white coat tells me, 'Please lie down.'

No, I haven't gone.

I answered honestly.

At once, Dr. Ozora's triangular eyes narrowed even further. I felt a sense of terror that a red beam might be fired from those triangular eyes at any moment and slice me in two.

You should have talked to a doctor before talking to me!

I was scolded.

And I was scolded thoroughly, too. In a refined and quiet restaurant, no less. The customers at the next table were glancing over at us. The contrast between the elegant presentation of the mentaiko and Dr. Ozora's angry voice was staggering.

Dr. Ozora scolded me relentlessly. Even while angry, her eyes were always filled with concern. I knew she wasn't just angry; she was worried. I knew that, but it's hard to say 'I understand' while you're being scolded, so I just stared silently at the foam on my beer.

A few days later, I collapsed.

Sepsis. Diabetes. Nephritis.

My weight, which had been ninety-five kilograms, dropped to sixty-nine. That's twenty-six kilograms. It means the equivalent of one third-grade elementary school student's worth of flesh had vanished from my body. I learned later from the doctor that my muscles had been dissolving.

My blood sugar level was over six hundred. Since the upper limit of the normal range is around one hundred forty, it was essentially like having sugar water flowing through my veins. I lost consciousness.

It was just so cold.

Lying on a hospital bed, wrapped in a single thin blanket, I was shivering. An IV tube was stuck in my arm, a stent was inserted in there, the nurse call button was by my pillow, and the fluorescent light on the ceiling was emitting a dim white glow.

I think it wouldn't have been strange if I had died just like that.

As Dr. Ozora said, I should have gone to the hospital sooner. If I had been any later, I don't know what would have happened. I shouldn't have been eating mentaiju. Not really.

I've written at length, but in short, there are two things I want to say.

One: Mentaiju is delicious. The kelp-wrapped mentaiko sitting in its Arita-ware box is something you absolutely must eat when you come to Fukuoka. The aroma that spreads the moment you pour the special sauce over it makes my salivary glands work at full capacity every time I remember it.

Two: If you feel like something is wrong with your health, go to the hospital immediately. This is no time to be eating mentaiju. It is no time to be consulting with friends. Talk to a doctor first. Dr. Ozora's triangular beam was right.

The mentaiju of that day tastes like regret to me.

It was delicious. Truly delicious. But deep within that deliciousness, the voice of Master Ozora kept echoing, saying, "Are you an idiot?"

Oh my, oh my.

When you're feeling unwell, go to the hospital immediately. Since I'm the one saying it, there's no mistake. That is, if you don't want to end up like me.

Ganso Hakata Mentaiju (Nishinakasu Branch) 6-15 Nishinakasu, Chuo-ku, Fukuoka City Business Hours: 7:00 - 22:30 (Last Order 22:00) https://www.mentaiju.com/



#DeliciousRestaurants

Student's note