Me Chasing the Ghost of a Late-Night Soba Shop
Me Chasing the Ghost of a Late-Night Soba Shop
Deep in the dead of night. It’s no longer a time of day you can describe with polite terms like 'late night' or 'the small hours.' It’s a time when the city isn't just asleep, but completely 'playing dead.' That feeling like I’m the only one left behind. I started by cursing myself for wanting soba at such an hour. Why 'soba' at this time? Why not ramen? Why not a beef bowl? The mastermind of this stomach terrorism had taken 'soba' hostage, of all things.
No, it’s not just that I want to eat soba; it’s that I want to 'eat soba at a soba shop.' You know what I mean? It’s not about instant noodles from a convenience store. I want soba with steam rising, placed on a slightly fox-colored counter. The shopkeeper saying, 'Here you go.' I need that. I can’t end my day without that. It’s not food; it’s a ritual.
...Or so I say to sound cool, but in reality, I’m just hungry. Yet, all the shops are closed. Of course they are. The decent soba shops close early. They fold up their curtains with dignity, saying 'That’s all for today' before they run out of broth. During the day, I think, 'That’s so cool' about that kind of shopkeeper’s spirit, but to me in the dead of night, that aesthetic is just a curse. I’m hitting that cruel template of life: 'The best shops aren't open at night.'
I open a map app and type in 'soba.' It listlessly brings up a few results. I check the reviews and see 'Business hours: until 10 PM.' It’s already over! What is that 'reference record' kind of display? What I need right now is live information. I want to know if the band is on stage right now, but the app is nonchalantly recommending comments like 'This shop is homey☆.' I don’t care; I don’t need that warmth right now.
I walk. It’s cold.
Doesn't the night air have the shape of 'loneliness' in a way that’s easy to understand? Because there are no people, the air feels too vast. It’s vast, yet I feel like I’m just standing there all alone. The shadow I cast from the streetlights is so thin and unreliable. It feels like my shadow might break before I do.
With that shadow in tow, I wander around like I’m chasing the ghost of a soba shop.
In the distance, I find one shop that still has its lights on. A sign for udon. But there’s also the character for 'soba' in the corner.
...Could this barely work?
It’s not the 'soba I was looking for,' but philosophical excuses pop into my head, like how humans convince themselves, compromise, and shape their lives this way. It’s unfair how these strange realizations just pop up in the middle of the night.
But when I get closer, it says 'Preparing.'
I’m dead.
There are nights when you get killed all over again by a sign.
When I muttered, 'Preparing... preparing for what...,' my own voice was swallowed by the street.
Should I just settle for a beef bowl? Ramen? No, I can’t forgive myself for compromising like that. If I’ve come this far, I can’t betray 'myself who is looking for a soba shop.' What is this nonsensical pride? The middle of the night really creates complicated people.
Before I knew it, I had walked quite a way. In a city where people have vanished, only the light from my smartphone looks excessively white.
That’s when I saw a flicker of light in the back of an old shop. A small sign saying 'Open' was also hanging there.
'Is it... open?'
'It’s not an illusion, right...?'
The moment I stepped inside, I was saved by the smell of the broth.
I sat in a chair. My own voice saying, 'Tempura soba, please,' sounded surprisingly normal. The wandering until just now feels like a lie.
When the soba arrived and I looked at the bowl, I almost cried.
It’s just soba, but because I found it in the middle of the night, it shines like a life-level reward.
I slurp a mouthful. It’s hot. It’s delicious.
The world has returned.
I felt like I had lost, and also like I had won, against this 'simple soba' that had pushed me around so much in the middle of the night.
But well, I’ve come back to life.
So let me say this.
'Dying because you can’t find a soba shop in the dead of night' is not a metaphor.
That is, you really do die once.