Listening to stories of old-fashioned coffee shops and crunching ice at Komeda

"Jun-Kissa Torunka" by Satoshi Yagisawa / Audible / Narrated by Miki Itakura. A series of stories where people come and go, one by one, at a coffee shop in a back alley of Yanaka.

I am listening to Jun-Kissa Torunka.

I liked the story of Chiyoko-san's first love. I was listening while walking, and halfway up a hill, I stopped in my tracks at a line that seemed like nothing at all. It doesn't describe the details of the first love. It just conveyed that an emotion, which should have ended a long time ago, still held its warmth. Miki Itakura's voice remains quiet until the end, never pushing. While being waited for so gently, I was affected by it on my own. Even after I finished listening, it remained in the back of my ears for a while.

There is one troublesome thing about this book. When I listen to it, I get an irresistible urge to drink coffee. The kind brewed at Torunka. That hot coffee, with beans ground, steam rising, and poured into a white cup. My ears crave it. Before I know it, my feet are heading in that direction.

And so, I arrived at Komeda.

It is not an old-fashioned coffee shop in Yanaka, but a chain coffee shop. It is completely different from that shop in the book. But the desire to drink coffee was real, so I thought, 'Well, that's fine,' and went in.

I ordered an iced coffee.

This was the biggest discrepancy from the book. Even though I was longing for a steaming cup in my ears, it is hot in Nagasaki. My sweaty body could not accept hot coffee. What came out was a cold drink in a heavy, barrel-like mug, packed with ice. What I longed for, and what I had in my hand. They were completely different, but after one sip, this was correct in its own way. I crunched one piece of ice in my mouth.

I also ended up ordering a fish burger.

A piece of fried white fish with a square slice of cheese sliding off it, and underneath, a generous amount of shredded cabbage. It is quite large for a side to a coffee shop coffee. When I take a bite, the breading is still warm, and only the cabbage is cold. I found it a bit funny that I was eating a fish burger with a big mouth while ruminating on Chiyoko-san's first love in the back of my mind. The story is sentimental, while reality is a burger in both hands.

After I finish eating, I leave my seat before all the ice at the bottom of the barrel mug melts.

It is still hot outside. In my ears, the bell on the door of Torunka rings again, and the next customer enters. I am curious about the rest of the final volume, so I will probably walk up the hill on my way home while listening to it.