There is honor even in food

A mountain of edamame shells was piled up on the table.

Every gaze in the office was fixed on the floor.

Jiro knows.

“For Kuramoto, there is honor even in food.”

“...Jiro.”

Kuramoto's voice is calm. But his eyes are filled with a sorrow deeper than anger.

Jiro stood at attention, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“...Yes.”

“I ran to the field first thing this morning to have these edamame 'picked'—the very best ones. These aren't just beans. They are monsters of freshness whose flavor begins to drop the moment they leave the branch.”

Jiro cannot say a word. The sin of cruelly stealing the 'one minute until perfectly boiled' that Kuramoto had spent two hours determining weighs heavily on his stomach.

“If you miss the boiling time by five seconds, these beans die. What passed through your throat wasn't just beans. It was my two hours of work.”

“...I am terribly sorry.”

Kuramoto traced the empty plate with his fingertip.

“You are the culprit.”

Just as Jiro braced himself and bowed his head, Kuramoto's expression softened.

“...But I will forgive you. In exchange, spend an hour sorting through this mountain of 'shells.' Make sure not a single bean is left behind, not one.”

“...Huh?”

“Listen, these are edamame! They are beans to be eaten, but at the same time, they are a lump of the 'eater's obsession.' If you find even one remaining bean, you lose. I will drink my sake with that bean as a snack.”

Color, in the form of hope, returned to Jiro's face. He immediately plunged his hands into the pile of skins.

"Ha! ...I haven't left a single one."

"You fool. If there were any left, we wouldn't be sitting here facing each other like this, would we?"

Kuramoto picked up a single bean that Jiro had carefully re-sorted with his chopsticks. His touch was as if he were handling a treasure.

(...It was certainly delicious.)

The aroma of freshly boiled beans and the soot-stained wind of the Joban Line drifted through the office.