The Burmese Manager and the Pickled Plum Sour

At a popular tavern in front of JR Yoyogi Station, my friend Uesugi was asking for extra pickled plums. In her hands were two glasses. Both were filled to the brim with shochu and soda, and at the bottom, a plum pit, still clinging to its loose, jam-like flesh, sat quietly.
Whenever we go to a red-lantern-style bar, we always order a pickled plum sour. On this day, too, we finished our first drinks quickly and immediately ordered refills. I told the staff, 'Keep the glasses as they are. Please put the next pickled plum sour in here,' but there was no sign of a new plum.

Looking at her second drink without a plum with dissatisfaction, she said as if she had just remembered.
'I wonder how the manager is doing.'

***

Uesugi has been my friend for 20 years. After moving to Tokyo, we hit it off because we both loved to drink, and we started meeting up every week. Back then, our base camp was Fudomae. I lived in Nakameguro and she lived in Hatanodai, so we would meet at the halfway point, Fudomae, to share a drink.

And that was where I found my very first 'regular' spot.

The place was located about a two-minute walk from the Fudomae Station ticket gate toward Gotanda. The exterior was generally dark brown. On the front wall sign, the word 'Izakaya' was written in large, bold white letters, seemingly in sumo-style calligraphy. In the evening, the lanterns and the shop sign would light up, and the yellow noren curtain would flutter.

The name of the shop was 'Kaminari' (Thunder). It was written with the kanji for thunder but read as 'Pika' (the sound of a flash).

Pika was a popular tavern loved by the locals. The interior, which wasn't very large, was always bustling with nearby office workers and families. The shelves on the walls were packed with bottles kept by regular customers, which spoke to the shop's popularity.

I don't remember my first visit, of course, because I was drunk. But I do remember firmly vowing, 'I will definitely come back again soon.'

For nearly ten years after that, we continued to frequent this shop.

Although I try to sound like a connoisseur, I still get stuck for words if asked what Pika's specialty was. The 'Today's Recommendations' whiteboard always had over 30 items, ranging from snacks to rice dishes. They were all dishes that hungry drinkers couldn't resist, such as 'Natto Tempura,' 'Chinese Cabbage Pickles,' 'Tuna Cutlet with Cheese and Shiso,' 'Anchovy Potatoes,' and 'Fried Rice.' By the way, Pika's cold dishes were served with a mound of sliced onions, and their teppan dishes came with a heap of red pickled ginger, which was a nice touch that slightly eased the guilt of overeating and overdrinking.

There were also plenty of seasonal vegetables. When the 'Nanohana (rapeseed) Ohitashi' disappeared from the recommendations and was replaced by 'Mizunasu (water eggplant),' the humid summer would arrive. In winter, we would order our favorites, 'Cod Milt Tempura' and 'Cod Milt Ponzu,' and rejoice in a feast of cod milt.

The reasonable price of around 500 yen was also a blessing for us in our twenties on low salaries.
However, there were some exceptions. Among them, the 'Steak,' a luxury item costing over 2,000 yen, was our dream. We would gaze at those characters written on the blackboard closest to the ceiling with the same feeling one might have looking at a household altar.

The person running Pika was a Burmese man. As the hired manager, he was affectionately called 'Taisho' (Manager) by the customers. When an order came in, the manager would respond with a spirited 'Coming right up!' and work his magic in the kitchen alone. When it was busy, he would give quick instructions to the foreign staff and handle the orders brilliantly. The way he would send customers off with a grin, saying, 'Thanks as always, come back again!', was exactly what a tavern manager should be.

When I found out the manager was Burmese, it all made sense. The staff who occasionally spoke in a language I didn't know were all his compatriots. The handwritten lunch menu had a certain charm and effort to it, with kanji that were strangely angular or occasionally missing okurigana.
I remember one time the manager told me that the A4-sized embroidered map displayed in the gap between the kept bottles was of Myanmar. Looking at the map, where each region was stitched in different colors, I feel like he said, 'I haven't been back at all, though.'

I learned about the pickled plum sour at Pika. Uesugi, who loves plums, got hooked first, and I followed suit. Pika's pickled plum sour had one bright red pickled plum and a token amount of red shiso on top of the shochu and soda.
We would carefully sink the plum with a muddler so the carbonation wouldn't overflow, and enjoy it while breaking it up. Even after finishing one drink, the flesh remained, so we didn't bother changing the glass. We would add more plums or not, depending on how it tasted, and keep refilling for a second or third drink. This was our style of drinking pickled plum sours.
The manager would always ask at just the right time, 'Need a plum?' We would answer energetically, 'Need a plum!' so it could be heard in the kitchen. The manager would reply, 'Coming right up!', pick a plum from a plastic container, and drop it into our glasses. Complaining about whether the plum was strong or weak, we would always talk until closing time and leave the shop in high spirits.

On my 27th birthday, Uesugi pulled off a surprise at Pika. She had entrusted a whole cake to the manager and asked him to bring it out at the perfect moment.
Suddenly, the lights in the shop went out, and when it became pitch black, the customers started buzzing. This was a dark brown tavern. No one expected to encounter a stylish birthday surprise. Like the office worker next to me, I thought, 'A power outage? That's rare.'
Guided by the light of a candle, the manager came over to me, singing 'Happy Birthday to You.'
The shortcake on the white plate was surrounded by cute carrot flowers. He must have carved them during a break because he thought just the cake would be too plain. I laughed with tears in my eyes at the miraculous encounter between whipped cream and raw vegetables.

When drinking at Pika, the night would pass in the blink of an eye, time would fly, and we passed our thirties at the speed of light. Uesugi got married, became a mother, and got divorced. No matter how many years passed, and no matter what state we were in, the manager would always send us off with a smile, saying, 'Thanks as always, come back again!'

Pika is no longer in Fudomae. It closed suddenly a few years ago.

Pika was our youth. The frustrations with power-harassing bosses and the dark clouds hanging over our love lives would clear up as soon as we ate our fill of the manager's cooking and drank alcohol. Neither of us talked about anything significant, but no matter how much we talked, the conversation never ended. The manager always watched over us gently as we laughed, cried, and got angry, all with a pickled plum sour in hand.
The ten years spanning our thirties are incredibly dizzying. Environments, communities, and titles change rapidly. Each time, we have to be confused, sometimes get hurt, and somehow survive by adapting. That's why it was so reassuring that Pika remained unchanged. Thanks to that place, we can now look back on those turbulent days of our twenties with affection as our youth.

***

'I hope the manager is doing well.'

When we drink a pickled plum sour, we miss the manager. Pika's pickled plum sour is a normal one you can find anywhere. If you want to drink one, you can go into any tavern around here and drink almost the same thing.

It's just that for us, there is no one left who worries about the state of our plums.

The place that used to be Pika has turned into a completely different, neat little restaurant. I visit Fudomae from time to time, but the chef is no longer there to be seen heading out to Maruetsu for groceries. Perhaps he is not in Tokyo anymore, but somewhere on that embroidered map.

I love pickled plum sours. But I suspect that from now on, every time we drink one, we will feel just a little bit lonely.

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