A Fleeting Summer

As if gently pulling back
memories of summer,
I take a bite of shinko.

An Edomae delicacy that only appears
for a very short time in early summer;
it never appears
on the conveyor belt of a sushi train.

When was the last time I tasted it?
It is a memory so distant I cannot recall.

A small sushi shop in a back alley,
at a counter with only a few seats,
the chef gave me shinko for the first time.
Since the day he closed the shop and returned to his hometown,
that taste has drifted away from me.

In an era where fish are available regardless of the season
due to advancements that erase time and distance,
the contours of 'seasonal' on our dining tables
are gradually blurring.

At such a time, I entered a local shop I had never been to before,
drawn by a post on social media saying 'Conger pike has arrived.'
As if pulled in,
I opened the door.
Conger pike—if I hadn't seen this,
I wouldn't have entered that shop.
Perhaps that is just how it is.

In a corner of a building near the station while traveling,
I ordered appetizers, had some sake,
and asked for a few pieces of nigiri.
Talking about shinko with the young chef,
he said, 'Today, I have kohada.'
Kohada is placed on red vinegar rice.

The next day,
the shop I intended to visit was closed,
so I sat at the same counter again.

'I have shinko today.'

At those words,
I savor the serendipity.

The nigiri that was served
had a beautiful appearance.

Something you can only encounter
in the briefest moment
on the path to growing into kohada.

The exquisite melting sensation of vinegar and salt,
somewhat nostalgic,
and above all, precious.
I savor
the taste of summer.

In the sky of my travels, I happen to stop by a sushi shop; lamenting the season, I taste the shinko.

In the sky of my travels, I happen to stop by a sushi shop;
lamenting the passing time, I taste the shinko.