"...Daikon."
"It's been simmering for about three hours. I think it's soaked through to the core."
Ms. Tono picked up her chopsticks. Her hand paused, just for a moment. As if something from the day still lingered in her fingertips.
Then she split the daikon. The chopsticks sank right in. No effort needed. From the cut halves, the broth it had been holding came welling out. Steam drifted up softly.
She took a bite.
Ms. Tono closed her eyes.
It wasn't really chewing. The daikon was coming apart on her tongue, broth and all. That was how she ate it.
"...Oh."
A small voice slipped out.
"...Why..."
Ms. Tono's voice was wavering.
"Why is this so... I haven't eaten anything today. I skipped lunch too. The whole time, I kept thinking, forget it, I don't want anything..."
I sat down across from her. I didn't say anything; I just sat there.
"The client said... 'It's just not quite right.' That's the third time. The third 'just not quite right.' I ask what's wrong with it, and there's no answer. But they want a new proposal first thing Monday morning."
The hand holding her chopsticks was trembling.
"Nobody ever says anything I make is good. Never. Not once."
Ms. Tono took another bite of daikon. This time, she ate a little more hurriedly than before. As though her hunger had finally caught up with her body.
"After pulling an all-nighter, my head was all foggy. On the train, I almost missed my stop over and over. And on the walk home from the station, I just, I couldn't even tell anymore. What was I working this hard for, again?"
She split the hanpen with her chopsticks. Steam puffed up softly.
"But when I opened the front door. Komugi was there. And it smelled so good."
Her voice loosened, just a little.
I lifted the sake flask and poured sake into her cup. The steam from the hot sake rose between us.
"Have a drink. You don't have to think about anything else tonight."
Ms. Tono cupped the sake cup in both hands. She took a sip.
A sigh slipped out of her. I could tell the strength had gone right out of her shoulders.
"...It's warm."
"Yes."
"Your oden, Mr. Manager... it's not fair. When I'm this worn down."
For the first time, Ms. Tono smiled, just a little.
Then another bite of daikon. A bite of beef tendon. The half-set egg, broken apart into the broth. The soft yolk melted into the liquid. She scooped it up and brought it to her mouth. Each time something warm landed in her empty stomach, I could see Ms. Tono's outline loosening, little by little.
"...The beef tendon is so tender."
"It's been parboiled three times. When you get rid of the gamy smell, this is what happens."
"That's a lot of work."
"I have time on Fridays."
Ms. Tono let out a small breath of a laugh.
"Someone who spends three hours simmering oden for somebody else on a Friday night. You could search the whole world and you'd only find you, Mr. Manager."
Another cup of hot sake.
All the while, I just topped up her sake now and then. Not asking anything, not trying to cheer her on.
When she'd eaten about half the oden, Ms. Tono set down her chopsticks. Still holding her sake cup in both hands, she said, as if it had spilled out of her:
"...I feel like I won't be able to live without your cooking, Mr. Manager."
After she said it, as if she'd only just realized what she'd said, Ms. Tono's cheek twitched slightly.
"Ah, no, what I just said, um..."
She hurriedly drank down the rest of her sake. Around her ears, she had turned a color that wasn't only from the alcohol.
"...That was the sake talking. Please forget it."
"All right."
I tilted the flask and poured her another.
"There's more if you want it. There's still daikon in the pot, too."
Behind the steam, Ms. Tono gave another small laugh.
That night, Ms. Tono didn't collapse in the entryway.
Instead, she came into the living room with an oddly steady step and sat properly on the sofa. Her back was straight. That, if anything, worried me more.
"Welcome home. You're early today."
"Yes. It was a wrap party, so."
Ms. Tono set her leather tote gently at her feet. From the convenience store bag in her hand, she took out a can of highball and a pack of snacks.
"We won the pitch. The project I was in charge of."
"Well, congratulations."
"Thank you."
Ms. Tono popped the tab of the can. It opened with a hiss, and she took a sip.
"It took six months. More all-nighters than I can count. It finally went through."
Despite her words, there was no warmth in her voice.
I'd started back toward the kitchen, but I stopped. At the far end of the living room, sitting in a dining chair, Ms. Tono's profile looked terribly tired under the fluorescent light. It wasn't the face of someone who had won.
The snack pack had chicken gizzards in it. The convenience store kind, on skewers. Ms. Tono put one in her mouth. I could tell from the movement of her jaw as she chewed that it had gone cold and tough.
"...Um," I said.
"Those gizzards, if you like, shall I heat them up for you? We've got some good ones in the house."
Ms. Tono looked up.
"No, these are fine—"
"I'll have one more drink with you."
Ms. Tono was quiet for a moment. Then she lifted her can and nodded.
"...Please."
I went and stood in the kitchen. I took raw gizzards out of the fridge. When I'd stopped by the butcher's this morning, they'd had good ones in. I shaved off the white sinew with my knife and split them open. That crunchy texture is decided by this prep work.
Gizzards are almost entirely muscle. Low in fat, high in protein. That's why they're just right with drinks. The crunch keeps you coming back the more you chew. Whether that comes out at its best or gets ruined all depends on the heat.