Post by Knowledge on Apr 14, 2015 15:49:35 GMT -5
It was midday and the restaurant was bustling with activity, just another high point in the endless cycle of peaks and valleys. After what must surely have been a year out here in Rukongai, Kyousuke imagined he had developed a feel for the ebb and flow of patrons, and today’s prediction had been spot-on.
Nagisa’s indignation—unvoiced but not unnoticed—at his comment about Japanese cuisine had been on his mind that morning, and for once he had decided to spare the denizens of Soul Society something he was certain they considered queer and exotic; the only food on today’s menu was miso soup with soba and an assortment of fresh vegetables tossed in for good measure. A simple enough dish—though perhaps somewhat unorthodox—made all the more appealing by the fact that it cost almost nothing to make, meaning the portions were massive. Still, it wasn’t as though Kyousuke was in this for the money—people were pliable when they were well-fed, and as far as cooking went, it was about time the man who had so reluctantly accepted the pile of duties and tasks dumped in his lap did something he actually wanted to do.
Living out in the sticks certainly had that much going for it: responsibilities were few and far between, and there was an abundance of free time. Some days it felt like every moment he didn’t spend in the run-down living quarters at the back of the restaurant sleeping was spent in the kitchen, creating some new dish to unleash on his unsuspecting guests.
He had spent the morning preparing the soup and chopping what felt like enough vegetables to feed all of Seireitei for a year and a half. The spring chill outside was slowly intensifying, bringing with it intermittent showers, and a steady trickle of souls began to wander in through the front door, eager to fill their bellies with something hot.
The surprise on their faces when they had realized that what Kyousuke was serving today was not only something they recognized, but something that was almost perfectly suited to the weather quickly gave way to satisfaction as coins changed hands and the large bowls were placed in front of them. Kyousuke’s guests were used to an established level of extravagance, and it was not without a certain relief that they lapsed back, if only temporarily, into mundanity, happily slurping up their soba.
Perhaps this was worth repeating once in a while.
The pile of empty bowls grew, but the crowd showed no sign of thinning; every time one group of people radiating contentment left, another took its place, faces whipped ruddy by the wind and hair damp from the rain. Even the windows were starting to fog, and Kyousuke loosened an extra button on his shirt as he wove his way through the tables, picking up dishes and the odd snippets of conversation. It was always like this, and he loved it; the dull roar of a room filled with people talking was like music to his ears, and picking out scraps of information was like listening for each individual instrument in a symphony. When it got to this point, he didn’t even need to engage, not even in idle chatter, to find out what the latest rumors in Seireitei were; his patrons—some of them Shinigami (though he was sure most of them didn’t even know who he was)—did all the work for him. All he needed was an open ear and an excuse to be in the vicinity, and there was no shortage of those given that he was the sole proprietor of the establishment.
By now, the towering stack of empty dishes had reached critical mass, and Kyousuke decided that it was time to tear himself from his eavesdropping and make an effort to stay on top of the situation. He worked through the bowls methodically, and with the rumble of people at their midday meal serving as a backdrop, his mind wandered.
Nagisa had been an unexpected, but not exactly unwelcome visitor, the first since Jasper had dropped by to clear the air a year ago, and with her she had brought new perspective: if someone like Nagisa Chinda knew where to find Kyousuke, there was no doubt there would be others who would eventually find their way to his doorstep, and it stood to reason that not all of them would be happy with just a frank chat.
He rinsed his hands free of soap, a fresh stack of clean bowls now ready for use, and dried himself off as his eyes fell on the door. He wondered who the next person with questions to come through it would be, and he found himself unable to shake the growing feeling that they would be here sooner rather than later.
°809
Nagisa’s indignation—unvoiced but not unnoticed—at his comment about Japanese cuisine had been on his mind that morning, and for once he had decided to spare the denizens of Soul Society something he was certain they considered queer and exotic; the only food on today’s menu was miso soup with soba and an assortment of fresh vegetables tossed in for good measure. A simple enough dish—though perhaps somewhat unorthodox—made all the more appealing by the fact that it cost almost nothing to make, meaning the portions were massive. Still, it wasn’t as though Kyousuke was in this for the money—people were pliable when they were well-fed, and as far as cooking went, it was about time the man who had so reluctantly accepted the pile of duties and tasks dumped in his lap did something he actually wanted to do.
Living out in the sticks certainly had that much going for it: responsibilities were few and far between, and there was an abundance of free time. Some days it felt like every moment he didn’t spend in the run-down living quarters at the back of the restaurant sleeping was spent in the kitchen, creating some new dish to unleash on his unsuspecting guests.
He had spent the morning preparing the soup and chopping what felt like enough vegetables to feed all of Seireitei for a year and a half. The spring chill outside was slowly intensifying, bringing with it intermittent showers, and a steady trickle of souls began to wander in through the front door, eager to fill their bellies with something hot.
The surprise on their faces when they had realized that what Kyousuke was serving today was not only something they recognized, but something that was almost perfectly suited to the weather quickly gave way to satisfaction as coins changed hands and the large bowls were placed in front of them. Kyousuke’s guests were used to an established level of extravagance, and it was not without a certain relief that they lapsed back, if only temporarily, into mundanity, happily slurping up their soba.
Perhaps this was worth repeating once in a while.
The pile of empty bowls grew, but the crowd showed no sign of thinning; every time one group of people radiating contentment left, another took its place, faces whipped ruddy by the wind and hair damp from the rain. Even the windows were starting to fog, and Kyousuke loosened an extra button on his shirt as he wove his way through the tables, picking up dishes and the odd snippets of conversation. It was always like this, and he loved it; the dull roar of a room filled with people talking was like music to his ears, and picking out scraps of information was like listening for each individual instrument in a symphony. When it got to this point, he didn’t even need to engage, not even in idle chatter, to find out what the latest rumors in Seireitei were; his patrons—some of them Shinigami (though he was sure most of them didn’t even know who he was)—did all the work for him. All he needed was an open ear and an excuse to be in the vicinity, and there was no shortage of those given that he was the sole proprietor of the establishment.
By now, the towering stack of empty dishes had reached critical mass, and Kyousuke decided that it was time to tear himself from his eavesdropping and make an effort to stay on top of the situation. He worked through the bowls methodically, and with the rumble of people at their midday meal serving as a backdrop, his mind wandered.
Nagisa had been an unexpected, but not exactly unwelcome visitor, the first since Jasper had dropped by to clear the air a year ago, and with her she had brought new perspective: if someone like Nagisa Chinda knew where to find Kyousuke, there was no doubt there would be others who would eventually find their way to his doorstep, and it stood to reason that not all of them would be happy with just a frank chat.
He rinsed his hands free of soap, a fresh stack of clean bowls now ready for use, and dried himself off as his eyes fell on the door. He wondered who the next person with questions to come through it would be, and he found himself unable to shake the growing feeling that they would be here sooner rather than later.
°809