mijobooks Chapter 60 I Don't Want to Eat Cold Bento Anymore
Chapter 60 I Don't Want to Eat Cold Bento Anymore
A piece of fried pork cutlet, thickly coated in flour and already cold, was thrown into the trash can with a dull thud.
The solidified white grease on top looks like a layer of wax, and just looking at it makes your stomach churn.
"It's this kind of thing again."
Kitahara Shin pressed his aching stomach against a vending machine in the corridor of Fuji Television.
After returning to Tokyo from the location shooting in Ehime Prefecture, the crew immediately entered a hellish studio shooting mode.
In order to meet the deadline, Da Liang wished he could split one day into two, so the food standard for the whole crew was downgraded to the same old cold lunchboxes served on set.
For idols who are still growing or whose job is simply to look cool, this might be tolerable.
But for an experiential actor like Kitahara Shin, who undergoes intense "personality reshaping" in every scene, a lack of calorie-rich food is a disaster.
Playing "Kanji" requires constantly suppressing one's true nature and maintaining a lukewarm, sluggish state, and this mental strain is extremely physically demanding.
"Splash!"
A pot of hot corn chowder rolled down.
Kitahara Shin picked it up and applied it to his face, which slightly relieved the dizziness caused by low blood sugar.
It was already 2 a.m. when we finished work.
His stomach felt as empty as a black hole. At times like this, the cold, hard rice balls from the convenience store would only make him feel more nauseous.
"Let's try our luck at that store."
Kitahara Shin started the car.
In his memory, there was an old restaurant called "Yoshokuya Ogawa" in Azabu-Juban. The owner was a stubborn man. No matter how noisy it was outside, his restaurant was always open until 4 a.m., just to leave a hot bowl of braised beef for the night shift taxi drivers in the vicinity.
The car drove through the bustling Roppongi district and turned into the relatively quiet old street.
However, reality dealt him a heavy blow.
The sign that I remember always had a warm yellow light is now completely dark.
The shop's roller shutter door was tightly closed, with a piece of white paper pasted on it. The black calligraphy on it looked rather glaring under the streetlights: "[This shop is closed today. Thank you for your patronage over the past forty years.]"
The surrounding walls were sprayed with red "demolish" characters, the most common graffiti during the bubble era.
"Am I too late...?"
Kitahara Shin patted the steering wheel with some disappointment.
Just as he was about to reverse and leave, he saw a figure squatting next to the roadside garbage collection point in the corner of his headlights.
It's that boss.
He was wearing a faded chef's uniform, without a top hat, and his sparse hair was a little messy from the wind.
There was a half-empty bottle of sake at my feet.
He squatted there quietly, holding an old newspaper in his hand, wrapping a dark kitchen knife layer by layer.
His movements were slow and meticulous, as if he were wrapping a stillborn child in a shroud. He would wrap one layer, smooth out the wrinkles, and then wrap another.
Finally, he sighed and, with trembling hands, placed the wrapped knife into a blue plastic bag labeled "Non-combustible waste" at his feet.
That moment of desolation was more glaring than any hysterical outburst.
Kitahara Shin turned off the engine, opened the car door, and got out.
The wind was cold on the winter night, carrying the distinctive dusty smell of a demolition site.
"Boss."
Kitahara Shin took a few steps closer, speaking softly so as not to disturb the deathly silence, "Still not packed up?"
The old man paused for a moment, then slowly raised his head.
By the light of the streetlamp, Kitahara Shin could see his wrinkled face, puffy eyes, and cloudy gaze.
"Closing up?"
The old man gave a self-deprecating twitch and pointed to the roller shutter behind him. "It's all gone. Completely gone. This land is going to be handed over tomorrow. I heard they're going to build one of those all-glass office buildings. This perfectly good place is going to be turned into a bunch of cookie-cutter companies... Oh well, it has nothing to do with this old man anymore."
"And what about these knives?" Kitahara Shin asked.
He kicked the blue garbage bag at his feet, and a dull metallic clanging sound came from inside.
"There's nowhere to put these scrap metal pieces back in the countryside, so it's better to let the scrap collectors take them."
"Is that knife also scrap?" Kitahara Shin asked, looking at the garbage bag.
"Nobody uses it anymore, it's just junk."
The old man grabbed a sip of sake from the ground, coughed twice from the spiciness, and said, "My apprentice thought the kitchen was too hot, so last month he went to work as a real estate agent in Ginza. He's right, who among the young people these days wants to hold a knife? It's so much faster and more enjoyable to make money holding a phone receiver."
"Boss, since it's scrap, why not sell it to me?"
Kitahara Shin squatted down, showing no disgust at the dust on the garbage bag.
"you?"
The old man paused for a moment, squinting as he sized up the young man in the trench coat with an air of distinction. He had no recollection of him ever being in this shop before, given how many customers he served. "Young man, this is a knife for killing fish and cutting meat, not for cutting cakes. Your hands don't look like those of someone who works in a kitchen."
"I can cook."
Kitahara Shin looked at the old man. "Besides, this knife must have a lot of meaning for you, right? If you throw it away like trash, it's truly dead. But if you give it to me, maybe it can still chop a couple of onions tonight."
[Found Equippable Items (Life Skills - Special)]
【Item Name: Discarded Chef's Knife from Midnight Diner】
[Status: Silence Abandoned by Time (Blade intact, but its spirit extinguished)]
【Special Effect: Healing Atmosphere of Home (Passive)】
Note: It's not that it's broken, it's just that in this age of frantically chasing money, it can't find anyone willing to hold onto it.
The old man stared at Kitahara Shin for a long time.
That look in his eyes was like scrutinizing ingredients, or perhaps scrutinizing people's hearts.
Finally, he bent down and pulled the knife wrapped in newspaper back out of the blue garbage bag.
"Take it."
The old man handed over the knife, his voice a little hoarse, "Don't give it money. Giving it money would be an insult. Just don't leave it in a corner to rust."
Kitahara Shin accepted it with both hands.
Even through the thick newspaper, you could still feel its heavy weight.
"Thanks, boss."
He took the still-untouched can of hot corn soup from his pocket and placed it beside the old man's cold hands.
"Warm your hands."
……
It was already 2:30 a.m. when I got back to the apartment.
Kitahara Shin took off his coat, washed his hands, and walked into the open kitchen that he hadn't used much since moving in.
He unpacked the layers of old newspapers.
A black Japanese-style cleaver was revealed.
The handle was worn shiny, and there was even a trace of oil left on the blade—a mark left from the old man's last maintenance of it.
There were a few eggs, half a bag of onions, a bowl of leftover rice, and some ketchup that I had bought to practice making for a film shoot in the refrigerator.
Kitahara Shin placed the knife on the cutting board.
With a slight movement of consciousness, the icons in the system bar lit up.
[Equipment: Midnight Diner's Abandoned Chef's Knife (Activated)]
[Special Effect: Healing Atmosphere of Everyday Life (Activated)]
The moment I gripped the knife handle, an indescribable sense of familiarity flowed through my entire body from my fingertips.
He felt as if he had been standing in that small shop filled with the smell of cooking oil for decades.
"Tap, tap, tap."
The sound of the onion being chopped became exceptionally rhythmic; each cut seemed to sever the pent-up anxiety in the air.
As the blade cut through the fibers, a spicy yet sweet aroma wafted out.
Heat oil in a wok.
Melt the butter, sauté the onions, and stir-fry the rice.
Flames rose up, illuminating Kitahara Shin's slightly tired face.
Ordinary ingredients seem to be awakened with a soul under the high temperature and the "blessing" of that knife.
The aroma wasn't overpowering, but rather like a pair of gentle hands, softly caressing the already shriveled stomach wall.
Finally, there's the egg crepe.
The egg mixture is poured into the pan, and the fried rice is poured over it the moment it is half-set, with a gentle flick of the wrist.
A perfectly shaped omelet rice rolls onto the plate.
Kitahara Shin carried the plate to the table, sat down, and used a spoon to cut open the egg skin.
The half-cooked egg liquid slowly flowed, coating the red fried rice.
One bite.
Sweet and sour, caramelized, and tender.
The warm liquid slid down my esophagus, filling not only my stomach but also seemingly putting my heart, which had been hanging in suspense because of acting, to rest.
"call……"
Kitahara Nobunaga let out a long sigh and slumped back in his chair.
The brain becomes relaxed and soft again.
Five minutes later, the plate was sparkling clean.
Kitahara Shin stood up and put the plate in the sink.
The water flowed over the porcelain plate, making a splashing sound.
After washing the dishes, he picked up the knife, carefully wiped the water off the blade with a dry cloth, and then carefully inserted it into the knife holder.
The dried knife blade, illuminated by the warm yellow light of the kitchen, appeared calm and gentle.
He turned off the kitchen light and glanced at the script covered in red lines on the coffee table as he passed through the living room.
A faint aroma of butter lingered in the air.
Surrounded by this aroma, the persistent pressure on set finally dissipated completely.
Kitahara Shin walked into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.
In less than ten seconds, even breathing sounds filled the dimly lit room.