Chapter 3 So What if I’m High-Maintenance Potato Salad #5
“Did you mention that you and Akira had been together?” Hozumi leaned in and asked.
“I considered doing that as I was getting ready, but I thought of a better way to get my revenge.”
Makiko gave a chuckle and held her phone out to us with a triumphant smile.
“You look stunning!”
What I saw on her phone screen was the most beautiful sight of Makiko I had ever seen. Tastefully dressed in a blazer, white shirt, and a pair of jeans, her understated style complemented her features.
And next to her was…
“Is that Akira?” It was the famous artist, wearing a stiff smile on his face. “What exactly am I looking at? I can see that you look gorgeous, but…”
“Aren’t I? I was a big hit with the people Akira works with.”
“You talked to them?”
“Of course. I gave them my business card. In fact, I did a lot of networking with potential customers. There were some big names there, so maybe my bar’s sales will go up.”
“You’re one tough cookie,” commented Hozumi.
Akira would have had to tread very carefully in that situation. Makiko had seized the opportunity and promoted her bar. I was so impressed. Picturing the scene, a giggle escaped me.
“And what did you do with his things?”
“I got a big Sembikiya bag and filled it with all his belongings. I handed it to him and said, ‘Here you go, Nagayama-san. Please take a look later.’ ”
Makiko pulled her lips into a mischievous grin.
“So the people who work with him must have thought…”
“Who knows? I went straight home, so I don’t know what happened after that.
But it must have just looked like I had brought some fancy cake from Sembikiya for everyone there.
While they were all happily saying things like ‘Wow, Sembikiya? You’re spoiling us!
’ Akira just stood there, completely frozen.
When I saw him like that, I wondered if I had gone a little too far. ”
Makiko’s shoulders dropped for a moment, but she quickly shook her head.
“But,” she added, “it wasn’t like I lied to him. So we’re kind of even, aren’t we?”
Adachi the butcher looked over the menu for the umpteenth time.
“When will you add Makiko’s potato salad?”
The windows at Amayadori were bathed in the warmth of the afternoon sun. As usual, the Three Couponeers were here. All wearing T-shirts, the gentlemen now appeared to have switched over to their spring closets.
“I decided to make it a seasonal dish. You have to be patient and wait until the Destroyer potatoes are in season.”
“Destroyer? You mean Makiko’s other name?”
“No, actually. It turns out that the meaning of ‘Makiko the Destroyer’ wasn’t so literal. It was referring to the name of a potato variety.”
When she taught me the recipe, Makiko told me that her potato salad tasted the best when you used a potato variety called Destroyer.
As implied by its name, these potatoes have a sinister look to them.
They are marked with red patches, reminiscent of a pro wrestler’s mask, hence the name.
After comparing many different varieties, Makiko fell in love with the rich, full-bodied flavor, so much so that for a while she even contemplated growing them on her veranda.
In the Kanto region, Destroyer potatoes aren’t a common variety.
Unlike Danshaku or May Queen potatoes, they’re rarely distributed in the markets unless it’s early summer.
One night, after Makiko kept on shouting “I want some Destroyer potatoes!” at the bar, one of her customers drunkenly started to call her “Makiko the Destroyer.” From then on, the nickname took on a life of its own, and that was apparently how rumors of “Makiko the Destroyer of Sangenjaya” began to spread.
“I suppose we’ll have to wait until the summer then,” Adachi said resignedly.
“It just means we have one more thing to look forward to,” said Kimura.
His skinny arms reminded me of a willow tree as he unrolled his hot hand towel and used it to wipe his face.
“I’ve already decided on the name of the dish, though,” I said, setting down their coffees. At that moment, the bell rang out dimly.
“I’m back. I made the deadline!”
It was Iori. Earlier, he had left the café in a hurry after telling us that he needed to get to the public office to submit the financial paperwork he’d pulled an all-nighter working on.
It seemed that he had made the deadline just under the wire.
His attire was clearly the last thing on his mind—he was dressed in that worn-out I Love NY T-shirt and sweatpants, and his bangs were swept back with one of those hair clips you use to section hair.
Seriously? He went to the public office looking like this…?
Sure, Iori had a good face, and that gave him the power to pull off most looks, but this was not one of them.
Iori collapsed into the sofa. I poured him a glass of cold water and handed it to him.
“You must be tired.”
Iori drank the water in one go.
“That’s better! There was extra paperwork this year, what with Momo-chan joining, there was insurance and stuff that needed—” Iori stopped mid-sentence, noticing something. He stared at the Three Couponeers in wide-eyed astonishment.
“What are you wearing? I mean, your T-shirts…” Iori said. “Are they the same as mine?”
“They’re from Momo-chan. Very good, aren’t they?” Adachi boasted, showing off the I Love NY logo printed across his chest.
“Wait, yours are in a better condition than mine.”
Pulling the bottom edge of Adachi’s T-shirt, Iori compared it with the one he was wearing and became indignant.
I had forgotten that I’d bought more than one T-shirt while in the U.S. I discovered them deep in my closet, still sealed inside the plastic packaging they came in.
In the end, I decided to throw away all things related to Kyohei. The letters, the photo albums. I even deleted the pictures and videos saved on my phone. Once I had removed all traces of Kyohei, it felt as if a part of me had disappeared.
“Wait, is that how I look? Do I really look that tacky?”
Iori seemed to have realized for the first time just how tacky he looked. He started to throw a tantrum about it. It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept all night.
I remembered the last thing Makiko had said to me that night:
“Thank you, Momo-chan. I’m glad. I’m glad that I am letting myself be a ‘high-maintenance woman.’ I’m glad I let myself break down into tears, and that I got to act immature and take revenge. I realized that, whatever your age, there are times when you have to let yourself be needy.”
One day, I might remember how I howled and wailed over one little breakup. I might look back and think how foolish I had been, and say “I was young then.”
Even if I do become adept at handling the things life throws at me, when I do get my heart broken, or if I break someone else’s heart, I’ll remember to howl and wail. To go through the pain. To ask for help.
Watching Iori and the men continue to argue in my peripheral vision, I pulled out a pen and wrote on a sticky note:
New Dish!! So What If I’m High-Maintenance Potato Salad
I attached the note to the calendar hanging next to me.
The warm sun shone over the four men dressed in super-tacky T-shirts. Just the sight of them made me crack up.
The bell over the door tinkled.
“Hello…a glass of ice cream soda, please.”
“Hi there, Hozumi. You won’t believe what Momo-chan did—huh? Are you seriously wearing that? Momo-chan, you set us up, didn’t you?!”
Oops. Now there were five.