YEARS LATER, IN TOKYO, MR. S RECALLS THE TASTE OF KANSAI-STYLE ODEN

HUNDRED WORDS AGAINST SOLITUDE

7AM in Roppongi and I am having coffee with one of the friendly viejos at our local shop — Mr. S.

I don’t speak Japanese and he speaks neither English nor Spanish. We communicate by translating on our phones and holding the screens before each other’s eyes. We talk about nihonshu, about baseball, whether Sasaki Roki will sign with the Padres to join Darvish or go with the Dodgers for the Ohtani factor. He occasionally brings small gifts of fruit or talks about Tokyo in the old days, how Nakameguro, for example, used to be “dirty.” Tomorrow or the next day I intend to show him fotos of the snow that hit Cambridge or the massive coyote that was photographed running near my house.

This morning he asks me if I like oden. After all, it’s that time of year. I nod, typing on my phone. I like it very much, especially toridashi oden.

He laughs and reply-types. I like Kansai-style oden.

Mr. S is in his 80s, tall and very vigorous. Nearly every morning around 5 am, when I’m on the morning half of my daily seven-mile walk, we pass each other; he’s on his own morning push, in his knit cap and gloves, waving vigorously as he steams by. Sometimes he’s with another friend who is not nearly as gaijin-friendly, who always pretends I’m not there.

What is different about Kansai-style oden?

Fingers dance. Lighter broth. Oishi.

He stops for a moment and then resumes typing. My family is from Tokyo but I was evacuated to Kansai because of the war. I was very young.

We sit quietly for a while. Andrea Matranga once joked that there’s no such thing as history — only current events in period costume.

But that’s not really true.

Mr. S— reaches for his knit cap. One last message on the phone.

It is time.