Tucked away in a back alley just off the station stood a Chinese restaurant called Kōryūen. Marked by red lanterns and a faded noren curtain, it wasn’t flashy by any means, but come lunchtime, it bustled with regulars. This was a place where the “flavors of memory” lived and breathed.
The new manager, Makoto Sano, a chef in his mid-thirties, had recently taken over the kitchen. Talented but perhaps a bit too earnest, Sano had been entrusted with the restaurant by the former owner, an old acquaintance, who had retired due to health issues.
“Don’t change the taste,”
the previous owner had said, handing over a handwritten recipe notebook from the back of the kitchen. The pages were browned in places, stained with oil—but every line was infused with the restaurant’s history and the smiles of its patrons.
Sano prepared each dish according to the recipes, pouring his heart into every plate. The sweet and sour pork had just the right tang—not overly sweet. The fried rice was light and fragrant, and the dumpling skins were handmade in-house. He made no flashy changes, focusing instead on preserving the traditional flavors with care and sincerity.
Gradually, the regulars began speaking to him.
“This mapo tofu tastes just like the old owner’s—so comforting.”
“You’re young, but you get that taste. Impressive.”
Among them was an elderly man who had once visited weekly with his late wife. He always ordered the same thing: seafood yakisoba and a bottle of beer.
“My wife and I used to have little arguments here, then make up on the way home. If the flavor had changed, I don’t think I’d even want to talk about it anymore.”
Sano responded only with a quiet smile, continuing to prepare the yakisoba with care. More than anyone, he understood how this food was tied to precious memories.
One day, a young woman appeared in the kitchen. She was the former owner’s granddaughter and had often played at the restaurant as a child.
“When I come here, I feel like I can still hear Grandpa’s voice,”
she said with a shy smile, gazing at an old photo frame tucked in a corner. It showed Kōryūen on its opening day—the previous owner smiling, and a small version of herself standing beside him.
“This place holds a lot of memories, doesn’t it?”
At Sano’s words, she nodded, eyes narrowing softly.
“But I like the taste now too. I think it’s become… gentler.”
To him, that single sentence was the greatest reward.
Sano wasn’t just preserving the flavors of Kōryūen—he was layering new memories atop them. The sound of sizzling in the wok, the rising aroma, the laughter of customers—all of it became part of this little restaurant’s legacy.
In time, Kōryūen slowly regained its reputation, and even younger customers who had never known the old days began to visit. And they, too, would come with someone special and say, “This flavor feels nostalgic,” even if it was their first time.
