Geric Plankton
I had been plagued by a dull pain and lethargy following consecutive days of drinking and my third gout attack of 2023. Despite taking medication to lower my uric acid levels, this unexpected attack felt like a failure. I was trying to manage the pain with painkillers and drinking plenty of water, but gout attacks are like surprise attacks. It was past 1 pm. The deep blue sky stretched endlessly, with occasional strong gusts of wind brushing coolly against my skin. It was still a bit early to wear short sleeves, but the sunshine was vividly coloring the flowers and trees. Sapporo in this season is undoubtedly the most beautiful and charming city. The Odori Park in the center of Sapporo was filled with office workers who had probably abandoned work and middle school students carrying souvenir bags. As I sat on a bench resting my legs, I suddenly craved soba. "Sobadokoro Daiban" was conveniently close from this spot. Located underground at the Sapporo TV Tower, this restaurant is popular and often has long lines, but personally, I wouldn't call it a great restaurant. When it comes to soba, Yamagata and Nagano dominate the market share, so in Sapporo, it should be ramen. However, the average yet voluminous soba at this restaurant somehow brings back a recurring habit. Among them, the chilled zaru soba (650 yen) is a representative menu, which is a must-have choice in this season. There was no line in front of the ticket machine this time. Nevertheless, I found one empty seat among the almost full seats. I placed my food ticket on the high counter, and the staff promptly took it. In the back kitchen, a large amount of noodles were being boiled. The amount boiled at once was impressive, and if the timing was right, the soba would appear in front of you in less than a minute. However, on this day, the timing was off, and the arrival of the soba took more than 10 minutes, which was a rare occurrence. Various customers silently slurped their soba at the long counter seats. Every customer seemed to be aware of the restaurant's volume beforehand. What appeared from beyond the counter was the same as before. A raw egg placed in the center of the bowl, lime-colored noodles gently enveloping it, and chopped cucumbers and tempura placed on the side. Nothing had changed. I added chopped green onions and wasabi to a small dish, cracked the raw egg, sprinkled some shichimi pepper, added color to the arrangement, and slowly poured the dipping sauce over the noodles, lifting the firm noodles and slurping them down in one breath. There was nothing exceptional about it. There was no sense of awe. It was just an ordinary soba. What stood there was the memory brought by the chilled zaru soba I first had. Taking out change from my pocket and heading to this restaurant, enduring the line, and slurping down the voluminous soba - that memory was truly a salvation. Over twenty years had passed since then. Even now, I found it strange to be eating the chilled zaru soba at this restaurant. However, I probably wouldn't choose it as my last meal. With each slurp of soba, memories of those days resurfaced. Days of struggling with work, trying to pull dreams closer as they drifted away like the ebb tide, and fragments of those days. I no longer had the physical strength or passion I had back then. I kept slurping the noodles silently, as if drawing in something I had forgotten, as if pulling in something I had given up on, just to keep drifting away from the past once again. It was approaching 2 pm. Even at this time, a new line had formed. As I turned my back on the restaurant, avoiding the stares of the customers in line, and distancing myself from past memories once again, I limped away from the restaurant...