When someone dies, what do they leave behind besides memories? Their tangible belongings, which help people feel close to the one they lost, all perish with time. In his novel, The Kamogawa Food Detectives, Japanese author Hisashi Kashiwai has managed to do the impossible—create a place where those grieving can meet their deceased loved ones one last time.
Located in a dilapidated building, the space doubles up as an eatery-cum-detective agency, and is run by a father-daughter duo, along with a feline companion. In the space, which is “gloomy but glows with the radiance of a restaurant”, they solve food mysteries, and help the grieving reunite with their loved ones using a dish unique to their relationship.
The novel comprises six stories, all of which flow like poetry, much like the guests who waltz in and out of the diner as seasons change from winter to autumn in downtown Kyoto. As you turn each page, you can’t help but mourn your own losses. Each story is like a soothing balm for a grieving mind, giving the reader hope that one day, perhaps, they can taste the food they shared with their loved one over a date, a taste they remember, but cannot seem to recreate.
The novel’s giant heart beats with more pain than usual when guests return to the diner two weeks after their initial visit to get intel on their lost lovers. This is a meeting that often results in tear-jerking revelations and shocking discoveries. Kashiwai uses the peculiarities of the food cooked by the dead to unveil their unique character traits and how deeply they loved their companions.
Why do Kamogawa’s clients so desperately seek their services? What was about that one-line advertisement in Gastronomy Weekly, which made them flock to a restaurant with no menus or signs? For a husband, it was a bite of Nabeyaki-Udon, which his late wife made. For another client, it was the final visit to her long-lost lover’s grave, with whom she relished a beef stew.
The greatness of the novel lies in the fact that it is as much a love letter to gastronomy and sleuthing as it is a poignant ode to loss. In his pursuit to paint a portrait of love and longing, Kashiwai doesn’t compromise on the two central themes. Instead, he uses them as ingredients that only accentuate the flavour of a dish that already had brilliant bursts of umami.
While food has often been seen as a unifying experience in popular discourse, in Kashiwai’s novel, it is as unique to each cook as their DNA. The book has lengthy, scintillating descriptions of Japanese cuisine—Bento boxes, sardines, rice, Sashimi and desserts —as chopsticks dance from one bowl to another. And, even if the story is hyperlocal, the culinary and olfactory pleasure of the novel is universal. The message transcends space and time, much like the love of those who cook a heartfelt meal for their companions.