Rice Cooker Revenge – Chapter 8

RYU

“Gah!” I yell, jumping back from the rice cooker. The lights in the kitchen flicker as a flame leaps from electronics panel on the front, quickly melting the plastic and spewing acrid smoke into the kitchen.

The Chef spins around, dropping his phone on the floor in shock, his mouth wide open. I dart past him towards the fire extinguisher near the stove. I yank the canister from its holder and aim at the rice cooker, pulling the trigger and dousing the top in foam. Once the flames are out, I reach over to unplug the cord from the wall.

“Oh nooooo.” I sigh, my hands falling to my sides. My friend! What the hell am I going to do now? Its last words were “Find me and fix me?” and how am I supposed to do that? I tentatively touch the lid and open the top. The lid and bowl inside are still fine. Only the front electronics panel fried in the fire. I wipe a finger across the electronic read-out and press my hand to its front. Cold. “I think the fire’s out.”

The Chef stands mute, looking between me, the extinguisher in my hand, and charred rice cooker.

“Damned thing,” he breathes out before huffing. “I’ve only had the thing for seven years. I thought they were supposed to last ten.”

My temper rises so fast, I’m blinded by rage. “Well, if you stopped mistreating it so often, maybe it would last longer.” I push past The Chef and hang the extinguisher back on the wall. “You’ll need to get the extinguisher charged back up again.” I reach for my coat near the door.

“Wait! Wait, Ryu. Stay for your shift and I’ll pay you tonight.”

I pause with one arm in a sleeve. “You actually want me to stay today? After accusing me of stealing from you and then getting ready to call the cops on me?”

The Chef’s lips flap and he burbles before he picks his phone up off the floor. It is sadly not damaged. “You could be a little more grateful for all I’ve done for you.”

“All you’ve done… for me? For me?” I finish putting my coat on. “You’ve done nothing for me but pay me less than minimum wage, off the books, with no health care costs, and no breaks. You didn’t even let me actually do my job, which was supposed to be a ‘trainee,’ someone you train in how to make what the restaurant makes. I’ve been here two years, and you only ever let me touch the rice. You’re despicable.”

I walk up to him and put out my hand, proud of myself for standing up to The Chef but terrified of what may come next.

“You can pay me now for this week and I’ll leave without calling the cops on you and informing them of all the health codes you violate every day.”

The Chef’s face flattens into an impenetrable shield, his eyes scrunching down until I can’t see them at all, they’re buried under folds of flesh.

Stalemate. Who is going to break first? It certainly isn’t going to be me. I’m too poor to back down. I need my wages or I won’t eat this week. Just thinking of food makes my stomach grumble. I didn’t eat breakfast today to save money for lunch.

“Fine,” The Chef huffs between his lips and his features return to normal. As he turns to walk away, I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief before looking at the rice cooker. I’m sorry, my friend. I have no idea how to take you with me, unless…

“Here.” The Chef yanks open the safe in the wall behind the desk and counts out cash on top of his books and papers. “This is what I owe you for the week. Don’t come back here,” he says, shoving the cash at my chest. “Not even to eat. If you do, I’ll call the cops and tell them what happened here.”

“Fine,” I say, recounting my earnings.

“What? You don’t trust me?”

I glance up through my bangs. “No. And you owe me for today.”

“I do not.”

“I saved your kitchen from catching on fire. At least have the decency to pay me for the day.”

“Fine.” He counts out a few more bills and shoves them at me. “Now go.”

I fold the bills and stuff them into my back pocket, turning and walking from the kitchen, never to look at it again. I may be poor, but I have enough pride to not give a shit about losing a crappy job.

Outside, I take a deep breath of the morning air, grab my bicycle and walk it to the end of the alley, chaining it to the fence around the corner and out of sight from the kitchen’s back door. I nod at the old woman who lives next door to The Chef’s restaurant and she smiles at me.

“Nice day, Ryu, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is. Any day that starts with freedom is a nice day.”

She laughs and waves her hand at me, not having any idea what I’m talking about. I lean against the wall, waiting, my arms crossed over my chest. About ten minutes later, just when my hunger is about to get the better of me, I hear the kitchen’s back door squeaking open, grating across the concrete outside. I peek my head around the corner in time to see The Chef emerge from the door with the busted rice cooker. He opens one of the large, blue dumpster bins and drops it inside before dusting off his hands and heading back in.

I break into a sprint, run down the alley, lift the lid to garbage can, and fish out my friend.

“There we go. I had a feeling he was going to throw you out.”

The rice cooker doesn’t respond, and I frown, sad it’s so silent after so many weeks of chattering my ear off. Pera pera, pera pera, pera pera, all day long.

I hoist the rice cooker up under my arm, take it to my bike, and strap it to the back.

I need to figure out some way of fixing it.

—-

I arrive home to an empty apartment. My brother left the same time I did and I don’t expect him home until late. We never see each other except on the weekends, anyway. My brother is lucky he has a job that only asks him to come in during the week. I, on the other hand, have never been that lucky. Also, when the work day is done for my brother, he gets to go drinking with his workmates. When my work day is over, I collapse into a heap and fall asleep. There are real advantages to being a salaryman.

I set the rice cooker down on the coffee table in our tiny living room slash my bedroom. I sleep here at night. When I come home, I pull my futon from the closet, lay it against the bare wall, and crash. In the morning, I get out my ancient laptop (also a hand-me-down from my brother), read the news, return emails from friends around the world, check in on social media, and browse job openings. Lately, I’ve been dreaming about going back to school, enrolling at a university and getting a real education. I was thinking I could learn accounting or something, and then I’d be able to work almost anywhere.

But now I have no job and my only friend for the past few weeks is a burnt-out piece of machinery that reeks of singed plastic.

I’m too hungry to do anything so I microwave up a cup of ramen noodles, slicing up some frozen fish cake for protein. It’s a cheap meal, lacking in any kind of nutrients or fresh vegetables, but it’ll have to do until I can get back on my feet again. My brother is going to be pissed when I ask to borrow money again. I sigh, plopping down on the floor to eat next to the table and rice cooker. Maybe I can keep my jobless state from him for a few more days.

“Let’s take a look at you and see what the hell happened,” I say to the rice cooker, setting aside my empty styrofoam cup.

I pick it up and examine the case on all sides. The front panel is marked with black smoke and melted around the edges. My finger tips are immediately coated with the slime from the fire extinguisher, so I set it back down and head to the kitchen. I run the water until it’s hot, wet a rag, and clean up the rice cooker again.

“Didn’t I just do this for you a week ago?” I pull the bowl out and wipe down all the exterior parts before setting it back down on the table. There. That’ll do for now.

I’ve never fixed anything electronic, though, so I’m not sure where to start. Should I open it up and take a look around inside? I rifle through the closet in the hallway to my brother’s room and the bathroom until I find the small set of screwdrivers and other tools we keep around. I flip over the rice cooker and unscrew the cover, opening its guts for the world to see. Inside is some kind of logic board with a whole bunch of wires, but nothing is vaguely familiar. I shine a flashlight in and a cluster of wires are all melted together. This must be the problem.

Five Youtube videos later, I think I know what needs to be fixed but I’m going to need to visit a repair shop, which I don’t have the money for. I fall back on the floor and gaze out the window at the blue sky and beautiful day outside while I’m fiddling around with a rice cooker indoors. I should be out enjoying my freedom but this little appliance just saved me from ending up in a jail for the night. It sacrificed itself and created a diversion, stopping The Chef from calling the cops on me.

What should I do?

—-

“You said the thing just caught on fire?” The old man hunches over my rice cooker, a pair of magnifying head glasses lighting up the interior of the front panel.

“There was a pop and then flames. I put it out with a fire extinguisher as quick as I could, but you see, it got a little burnt.”

“Mm,” the old man grunts. “Indeed.”

I sit, my knee bouncing impatiently as the old man pokes and prods my rice cooker. I wince remembering all the times The Chef tossed the flat spoon in the bowl or the time he slammed the top so hard it cracked. The poor thing has been through so much.

What the hell is wrong with me? I’m losing my marbles over a rice cooker.

“I think I see the problem. The computer chip appears to be fine but just these wires here need to be replaced. Not sure why they got overloaded. Maybe there was a spike in the power?” He rubs the soft gray hair on his head and pulls off the magnifying glasses. “I can fix it for you for about 6,000 Yen.”

“6,000 Yen?” My voice squeaks and I gulp. I only have 9,000 Yen on me from The Chef’s last paycheck to me this morning, and I was hoping to eat for the rest of the week.

The old man hums and nods his head. “Yeah, it’ll take me a few hours to pull everything out, test the circuits, and solder on new wires, then make sure it works once that’s done. I can’t even guarantee that will be the end of it.”

“What else could the problem be?” I rub my hands together, ready for bad news.

“The computer chip? Like I said, it appears to be fine, but I can’t know for sure.” He shrugs his shoulders, and I groan. “You must be really attached to this rice cooker. You can get a new one for as little as 2,000 Yen, you know?”

I swallow, beads of sweat forming on my forehead. “It’s special, and one of the high-end models. I’m sure this goes for 16,000 or even 18,000 Yen.”

“Yes, you’re right.” The old man smiles at me. “And it’s better to fix the things we have than throw them away and buy something new. It’s good to see a young man understanding the recycling mottainai concept. Too many young people these days throw things away instead of recycling them. Where do they think the trash goes? We’re an island.”

“We’re several islands,” I correct him, and he humphs in response. “But yes, I get what you’re saying. It’s just that if I pay for this repair right now, I’ll have nothing left to live on for the week. I need to come back later.”

“Are you sure?” He closes up the rice cooker and screws it back together.

“Yes. I’ll be back soon.”

I step from the tiny repair shop onto the sidewalk and tip my face to the spring sun. I could really use more sunlight. I lean back against the wall of the shop and think. Think, think, think. How can I get money to get the rice cooker fixed?

I catch a whiff of fried food floating down the street to me and shade my eyes from the sun. Down the block, a restaurant is opening for the day. Deep blue noren curtains hang over the entryway with two kanji characters written across them: natsu (for summer) and kawa (for river). Put them together and you get Natsugawa, The Chef’s only local competitor.

I glance down at the rice cooker in my hand and bring it up to my face, kissing it on the lid.

“Genius move, my friend. Genius.”

A group of girls in their teens laugh at me as they walk past, but I run in the opposite direction towards home.

—-

“I really need to meet with Natsugawa-san. Is he available?” I clutch the stack of papers to my chest and bow to the woman running the front half of the restaurant. The dinner hour is sparse, only three of the ten tables occupied with people eating tempura and drinking beer. Natsugawa’s restaurant is actually much nicer than The Chef’s rundown establishment. The space is bigger with more tables and room to move around. He serves beer which The Chef does not, and I’ve heard his pickles are good too. But I glance over at the woman eating two tables away and the tempura isn’t as golden brown and crisp, and the rice isn’t as shiny or soft. The woman picks at the vegetables and frowns.

I hope this was a good idea.

“He’s busy. It’s the dinner hour.” The woman pushes on my shoulder. “Either leave and come back later or stay to eat.”

My stomach grumbles, but I need to save every penny. If I can’t talk to Natsugawa and negotiate with him, then I need to keep the cash I have and ask my brother for a loan until I can find a new job.

“Please tell him Ryu Michinori is here to see him. We’ve met a few times, and he knows who I am.”

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes, before sweeping her sleeves out of the way and bustling into the back kitchen. I wait by the front door, tapping my shoes and glancing around. Please, please let this work.

The kitchen door opens and the woman waves me in. “Come back and see Natsugawa’s son. He’s in the office.”

I nearly trip over my own shoes pushing my body through the restaurant to the kitchen door. On the other side, I look around, assessing the kitchen’s layout and appliances. They have a clean and well-lit place. Everything appears to be new within the last five or seven years. Natsugawa, the head chef, graying hair cropped close and covered with a bandana, nods at me. He’s in his early seventies and his hands shake as he filets fish on the center island. His assistant busies himself pulling items from the refrigerator and lining up plates for the customers outside.

“Ryu, it’s good to see you again.” Natsugawa bows to me, not halting in his knife work. I bow back. “Are you here to see me or my son?”

“Uh, your son, I think?” I hold the papers even tighter to my chest.

He nods in response. “Be sure to stop by on your way out when you’re done.”

“Yes, sir.” I turn and face the door to an actual office with a small desk and filing cabinet. There isn’t even enough room for a chair to sit and face Natsugawa’s son. I swallow and try to calm my shaking hands, but Natsugawa’s son must not even notice I’m nervous because he smiles and jumps up to bow and shake my hand.

“I’m Jun,” he says, letting go of my hand and sitting back down. “It’s nice to meet you, Ryu. My father says you work for Nakamoto, is that correct?”

“I used to work for him. I quit this morning, though.”

“Oh? Is that so?” His eyebrows pinch together and he runs his hand through his hair before adjusting his glasses.

“Yeah. I don’t want to speak ill of The… Nakamoto-san, but he treated me and his staff poorly. I didn’t want to work for him anymore.”

“I see. Well, what can I do for you?” Jun folds his hands over a stack of papers on the desk.

“I like your restaurant, Natsugawa-san. I think it’s ten times better than Nakamoto’s restaurant.”

“Thank you. If only we had the same business he does…”

“You can,” I say, nodding my head aggressively. “You definitely can. I worked for Nakamoto for two years, and I can give you everything you need to be better than him.”

Jun leans to the side and makes eye contact with his father out in the kitchen. I turn and his father is watching me too.

“How is that?”

“Well…” I clear my throat. “This is a business plan I drew up for running a tempura restaurant based on everything I learned at Nakamoto’s place.” I take the stack of papers and set them on the desk. I worked all afternoon on this business plan. It’s a little rushed, and I probably should have spent a few weeks on it, but I had to work fast. With my brother in business, he’s always collected business books and I’ve read quite a few of them when I’ve been bored. This is my first business plan, cobbled together from ideas I’ve had for the last year, and the top title page proudly displays my signature and “Michinori Business Plan for Tempura Restaurant” across the front.

Jun flips through the pages, his eyes landing on each of the sections on produce, recipes, social media and ad campaigns, local festival participation, and mentoring I thought of. All the things that were going well for The Chef but could have been even better. The Chef never had any idea how his online presence looked. He had a website but that was it. My friends would tell me about all the different magazines and social media websites people posted reviews on. It’s something that could be spurred along if only the right person were in charge of it.

“You could be just as big as Nakamoto, even better. With a crisper batter recipe and more offerings on the menu, people will stay longer and buy more food. With social media and reviews all calling you the best tempura restaurant in the neighborhood, your place would double its business.”

I reach forward and pluck the business plan from Jun’s hand. He watches it go reluctantly.

“And I know just the right person to give this to you.”

Jun’s lips quirk before he smiles.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner and we’ll discuss this over a few beers?” Jun stands up and sweeps his arm towards the front of the restaurant.

I keep my sigh to myself and smile back.

“Of course. Let’s eat and make a deal.”