Maisen

A couple of days before I returned to Maisen — my beloved donkatsu restaurant in Tokyo — suddenly it dawned on me: this was the place my grandmother had first introduced me to many years ago. She was still in her seventies then — sharp, spirited, and healthy. She had gladly taken her three granddaughters to Japan by herself.

The trip was our little family tradition. Whenever someone got into college, Halmoni would ask them to choose a travel destination, and she’d cover the entire trip.

How had I not remembered this sooner? I wondered. In my mind, I could still see it clearly: the over-crowded store in cold winter, the three teenagers bubbling with excitement over every food, and every stationary store. While sharing a hotel room with her, I learned that she wakes up at 5 am every day to pray, eats a huge breakfast, walks for miles, and snores loudly at night.

When it was my turn, I chose Hawaii. And she did — she flew us to the beautiful island where we spent Christmas together under the summer sun.

I also remembered what she said recently in a car ride from church. “Halmoni,” I said, looking back at her. “I’m going back to Ala Moana soon. Do you remember? You used to sit beside that mannequin at Gap.”

I thought she’d laugh. But instead, she looked at me squarely, then said, “I’m not jealous. I don’t have the energy to do anything anymore.”

When I visited Maisen this time, the restaurant wasn’t as crowded as before. The food was still wonderful, but something felt missing. So I kept glancing up at the ceiling, trying to recall the memory of that day long ago. That day when she was sitting next to me, smiling.