Chapter 12: Shopping Street (Part 1)
Ameyoko — the heart of the neighborhood.
As evening approached, the shopping street buzzed with even more life than
during the day. Crowds flowed like a river, an endless stream of footsteps and
chatter weaving through the bustling storefronts.
A transport truck stopped in front of a seafood shop. Several burly workers
were busy unloading crates. One of the middle-aged uncles, after setting down a
box of fresh catch chilled in ice, wiped the sweat from his brow—just in time
to spot a familiar figure emerging from the far end of the street.
"Ayu, today's fish just came straight from the docks. Want to take some
home to try?" the uncle called out cheerfully.
"Thanks, but the old man isn't cooking today, so I'm out looking for
something to eat," Xia Yu replied politely. "You go ahead, Uncle
Gucheng. Don't let me slow you down."
He tucked his hands into his pockets and continued strolling.
When he passed a small pancake shop, decorated with an old-fashioned charm,
an elderly woman in glasses beamed at him from behind the counter. "Ayu, want a
dorayaki? The red bean paste is extra sweet today."
"I'll pass, Grandma Kawashima," Xia Yu replied with a smile. "Didn't you say
we should eat a proper dinner? I'm on my way to do just that."
As he walked, more greetings came his way—at least a dozen. Smiling elders,
both men and women, waved or called out his name, the warmth of the community
wrapping around him like a blanket.
This was his home.
The shopping street where he had lived for more than ten years. People came
and went, but Xia's Chinese Restaurant remained. Though the old man rarely had
many customers, his reputation among the locals was ironclad. Maybe it was
because he always stepped up when others were in trouble. Over the years, he
had become the unofficial leader of the street.
Whether it was the old Xia Yu or the new soul occupying his body, his
easygoing personality hadn't changed. He was helpful, good-looking, and
courteous—naturally well-liked by the neighborhood uncles and aunties.
The shopping street had expanded dramatically in the last decade. When Xia
Yu stepped out of the older district and into the newly renovated section, the
atmosphere shifted completely. Urban modernism greeted him—wider streets, sleek
storefronts, and even a McDonald's tucked between upscale clothing boutiques.
He eventually stopped in front of a restaurant that looked brand new. Flower
baskets still lined the doorway, and confetti ribbons from the opening ceremony
littered the sidewalk.
"Starlight Revolving Western Restaurant?"
He read the sign aloud with a hint of curiosity, then pushed open the door.
A female waitress in uniform bowed at a crisp 90-degree angle and greeted
him with a professional smile. "Welcome! Table for how many?"
"Just me."
"Right this way, please."
She guided Xia Yu to a table near the floor-to-ceiling window. Through the
glass, the bustling street glowed with neon signs and pedestrians. The seat was
cozy and offered a nice view—he saw no reason to move.
He picked up the menu and ordered three Western-style side dishes. After
all, he needed a break from Chinese cuisine. For the past several days, he'd
been buried in Chinese recipes, practicing nonstop. Frankly, he was sick of
tasting his own cooking. To keep his palate and enthusiasm sharp, switching
things up with something different was a smart choice.
Besides, he didn't want to go too far just for food. The shopping street
would do.
After ordering, Xia Yu glanced around. The restaurant was quiet. Other than
his table, there were only two others occupied.
One was by a group of Chinese tourists. Judging by their excited voices and
lively chatter in Mandarin, they were clearly sightseeing. Xia Yu tilted his
head slightly to listen in, half amused.
"Xiaoya, I swear, Dianping has barely any info on this area. I couldn't even
find a decent place nearby. Ugh, what a mistake—I should've used the local
Japanese food apps instead," said a slightly chubby girl with a cute round
face.
"You and your stomach," her companion teased. The second girl was tall,
dressed fashionably, and had the graceful air of a goddess. "I heard that in
Japan, if a store's open, the food's decent. This one's new and in a prime
location—don't worry."
Two Chinese girls traveling independently without knowing Japanese?
Xia Yu couldn't help but smile wryly.
Japan's public safety was excellent, sure—but if you didn't know Japanese
and relied solely on English, you'd quickly learn how much a thick accent could
sabotage a decade of language study.
His food was taking a while, but Xia Yu didn't mind. He pulled out his phone
and began scrolling through Twitter, casually listening to the girls' banter
from time to time.
Then—
"Stupid!!"
An enraged shout suddenly shattered the calm atmosphere.
At a nearby table, three male diners stood up. Two waitresses rushed over,
bowing repeatedly, panic etched into their faces.
"Baka! This dish is garbage!" A bald, middle-aged man in a business suit
jabbed a finger at the half-eaten plate of beef in front of him. "This isn't Boeuf
Bourguignon! This tastes nothing like beef stewed in Burgundy red wine!
I'm reporting your restaurant!"
He whipped out his phone, ignoring the staff's frantic attempts to placate
him.
A male staff member at the counter darted into the kitchen. Moments later, a
chef in a crisp white uniform emerged, beads of sweat glistening on his
forehead. His expression was anxious as he bowed deeply.
"Sir, I'll remake the beef stew until you're satisfied."
He kept his head lowered, voice trembling. "Please forgive us!"
The three male diners exchanged looks. A younger, muscular man gave the bald
one a meaningful glance—coordinated, deliberate.
"No!" The bald man sneered. "I don't believe you! I'm
reporting this to the Gourmet Association! This kind of food stains the dignity
of the culinary profession!"
His fingers danced over the screen of his phone as if dialing the complaint
line.
The chef, visibly panicking, lunged forward to grab the phone. His face
flushed crimson. "No! You can't report us to the Association!"
The two younger men grabbed the chef from behind, ready to restrain him.
It was about to turn into a full-blown brawl.
At their table, the Chinese tourists froze in fear.
They didn't understand Japanese, but the tension was unmistakable.
"The flavor of that Burgundy beef stew is within acceptable
standards. File a complaint if you like. The Gourmet Association will confirm
that it's a pass."
A calm voice cut through the chaos.
No one paid attention at first.
Xia Yu sighed, hands still in his pockets, and turned to the flustered
waitstaff.
"Pull your chef back."
The stunned waiters, perhaps out of desperation, did exactly as he said.
They grabbed the panicking chef and pulled him aside.
Xia Yu stepped forward and patted the man on the shoulder.
"Calm down," he said, his voice steady and reassuring.
It was almost comical—this sixteen-year-old teenager speaking with more
composure than the middle-aged chef.
The chef blinked at him in confusion.
Xia Yu repeated calmly, "I'm telling you—the stew passed the standard. Don't
lose your head. This is a trap."