Chapter 251: 《taste》 Ratings Frenzy! The Warm Moments Of Sukiyaki!
On the evening of October 30th at 10 PM, as the final shot of the third episode of “Taste of Neon: Kyoto Japanese Sweets: Time in Frosting” wrapped up, the nationwide ratings monitoring center erupted in brief celebration.
Data showed that this episode’s nationwide average rating was a record-breaking 37.9%, with the Kanto region exceeding 42%, setting an unprecedented record in the history of Japanese documentaries.
The following morning, whether at newspaper stands on the streets of Shinjuku, Tokyo, or on advertising screens in Osaka subway stations, mainstream media across Japan dedicated their front pages to this documentary.
The Asahi Shimbun declared in bold, black font: “37.9%! ‘Taste’ Defines a National Cultural Symbol,” accompanied by a close-up photo of Japanese confectionery master Sumie Yamada crafting sakura mochi in an old Kyoto street.
The Yomiuri Shimbun focused on the “Japanese Sweets Effect,” reporting a fivefold increase in tourism inquiries to the Kyoto Prefectural Government, and a three-day waiting list at Sumie Yamada’s “Chōwa-dō.”
Even the Nikkei, which typically focuses on economic news, dedicated a special column on its front page analyzing the “revival of the traditional crafts industry” driven by “Taste”—orders from Kyoto’s red bean farmers to wrapper manufacturers saw a 38% month-on-month increase.
“This is not just a simple documentary, but a cultural awakening.”
Senior film critic Akira Saeki wrote in his column for the Mainichi Shimbun, “When the elderly Sumie Yamada said, ‘Sakura mochi is only sweet when made when the cherry blossoms are blooming, just as life is only warm when lived slowly,’ every viewer in front of the screen understood the philosophy of life within it. Hiroshi Nohara, using frosting and dough, kneaded the sentiment of ‘slow living’ back into people’s hearts, which had been diluted by the bubble economy.”
All newspapers once again erupted in a frenzy of reporting on “Taste of Neon”!
…
At this moment, Hiroshi Nohara stood in the open-plan kitchen of his apartment, meticulously preparing ingredients for sukiyaki.
Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting dappled light and shadow on the cooking counter beside him.
He held a sharp sashimi knife, slicing a piece of A5 wagyu beef into uniformly thin slices.
The marbling of the beef was as delicate as frost; the blade glided through the meat almost silently—this was wagyu specially flown in from Hakodate, Hokkaido, yesterday, with a fat content of exactly 25%, which would render the most delicious oil when pan-fried.
On the white porcelain plate beside it were radish cut into rolling chunks, peeled quail eggs, and konjac rehydrated in clear water, prepared in the Kansai style; each ingredient was neatly arranged.
“Hiroshi-kun, the way you’re cutting the beef is just like Mr. Yamada in ‘Taste’!” Misae’s voice came from the living room, tinged with excitement.
Hiroshi Nohara turned to look, seeing Misae sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a sketchbook spread on her knees, colored pencils in hand, drawing while looking at the TV screen.
The TV was replaying a segment from the third episode of “Taste”: Sumie Yamada was sifting powdered sugar with a bamboo sieve, sunlight falling on her graying hair like a dusting of fine snow.
Misae’s eyes were still red, her nose tip twitching slightly: “Look, Mr. Yamada waited for her daughter to come home, making sakura mochi every cherry blossom season. Her daughter works as an office lady in Tokyo and hasn’t been home for three years… When the daughter suddenly appeared at the shop and hugged her, saying, ‘Mom’s sakura mochi is the sweetest,’ I couldn’t help but cry.”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled, put down the knife, and picked up a slice of the cut wagyu, bringing it close to his nose to smell—a faint milky aroma mixed with the scent of meat, very enticing.
“It was a true story to begin with, so naturally it would move people. The confectionery shop that Mr. Yamada guarded for thirty years wasn’t just waiting for her daughter to inherit the craft, but for her daughter to remember ‘the taste of home’.”
“That’s right!”
Misae suddenly looked up, her pencil tip still dusted with pink colored pencil shavings. “Just like my mom always says, I loved her dorayaki when I was a child. Even now that I have a manga club, every time I go home, she still bakes it in advance to wait for me.”
As she spoke, she held up the sketchbook for Hiroshi Nohara to see, “Look at the Kumamon I drew! It’s holding sakura mochi, and next to it says ‘Follow Taste to Kyoto,’ isn’t it cute?”
On the drawing paper, the Kumamon was plump, wearing a red apron, holding a piece of pink sakura mochi in its paws, with a smudge of powdered sugar on its cheek.
Next to it, written in wobbly letters, was a small line: “Chōwa-dō’s sakura mochi is sweeter than cakes in Tokyo!”
Hiroshi Nohara walked over, bent down, and ruffled Misae’s hair, his fingertips brushing her soft hair. “You drew it very well, especially Kumamon’s eyes, they look like it’s craving sakura mochi.”
“Of course!”
Misae proudly puffed out her chest, hugging the sketchbook to her. “I plan to print these little Kumamon segments on my manga club’s merchandise, like notebooks and stickers. I also want to collaborate with Mr. Sato’s soba noodle shop and Mr. Yamada’s confectionery shop—customers buy a gourmet dish and get a Kumamon card. This way, we can leverage the buzz from ‘Taste’ and also promote them; it’s a win-win!”
Hiroshi Nohara couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re quite resourceful. But it’s okay, the copyright for Kumamon is with you, and the copyright for ‘Taste’ is with me, so it’s convenient for us to collaborate.”
Misae’s eyes lit up instantly. “Really? Then I’ll contact Mr. Yamada tomorrow! Oh, right, when I went to Gunma last time to film for soba noodles, Mr. Sato also mentioned wanting to create cute packaging for his soba noodles. I can have Kumamon hold soba noodles as a design!”
“Take your time, let’s eat today’s sukiyaki first,” Hiroshi Nohara turned back to the kitchen, placing the sliced wagyu on a plate lined with absorbent paper. “The beef needs to be seared while fresh, and the radish needs to be simmered to bring out its sweetness, otherwise the sukiyaki broth won’t be flavorful.”
Misae, holding her sketchbook, approached the kitchen doorway. Watching Hiroshi Nohara pour sukiyaki sauce into the pot, she suddenly remembered a segment from the third episode and couldn’t help but speak up, “Hiroshi-kun, do you remember the part where Mr. Yamada was making yokan? When she boiled the red beans, she had to stir and taste, saying, ‘The red beans should be cooked until they have a slight graininess when bitten; if they’re too mushy, they lose their soul.’ My grandmother also does this when she cooks red bean soup, always saying, ‘Ingredients have their own tempers; you have to go with them.'”
Hiroshi Nohara paused, and the scene from filming also flashed in his mind.
At five in the morning that day, they followed Sumie Yamada to a red bean field outside Kyoto to pick beans.
The old woman wore wooden clogs, and her movements were slow as she bent down to pick the red beans, gently blowing off the dew from each one.
“These red beans were planted last fall and waited a whole year to ripen,” she had said to the camera at the time. “Young people nowadays always say ‘I can’t wait,’ but for delicious things, why should one not wait?”
Later, in the back kitchen of “Chōwa-dō,” Sumie Yamada demonstrated the process of making yokan.
She poured the cooked red beans into a stone mortar and mashed them into a paste with a wooden mallet, pausing for a few seconds after each mash to allow the aroma of the red beans to gradually release.
“When I got married, my mother-in-law taught me to mash red beans with ‘three mashes and one pause,’ saying that yokan made this way would have a good chewiness,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow with a smile. “Now that my mother-in-law is gone, I still follow her method, as if she’s still watching me.”
The most touching scene was at the end of the program.
Sumie Yamada’s daughter, Mio Yamada, suddenly returned to the shop from Tokyo, carrying a suitcase.
“Mom, I quit my job,” she said, her voice choked with emotion as she hugged her mother. “Yesterday, I remembered I hadn’t had your sakura mochi in a long time. From now on, I want to learn to make Japanese sweets with you, and we can manage this shop together.”
When filming, Shigeru Saito used a backlight, and the sunlight passing through the shop’s lattice windows elongated the figures of the mother and daughter.
Sumie Yamada’s tears dripped onto her daughter’s shoulder, but she smiled and said, “Silly girl, sakura mochi won’t be ready until next spring. For the next few months, learn to boil red beans with me first.”
“I cried when I saw the end,” Misae rubbed her eyes. “Mr. Yamada left a piece of sakura mochi at the shop every day, saying ‘to wait for Mio to eat,’ but she never told anyone. This kind of hidden concern is more touching than spoken longing.”
Hiroshi Nohara placed the cooked radish chunks into the sukiyaki pot, the broth instantly bubbling. “That’s why genuine emotions have the most power. We didn’t add any script; we just followed Mr. Yamada for three days and captured these moments. Sometimes, documentaries don’t need to deliberately be sentimental; just point the camera at life, and life will provide the best stories.”
Hiroshi Nohara’s words also brought a smile to Misae’s face.
“It smells so good!”
Soon, Misae’s attention was immediately drawn to the aroma from the pot. She leaned over the stove, watching the wagyu slowly turn light brown, the oil seeping out and coating the radish. She couldn’t help but swallow. “Hiroshi-kun, try it quickly! I can’t wait any longer!”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled, picked up his chopsticks, picked up a piece of wagyu, dipped it in some raw egg yolk, and offered it to Misae’s mouth. “Be careful, it’s hot.”
Misae opened her mouth and bit into the beef, her eyes instantly narrowing. “Delicious! It’s even better than the sukiyaki at high-end restaurants in Tokyo! Hiroshi-kun, did you secretly learn cooking?”
“I just learned a few tricks from the masters in the film,” Hiroshi Nohara also picked up a piece of beef and put it in his mouth. The tenderness of the wagyu mixed with the sweetness of the sauce, slowly melting on his tongue. “When filming ‘Taste,’ I learned how to handle tuna from Mr. Nomizu, how to knead soba dough from Mr. Sato, and this time I learned to boil red beans from Mr. Yamada—I’ve learned quite a bit by ‘stealing’ knowledge.”
Misae picked up a spoon, scooped some broth over her rice, and sighed contentedly. “Now all of Japan is talking about ‘Taste.’ Yesterday, I went to the manga club, and even the auntie at the convenience store downstairs said, ‘I’m going to Kyoto this weekend to eat Japanese sweets.’ Hiroshi-kun, don’t you feel a sense of accomplishment?”
“A sense of accomplishment is alright, but mostly it feels grounded.”
Hiroshi Nohara put down his chopsticks and looked out at the Tokyo streetscape—the Tokyo Tower in the distance was lit up in the twilight, the streets bustling with traffic, but lacking some of the restlessness of the bubble economy days. “When I initially filmed this documentary, I just wanted to record some crafts and lifestyles that were about to be forgotten. Now, seeing people willing to slow down and appreciate these ordinary beauties makes me feel it was time well spent.”
He paused and added, “The Ministry of Education has confirmed that starting next month, ‘Taste’ will be broadcast nationwide in elementary and secondary schools as ‘local cultural educational material.’ Marui Soy Sauce also wants to collaborate with us to launch a ‘Taste Limited Edition’ soy sauce, using your Kumamon drawing for the packaging.”
“Really?” Misae’s eyes lit up. “Then my Kumamon will become a national mascot! Oh, right, Hiroshi-kun, what are you filming for the fourth episode? I want to go along!”
“The fourth episode plans to feature an old bakery in Saitama, run by a couple who have been making red bean buns for forty years,” Hiroshi Nohara picked up a tissue and wiped the sauce from Misae’s lips. “I’ll take you then, so you can learn bread-making from the landlady. Maybe it will give you some inspiration for your manga.”
Misae nodded vigorously, still chewing rice, and mumbled indistinctly, “Okay, okay! I’ll draw the bakery’s story into Kumamon’s manga so more people know about it!”
Midway through the sukiyaki, Misae suddenly remembered something, put down her chopsticks, ran to the living room, and changed the channel with the remote. “Hiroshi-kun, look quickly! This is ‘Shunsuke’s Tokyo Roaming’ on Tokyo City Stage, it’s also a food variety show, and it’s a competitor to your ‘Taste’!”
On the TV screen, Shunsuke Kamiki, wearing a white casual suit, stood in front of a trendy burger joint in Ginza, Tokyo, with a standard smile for the camera. “Hello, viewers! Today I’m taking you to check out Tokyo’s hottest ‘Golden Burger.’ They say only 100 are made per day, and it tastes like clouds!”
The camera cut to a close-up of the burger; the golden bun was sprinkled with edible glitter, and the patty was drenched in thick cheese sauce, looking exceptionally appealing.
But as Shunsuke Kamiki picked up the burger, his fingers deliberately avoided the edge of the bun, and he took a bite very cautiously, as if afraid of getting sauce on his lips—it was clearly staged.
“Wow, this burger looks so delicious,” Misae said subconsciously. But as soon as she spoke, she saw Shunsuke Kamiki chew twice, secretly spit the burger into a nearby tissue box, yet maintain his smile. “Mmm, the texture is very light, and the cheese flavor is rich. I recommend everyone to check it out!”
Misae’s brow furrowed instantly, and she pouted. “So fake! He didn’t even swallow, did he? And his tone of voice is weird, like he’s reading lines, not natural at all.”
Hiroshi Nohara walked into the living room and leaned back on the sofa, watching the screen.
Shunsuke Kamiki was interacting with the shop owner, holding a microphone but maintaining a distance of half a meter. He didn’t even take the french fries offered by the owner—clearly, he disliked the idea of food staining his suit.
“The decor of this shop is very distinctive and suitable for photos,” he said to the camera, his eyes occasionally glancing at a teleprompter nearby. “When you visit, be sure to wear light-colored clothes so your photos will look good.”
“What a load of rubbish! This isn’t a food variety show, it’s a photo tutorial!” Misae was so angry she grabbed a cushion and hit the sofa. “He didn’t even taste the food seriously and just says ‘suitable for photos.’ It’s so different from your ‘Taste’! Hiroshi-kun, when you see Mr. Yamada making Japanese sweets, she doesn’t care if her hands get dusted with flour, but he’s too pretentious to even touch french fries!”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled and gently pulled Misae to sit beside him. “Don’t be angry. He’s going for an idol route; the focus is on ‘looking good,’ not ‘authenticity’.”
“But shouldn’t the focus of a food variety show be the food and the people behind it?”
Misae leaned on Hiroshi Nohara’s shoulder, her tone full of confusion. “He didn’t even ask the shop owner’s name, just said ‘the decor is nice.’ Who would like such a show? I saw the ratings report last time, and his program only got 1.8%, more than twenty times lower than your ‘Taste’!”
On TV, Shunsuke Kamiki continued his staged performance, sometimes making a heart shape with the burger, sometimes posing with a cola can, never mentioning any details about the burger’s preparation, nor asking about the owner’s business story.
Misae was getting impatient and reached for the remote to change the channel. “I’m not watching anymore, I’m getting angrier! Let’s watch the rerun of your ‘Taste’ instead. Mr. Yamada making yokan looks a hundred times better than him!”
Hiroshi Nohara held Misae’s hand and gently shook his head. “Don’t change it. It’s good to watch it too, so we know what our competitor is doing.”
He paused and looked down at the girl in his arms—Misae’s hair was spread across his arm, and her eyes still showed dissatisfaction with Shunsuke Kamiki, like a grumpy little cat.
He suddenly reached out and turned off the TV. The living room fell silent, with only the faint light and shadow cast on the floor by the streetlights outside through the curtains.
“It’s getting late. We still have to go to Kyoto tomorrow to discuss merchandise collaboration with Mr. Yamada, so let’s get some rest early.”
Misae blinked, then looked up at Hiroshi Nohara, noticing his gaze was gentler than usual.
“Hiroshi-kun…” she began, but Hiroshi Nohara gently embraced her.
“It’s been a while since we’ve just spent time together like this,” Hiroshi Nohara rested his chin on the top of Misae’s head, his voice deep and gentle. “I’ve been so busy filming ‘Taste’ lately that I haven’t had enough time to spend with you.”
Misae nestled in his embrace, smelling the faint, earthy scent on him—the aroma of the sukiyaki sauce from cooking earlier, mixed with his soap scent, was exceptionally comforting.
“I’m not blaming you,” she said softly, wrapping her arms around Hiroshi Nohara’s waist. “Seeing you produce such good work makes me happy too. And following you on shoots, I’ve learned a lot, like how to observe life and how to draw heartwarming manga.”
Hiroshi Nohara tightened his arms, holding Misae closer. “We’ll have more time together from now on. After ‘Taste’ is finished, we’ll go to Hokkaido to see the snow, and to Hakodate for seafood, just the two of us.”
“Really?” Misae looked up, her eyes sparkling. “Then we also have to go to the Shiroi Koibito Park in Sapporo! I want to draw Kumamon in many snowy scenes!”
“Okay, whatever you want,” Hiroshi Nohara lowered his head and gently kissed Misae’s forehead. “Now, let’s go to sleep, otherwise we won’t be able to wake up in time tomorrow, and Mr. Yamada will be waiting impatiently.”
Misae smiled and nodded, letting Hiroshi Nohara lead her into the bedroom.
As the night deepened, the lights in the apartment gradually extinguished, leaving only the faint aroma of sukiyaki on the kitchen counter—it was their own ordinary yet warm time.
…
In the Tokyo morning of October, the sunlight still carried a hint of coolness, seeping through the gaps in the curtains and casting a long, slender light patch on the bedroom floor.
When Hiroshi Nohara opened his eyes, Misae beside him was still fast asleep, her lips slightly upturned as if dreaming sweet dreams.
He shifted his weight subtly. The fatigue from last night hadn’t completely dissipated, but he felt an unusual sense of stability, soothed by the sound of the girl’s breathing beside him—this was a peace he had never felt since transmigrating to this world.
He carefully moved Misae’s arm, which was draped over his waist, as lightly as if he were afraid of disturbing a butterfly.
Walking to the window and pulling open the curtains, the street below already had a few scattered pedestrians. Office workers in suits hurried past, clutching briefcases and newly bought newspapers. Occasionally, a bicycle bell rang crisply, carrying the earthy charm of Tokyo in 1991.
In the washroom, Hiroshi Nohara turned on the hot water tap. The warm stream flowed over his face, bringing him to full wakefulness.
The man in the mirror wore a simple white undershirt, his features carrying a composure beyond his years. Only the occasional flash in his eyes betrayed his secret from the future.
He tidied his hair in front of the mirror, recalling Misae’s flushed face from last night, and a faint smile touched his lips.
As he stepped out of the washroom, the milk box by the door was already full, stuffed by the delivery person—two bottles of Meiji milk in glass bottles, tiny water droplets still clinging to their surfaces.
Hiroshi Nohara took the milk into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Inside were neatly arranged ingredients bought from the supermarket yesterday: Kyoto eggs, Hokkaido butter, and freshly baked sliced toast; each item exuded freshness.
Hiroshi Nohara tied on an apron and placed a frying pan on the gas stove, heating it over low heat.
He took a piece of butter from the refrigerator, cut it into small pieces, and placed it in the pan. The moment the butter melted, a rich milky aroma immediately filled the air—this was a small trick he learned from Sumie Yamada, the Japanese confectionery master from “Taste,” using low heat to melt butter to preserve its fragrance to the maximum extent.
Next, he cracked two eggs into a porcelain bowl, added a spoonful of white sugar, and stirred clockwise with chopsticks.
The egg mixture needed to be stirred until fine bubbles appeared, so the thick omelet would be soft and tender.
While stirring, he paid attention to the butter in the pan. When the butter had completely melted and began to bubble, he poured half of the egg mixture in.
The egg mixture slowly solidified in the pan. Hiroshi Nohara gently pushed the edges with a wooden spatula. Once the bottom set, he slowly rolled it up from one side, pushed it to the edge of the pan, and then poured in the remaining egg mixture.
The second roll needed to be tighter than the first, so the layers of the thick omelet would be distinct.
His movements were skilled, his gaze focused, as if treating it as a precious work of art—much like adjusting every camera angle when filming “Seven Samurai,” or sketching every character’s expression when drawing “Doraemon.”
The toaster beside him “dinged” and popped open, two slices of toast perfectly golden and crispy.
Hiroshi Nohara cut the thick omelet into three sections and arranged them on a white porcelain plate, placing the toast beside it, and drizzled a spoonful of homemade strawberry sauce—Misae had made it herself last week, using strawberries from Ibaraki Prefecture, with just the right balance of sweet and sour.
Finally, he poured milk into a glass, heated it in the microwave for thirty seconds, until it was just warm enough to drink without burning the tongue.
“So fragrant…” Misae’s voice came faintly from the bedroom, followed by the patter of slippers on the floor.
She walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, her hair still a bit messy. Upon seeing the breakfast on the counter, her eyes instantly lit up. “Hiroshi-kun, did you make this? It looks even better than the western restaurants in Ginza!”
Hiroshi Nohara turned off the gas stove and looked back at her. “Just finished, eat it while it’s hot.”
Misae walked up to him, suddenly stood on her tiptoes, and gently pecked his cheek. Then, blushing, she lowered her head and whispered almost inaudibly, “Hiroshi-kun… you were so strong last night…”
Hiroshi Nohara blinked, then chuckled and ruffled her hair. “Oh, you’re only just realizing that now?”
“Stop it!” Misae playfully pushed him, her cheeks as red as ripe apples. “I just… I just felt…” She didn’t finish her sentence, as Hiroshi Nohara stuffed a piece of toast into her mouth. “Eat it quickly, it won’t taste good if it gets cold.”
The two sat at the dining table, morning light streaming through the window onto the plates, casting a warm golden hue on the thick omelet.
Misae took a bite of the thick omelet and her eyes immediately narrowed. “Wow! It’s so soft and tender! Hiroshi-kun, how do you know how to do everything? You’re a better cook than my mom!”
“I learned from Mr. Yamada,” Hiroshi Nohara said calmly, taking a sip of milk. “When filming ‘Taste,’ I saw how she paid attention to heat control when making Japanese sweets, and I thought about applying that technique to cooking.”
Misae suddenly remembered something, put down her chopsticks, and looked at him. “Oh, Hiroshi-kun, you said last night that after ‘Taste’ is finished, you’d take me to Hokkaido to see the snow. Is that true?”
“Of course, it’s true,” Hiroshi Nohara nodded, his gaze serious. “But before we go, there’s one more thing to do.”
Misae blinked. “What is it?”
“I need to take you to meet my parents, and go to your home to meet your uncle and aunt,” Hiroshi Nohara put down his glass and looked her in the eyes. “We should get engaged.”
“En… engaged?” Misae’s eyes widened instantly, and the fork in her hand clattered onto the plate. “R-really? Hiroshi-kun, you’re not joking, are you?”
“Of course not,” Hiroshi Nohara picked up a tissue and wiped the strawberry jam from her lips. “Since I’m with you, I’ve never thought of parting. The engagement ceremony should be done elaborately. What kind of venue do you like? A Western restaurant in Tokyo, or a shrine in your hometown? It’s all up to you.”
Tears suddenly fell from Misae’s eyes, not out of sadness, but excitement.
She sniffled, reached out, and grasped Hiroshi Nohara’s hand. “I… I can do either! But my mom will definitely want it held in Kumamoto. She says the shrine in our hometown is very spiritual and can bless newlyweds for a long, long time…”
“Then let’s go to Kumamoto,” Hiroshi Nohara squeezed her hand, feeling her warmth through his fingertips. “We’ll invite Director Sakata and the others as witnesses, and your manga club friends too. It should be lively.”
Misae nodded vigorously, tears flowing even more freely. “Hiroshi-kun… thank you… I never thought I’d be able to marry someone I love…”
Hiroshi Nohara looked at her tear-streaked face, and a surge of warmth suddenly filled his heart.
He remembered Misae from his past life in “Crayon Shin-chan,” the one who always complained about Hiroshi’s stinky feet yet never abandoned him. He remembered the mischievous Shin-chan and the adorable Himawari—in this life, he would rewrite their destiny and give them a stable and happy home.
He silently thought to himself: It would be great if the first child were Shin-chan, and even better if the second were Himawari. He wanted to witness firsthand what it would be like to see that little boy who always said “Action Kamen” and that little girl who loved to be pampered grow up by his side.
After breakfast, Hiroshi Nohara cleared the dishes, while Misae went to the bedroom to change.
She chose a light pink dress and a cream-colored knit cardigan, her hair tied in a ponytail, looking both cute and capable.
“Hiroshi-kun, is this outfit okay? My manga club needs to discuss the Kumamon merchandise design today, and I want to look presentable.”
“You look very nice,” Hiroshi Nohara picked up the car keys. “Let’s go, I’ll drive you to the manga club.”
The two went downstairs. Hiroshi Nohara’s Toyota Crown was parked by the roadside, its black body exuding a steady luster in the morning light.
As they drove, Tokyo’s morning rush hour hadn’t fully arrived, so the traffic wasn’t heavy.
Misae sat in the passenger seat, holding her sketchbook, drawing Kumamon while chatting with Hiroshi Nohara. “Hiroshi-kun, the people from Marui Soy Sauce called me yesterday. They want to print Kumamon on their soy sauce bottles and have me design a limited edition packaging. What do you think?”
“That’s fine,” Hiroshi Nohara said lightly, watching the road ahead. “But be sure to draw Kumamon’s expression to be cute; children will like it. Also, don’t forget to add the words ‘For Sato-ya Soba Noodles,’ to help Mr. Sato promote his product too.”
“I know!” Misae nodded with a smile. “I also want to collaborate with Mr. Yamada to print Japanese sweets designs on notebooks. Each notebook will include a Japanese sweets recipe, so people can learn how to make them when they buy the notebook.”
“That’s a good idea,” Hiroshi Nohara turned a corner. “But you need to discuss the copyright issues with Mr. Yamada properly, so she doesn’t lose out. She’s old; it’s not easy for her to earn money.”
Misae put down her sketchbook and looked at Hiroshi Nohara’s profile. “Hiroshi-kun, you always think of others, no wonder everyone likes you. Mr. Matsui even told me that you stayed up all night to help him revise his ‘Old Town Exploration’ proposal.”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled and said nothing. He simply felt that the people in this world were very sincere. Kosuke Sato’s diligence, Sumie Yamada’s perseverance, Xiang Shuishang’s gentleness—these were all things he felt deserved his heartfelt attention.
Soon, they arrived at the office building where “Future Manga Company” was located.
Misae unbuckled her seatbelt and pecked Hiroshi Nohara on the cheek. “Hiroshi-kun, see you tonight! I’ll finish the merchandise design proposals and have them ready for you to see when you get back!”
“Okay,” Hiroshi Nohara watched her run into the office building until her figure disappeared at the elevator entrance. Then, he started the car and drove towards Kanto Television Station.
Kanto Television Station on a Saturday should have been quieter than usual, but it was particularly lively due to the preparations for the fourth episode of “Taste.” As Hiroshi Nohara’s Toyota Crown pulled into the parking lot, staff members recognized him.
“Mr. Nohara! Good morning!” Hiroshi Kobayashi from the Technical Department ran over, his face full of excitement. “Why are you here today? Are you here to inspect the filming equipment for the fourth episode?”
“Come see everyone’s progress.” Hiroshi Nohara got out of the car and greeted him, “Have all the equipment been debugged? We’re going to Saitama next week to film the old bakery, and nothing can go wrong.”
“Don’t worry, Hiroshi-san!” Hiroshi Kobayashi patted his chest, “Mr. Saito stayed up with us debugging until midnight yesterday. Every camera has been tested, and even the spare batteries are fully charged!”
The two walked into the building together, and along the way, they encountered many employees. Whether it was the director from the production department or the clerk from the administration department, they all greeted Hiroshi Nohara proactively.
“Hiroshi-san, you’re here!” Ryuji Yamada, the Deputy Director of Production, walked over with documents and respectfully handed them to him, “Here is the information about the Saitama old bakery. Please take a look and see if there’s anything that needs to be added.”
“Thank you, Mr. Yamada.” Hiroshi Nohara took the documents and flipped through two pages, “This is very detailed. When we go to film next week, please liaise with Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi from the bakery to confirm the filming times.”
“No problem! I’ll call them this afternoon!” Ryuji Yamada nodded, his eyes full of admiration.
When they reached the elevator, they ran into Kei Tanaka from the Variety Production Class.
He was holding a new proposal for 《Super Change Change Change》 and walked over with a smile, “Hiroshi-kun, you’re finally here! I have an idea for ‘Hometown Gourmet Costume Change’ and I want to discuss it with you to see if we can include it in the next program.”
“Okay, after I’m done with the preparations for episode four, let’s find some time to chat in detail.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded and agreed on a time with him.
In the elevator, Hiroshi Kobayashi looked at Hiroshi Nohara and said emotionally, “Hiroshi-san, your influence in the station now is even higher than Director Sakata’s. When Kanto Stage and Tokyo TV merged, everyone was worried that you would be an ‘outsider.’ Now, everyone knows that you are genuinely working for the station.”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled, “It’s not that my influence is high, but the result of everyone’s collective effort. The success of 《Tongue Tip》 is not my sole accomplishment; it’s Mr. Saito’s camera work, Mr. Matsui’s filming, and everyone’s contribution that gave this film its warmth.”
He knew in his heart that this respect was not gained through his position, but through winning it with one work after another—《An Shizhi》 broke the silence of urban legends, 《Seven Samurai》 reshaped the heights of samurai films, and 《Tongue Tip》 revitalized traditional crafts.
Each work was a medal he earned to prove his strength.
The elevator doors opened, and the production department’s office was bustling with activity.
Yuichi Matsui was discussing the script for “Old Town Exploration” with Sakurako Honda. Upon seeing Hiroshi Nohara enter, he immediately stood up, “Hiroshi-kun! You’ve come at the perfect time! Sakurako’s script has been revised. Please take a look and see if there are any adjustments needed.”
Sakurako Honda walked over with the script, a hint of nervousness on her face, “Hiroshi-san, as you said last time, I’ve added stories about the artisans in the old town. Please see if it’s okay.”
Hiroshi Nohara took the script and began to read it carefully. The office was quiet, with only the sound of paper turning.
Everyone looked at him with anticipation and trust in their eyes—this was the respect that belonged to Hiroshi Nohara, earned through his strength, and it was also his most precious wealth in this world.
……
Hiroshi Nohara sat at the head of the conference table, holding Sakurako Honda’s revised script for “Old Town Exploration,” his fingertips gently gliding over the edge of the paper.
The meeting room was quiet. Yuichi Matsui, Ryuji Yamada, Hiroshi Kobayashi, and Sakurako Honda sat opposite him, their eyes filled with anticipation and a hint of nervousness—after all, this was the first documentary proposal they were independently preparing after the success of 《Tongue Tip》.
“Sakurako’s script is much more detailed than last time.” Hiroshi Nohara spoke first, his tone calm, “You’ve organized the historical background of the old town and the basic information about the artisans very clearly, even annotating the lighting angles to pay attention to during filming. It’s evident you put in a lot of effort.”
Hearing the praise, Sakurako Honda blushed immediately and said softly, “I learned it all from you, Hiroshi-san. When you were filming 《Tongue Tip》, you even recorded the thickness of the morning mist. I thought I couldn’t be careless either.”
Yuichi Matsui couldn’t help but add, “This girl worked overtime until midnight every day to revise the script, and she even went to the old town to squat for three days, chatting with the artisans. She even found out exactly when Grandma Zhang’s sugar painting stall sets up.”
Hiroshi Nohara nodded, turned to the filming plan section of the script, and frowned slightly, “However, there are a few areas that could be adjusted further. For example, your plan to use the structure of ‘Overview of the Old Town + Artisan Interviews’ is safe, but it lacks a ‘hook’ to make the audience remember it.”
He pointed to a section in the script, “You wrote, ‘Filming Grandma Zhang making sugar paintings, from boiling the sugar to finishing the dragon shape, using a long take throughout.’ This idea is fine, but it lacks an ‘emotional anchor.’ When audiences watch documentaries, they don’t just want to know ‘how it’s done,’ they want to know ‘why it’s done that way’—Grandma Zhang has been making sugar paintings for thirty years. Is there a story hidden within? For example, is she waiting for a specific person to buy a sugar painting? Or does this craft have a special meaning for her?”
Sakurako Honda was stunned for a moment and looked down at the script, “I… I didn’t ask about those things. I thought if I filmed the crafting process clearly, the audience would like it.”
“The process is the skeleton, but emotion is the flesh and blood.”
Hiroshi Nohara placed the script on the table, leaning forward slightly, “Just like Mr. Yamada in 《Tongue Tip》, when we filmed her making Japanese sweets, we didn’t just film the kneading of the dough and the sifting of powdered sugar, but also that she left a piece of sakuramochi for her daughter every day, and the way her eyes welled up when she remembered her mother-in-law. These details made the audience feel ‘Mr. Yamada is like an elder from their own families,’ and they were moved.”
Yuichi Matsui stroked his chin and asked with confusion, “But the artisans in the old town are all very introverted. Last time I asked Grandma Zhang about her story, she just said, ‘Making sugar paintings is just to make a living,’ and didn’t want to talk much. What can we do?”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled, took out a notebook from his briefcase, opened it, and pushed it in front of them—it contained simple storyboards with a few lines of small text annotations.
“Here are a few ideas I thought of last night. Take a look.” He pointed to the first storyboard, “We don’t have to interview directly, but use ‘observational filming.’ For example, when filming Grandma Zhang boiling sugar, the camera can first focus on her hands—her hands have many calluses, and her finger joints are a bit deformed. Then, it slowly zooms out to show an old photo next to her, a photo of a little girl holding a sugar painting. She doesn’t have to say anything; the audience will naturally be curious, ‘Who is this little girl?’ We can then add a line in the narration, ‘Grandma Zhang’s granddaughter is studying in Osaka and only comes back during the New Year,’ and the sense of story will emerge.”
Everyone leaned in to look at the notebook, their eyes instantly lighting up. Hiroshi Kobayashi pointed to another storyboard, “Hiroshi-san, what do you mean by this ‘Sounds of the Old Town’ idea?”
“The sounds of the old town are very characteristic,” Hiroshi Nohara explained, “The sound of sweeping in the early morning, the sound of Grandma Zhang’s sugar spoon hitting the stone slab, the sound of Master Li’s hammer repairing shoes—these sounds can make the audience feel ‘immersed.’ We can use a three-minute ‘sound montage’ at the beginning, with no visuals, just these sounds, accompanied by a narration saying, ‘The sounds of this street have been echoing for fifty years,’ to draw the audience in emotionally.”
Ryuji Yamada couldn’t help but exclaim, “This idea is brilliant! In the past, when we filmed documentaries, we always thought about making the visuals beautiful, but forgot that sound can also tell stories. Last time we filmed 《Kanto Fishermen’s Song》, if we had thought of this earlier, the ratings would have definitely been a few points higher!”
Hiroshi Nohara flipped to the next page, which read “The Clash of Traditional Crafts and the Era.” “We can also add some contrast shots. For example, when filming Master Li repairing shoes, he uses old tools from decades ago, but next to them are sneakers sent by young people—this contrast of ‘old crafts repairing new items’ can lead to reflections on ‘whether traditional crafts need to change.’ Or, for instance, filming Grandpa Wang’s bamboo weaving shop. No one buys his bamboo baskets, but his granddaughter transformed them into flower pots, sold them online, and they became popular—this story can show the audience that traditional crafts don’t have to be confined to museums; they can have new vitality.”
Sakurako Honda quickly took notes with her pen, her pen tip almost unable to keep up with the ideas, “Hiroshi-san, your ideas are amazing! How did I never think of filming documentaries like this before?”
“Actually, these are all observed from life.”
Hiroshi Nohara closed the notebook, his tone still calm, “Last time I went to Kyoto to film Japanese sweets, I saw Mr. Yamada’s daughter taking photos of the Japanese sweets with her mobile phone and posting them as flyers. It made me think that tradition and modernity are never in opposition. When we film documentaries, we need to find these ‘connection points,’ so that the audience feels ‘traditional crafts are not far from them.’ Only then can we truly move them.”
The meeting room was silent for a few seconds, then erupted into enthusiastic discussion.
Yuichi Matsui slammed the table and said excitedly, “Hiroshi-kun, your ideas have directly elevated the script’s quality! I was worried before that ‘Old Town Exploration’ wouldn’t be watched by anyone, but now I can guarantee that if we film according to this approach, it will definitely be a hit!”
“Yes!” Hiroshi Kobayashi nodded, “That ‘sound montage,’ I can imagine the scene with my eyes closed now—the old street in the early morning, the sun hasn’t come out yet, only the sound of sweeping and the sound of the sugar spoon, it’s so atmospheric!”
Ryuji Yamada looked at Hiroshi Nohara, his eyes full of admiration, “Hiroshi-kun, you not only understand the content but also the audience’s psychology. In the past, when we filmed documentaries, we always thought about ‘telling the story we want to tell,’ but forgot ‘what the audience wants to see.’ Your suggestions are like a lesson for us.”
Sakurako Honda stood up and bowed deeply to Hiroshi Nohara, “Hiroshi-san, thank you! I always felt like I couldn’t film documentaries well before, but with your suggestions, I have the confidence to make ‘Old Town Exploration’ as good as 《Tongue Tip》!”
Hiroshi Nohara quickly asked her to rise, “You’re welcome, this is the result of everyone’s discussion. Sakurako has observational skills, Yuichi understands the history of the old town, Ryuji is good at coordination, and Hiroshi has good technical skills. As long as we combine these strengths, we will definitely produce good work.”
He paused and added, “Next week, when we go to Saitama to film the old bakery, you can also go and learn. Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi have been making bread for forty years, and their story is very representative—Mr. Takahashi used to be an office worker, and later, for his sick wife, he resigned and opened a bakery. He wakes up at 3 AM every day to knead dough, just so his wife can eat fresh bread. We can use ‘Companionship in the Aroma of Bread’ as the main theme, filming their interaction while kneading dough, filming his wife sitting in the shop eating bread. These details can move people.”
Yuichi Matsui immediately said, “We will definitely go! It’s our good fortune to learn documentary filmmaking from Hiroshi-kun!”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled, picked up the script from the table, and said, “Alright, Sakurako, please revise the script again based on today’s discussion, and we’ll meet again on Monday. Ryuji, you are responsible for contacting the artisans in the old town and explaining the filming approach to them, so they can feel at ease. Hiroshi, prepare the recording equipment and go to the old town next week to record the sounds. Yuichi…”
He arranged the work in an orderly fashion, his tone steady, and his thoughts clear.
Everyone in the meeting room listened attentively, their eyes devoid of the previous nervousness, replaced only by conviction and anticipation—they knew that by following Hiroshi Nohara, they could not only produce good work but also learn true documentary filmmaking techniques.
By the time the discussion ended, it was almost noon.
As everyone tidied up their belongings to leave, Hiroshi Nohara suddenly called out to Sakurako Honda, “Sakurako, there’s one more thing to pay attention to.”
Sakurako Honda stopped, “Hiroshi-san, please tell me.”
“When filming the old town, try to use natural light as much as possible.”
Hiroshi Nohara said, “The houses in the old town are relatively low, and the light and shadow from the sunlight filtering through the wooden windows are very special, more warm than artificial lighting. Also, when filming artisans at work, don’t have them smile at the camera; let them naturally do their own thing—genuine expressions have more power than forced smiles.”
He recalled the shots from 《A Bite of China》 on Earth in his previous life, where the focused work of farmers and artisans was more moving than any performance.
“I’ll remember!” Sakurako Honda nodded earnestly, “I’ll tell Hiroshi Kobayashi to pay more attention to the lighting and not to disturb the artisans while they work.”
Hiroshi Nohara watched her retreating figure and suddenly felt a surge of gratification.
He knew that these young people were like newly sprouted seeds; with the right guidance, they could grow into towering trees.
And what he had to do was to slowly pass on his experience from his previous life to them, so that documentaries in this world could have more warmth and more reality.
As he walked out of the meeting room, he encountered Shigeru Saito from the Technical Department in the corridor. He was holding a camera and said with a smile, “Hiroshi-kun, I heard a lot of lively discussion in the meeting room just now. Has the ‘Old Town Exploration’ proposal made new progress?”
“Yes, we’ve adjusted a few ideas, and it should be much better than before,” Hiroshi Nohara nodded, “Next week we’re going to Saitama to film the old bakery. I’ll have to trouble you to keep an eye on the technical aspects.”
“Don’t worry.”
Shigeru Saito adjusted his glasses, his tone full of admiration, “Working with you, I always learn new things. Last time we filmed 《Tongue Tip》, you said, ‘The fog should be filmed with a sense of breath,’ and I’m still pondering it—now I finally understand that a good shot isn’t about how beautiful it looks, but whether it can convey emotion.”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled without saying much.
This reverence for professionalism and obsession with detail were the keys to creating good work.
And he, with this dedication, would continue to tell more heartwarming stories in this world.
