“THE next time you come back during your holidays, I promise I’ll take you for a good Japanese buffet as you’re the only one who has yet to try out that place,” said dad when I phoned home one night.
Dad was relating how he’d finally relented and taken my sister out for a Japanese dinner after weeks of pestering. It was not because he couldn’t afford it (although he would complain how pricey such cuisine is). It was mainly because dad doesn’t enjoy Japanese food and raw fish tends not to sit well with his “Chinaman” stomach.
“I don’t understand why you and your sister like Japanese food so much, especially you. What’s so nice about raw fish?” asked dad, as I continued raving about how much I enjoyed munching pieces of over-priced raw fish, nostril-burning wasabi, and pieces of pancake.
Little does dad know why I love Japanese cuisine. Sure, the buttery taste of tuna belly when it melts in my mouth has something to do with it, but there is another reason.
When we were much younger, going out for a Japanese meal was considered a sort of “luxury”. Dad has always been frugal; coming from humble beginnings, he had worked his way up to where he is today. Therefore, he could never understand why one would pay such exorbitant prices for a simple meal. It definitely didn’t help that all his three children have relatively expensive tastes.
Despite all that, dad being dad, he did take us out for Japanese food when we were younger. I was always so excited when the kimono-clad girls greeted us with megawatt smiles as we entered the restaurant. I remember the excitement of having to remove our shoes to sit on the tatami. What I was most excited about was ordering my own bento box for dinner!
Dad knew an eight-year-old would not be able to finish a whole bento set. But he knew better than to go against stubborn and adamant me.
So when the lady in the kimono came to take our orders, I proudly asked for a large bento box despite her raising an eyebrow. I felt so grown up.
When it arrived, I started chomping down my scrumptious meal. Ten minutes later, I was already full, and most of the food was still untouched. In the end, dad had to not only finish his own meal but also mine, and my brother’s and sister’s – which were untouched as well!
Then I wanted a okonomiyaki (Japanese pancake). Dad said since I already couldn’t finish my food, it would be wasteful to order that.
Nope, that didn’t convince me. We finally came to an agreement when he promised to make me one the next day, although he had no idea how to.
The following day, I happily welcomed dad home from work, expecting him to make me my very own okonomiyaki. However, he explained that he hadn’t had the time to look for a recipe. I threw a fit.
Dad then called his best friend (an amateur Japanese cook) for a recipe. The next thing I knew, he’d gone out in search of the required ingredients for the pancake.
Later that evening, the kitchen was filled with the smell of fresh pan-fried okonomiyaki batter. I stood by the door, quietly watching dad. He was happily humming along whilst flipping the pancakes like an amateur cook.
When he finished, he even topped them with liberal amounts of fish flakes (katsuobushi) to make them look authentic and pretty!
Needless to say, dad became my “go-to” person whenever I wanted something new to satisfy my palette.
Nowadays, whenever I go for a Japanese meal, I cannot help but think of the time when dad made me my very own okonomiyaki. What touched my heart wasn’t the food itself, but the actions of a loving and doting father.
Dad has been my rock for 24 years. I don’t see it changing, ever. Being a single father wasn’t easy at first, especially during my “rebellious” years. Thank goodness I’ve outgrown that phase and made his life a little easier.
“Thank you” can barely express the gratitude I have for dad and everything he has done for my siblings and me.
People tend to talk about a mother’s love. However, a father’s love and dedication cannot be overlooked as well.
So, when’s our next Japanese meal, daddy?
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