The Taste of Home Sweet Home - SCP Foundation

Have you heard of Omoide Yokocho? It’s a little alleyway located in Shinjuku, Tokyo. It’s chock full of bars and yakitori stands, and it has operated as the perfect tourist spot for many years. People flock to it, thinking the place’s narrow streets and discordant style makes it some sort of cyberpunk-esque refuge. In truth, the only dystopian thing about the place are the prices of the food. The whole cyberpunk deal is derisory: The place has remained mostly unchanged since the 50s, a portal into the distant past, rather than the future. Guess that’s why it’s called the ‘Alley of memories’. Not like the 50s were the best memories to keep in place, but to each their own…

Amidst the noise of drunk people and the sizzling of the chicken, a man walked past it all, as determined as he was lost. He didn’t look any different from the many patrons and drunkards that roamed the streets, and yet something about him made him look special, a Moses parting a mob sea, shoving people to the sides until he saw what he had come for in front of him.

It was a dingy-looking restaurant, Hinata had to admit, not the kind of place he would ever visit, but he knew he had to be here. He didn’t know why: He just knew.

With the cold winter wind pushing behind him, he was left with no choice but to enter the place.

He stepped in, and as he did, he was greeted by two sights: One, a distinct lack of anything palpable within, darkness enveloping the whole place, safe for a single table, and a single chair. The second was the waiter standing next to him, ready to greet him.

“Welcome, good sir, to the Brother’s RestaurantFoodstuffs. Please, take a seat.”

The waiter seemed familiar, although he couldn’t figure out why. Had he seen him before?

“Hm? Something wrong?” The waiter asked. Hinata shook his head, driving the strange thoughts away before stepping into the shadows, towards the only table. He was surprisingly calm, despite the weirdness of the place. Maybe it was the smell, or the fireplace over there. It was the same kind of fireplace of his old home. He remembered it well, as there aren’t many in Japan, unless you like in Hokkaido or somewhere like that. Odd thing: What would be the point of it, in the middle of the Tokyo metropolis?

Hinata didn’t give it any more attention, and sat down, turning to- Huh? The Waiter had disappeared, slipped into the shadows. Maybe to get the menu? Or for the kitchen? But… Where was the kitchen, even? He could only see potted plants near the windows, those cheesy sweaters on each of them, something his mother used to buy for the little things. The wind chime played a tune, the chilly winter wind allowing for the melody of the answering machine to mix with the metallic, actually-nice-to-listen-to sounds of the trinket.

He looked down, and saw that ugly carpet she loved so much. Ugh, she would kill him for stepping on it with his dirty, ugly shoes. She was more of a sandal woman, of course. Everyone at her age is.

The house’s doorbell rang, making Hinata turn towards the entrance. Who could it be at this time of day? Don’t they know it’s Christmas?

Wait. Yeah, it’s… It’s Christmas.

But wasn’t he at a restaurant?

“Here you go, sir.” And just as Hinata felt like he had struck gold, or perhaps something else entirely, the waiter returned, placing a plate of food and a glass of some sort of drink on the table. He turned to it, and he was back in the shadows.

The patron looked at the serving incredulously. “I haven’t ordered anything.”

“This is not a place of orders, good sir.” The waiter explained, before removing the cloche, presenting Hinata a simple congee-style dish. “This is a place of experiences.”

Before Hinata could muster another word, the waiter disappeared. He looked at the food in front of him, unsure. He was hungry, but was he hungry enough to consume something he hadn’t ordered?

The answer was yes, because he knew what was in front of him: Nanakusa-gayu. A congee-like porridge with 7 herbs added, eaten on the 7th of January because of something luck-related that had to do with religion. Hinata couldn’t say he remembered it much, but he did remember his mother served it to him every 7th, because it was good luck. And who wouldn’t want to start the New Year with a bit of extra luck?

“When was the last time I ate this?” Hinata wondered before taking a spoonful. The soft porridge slowly dripped out the utensil, a futile attempt to escape its fate, like a misbehaving kid, picking up and hiding the pieces of a china plate he broke, attempting to escape his parent’s wrath, unsuccessfully.

The taste was immaculate, fleshy yet crispy, warm, but not enough, flavors melting inside his mouth, the tends-to-be insipid rice being strengthened by the parsley and the turnip. It wasn’t a particularly amazing dish, but it worked as the perfect entrée. It helped Hinata remember those times, in that Frankestein month composed of late-December and early-January where the family gathered together. There were no business trips, no sudden plans, no nothing. Just calm and peace, eating fusion cuisine in front of the fireplace. In front of the people closest to him.

Once done, he moved onto the drink, almost having forgotten it was there in the first place. He took a quick whiff, and oh, it was eggnog. Of course it was. It was the perfect season for it, no? And it wasn’t any normal eggnog, not that it wasn’t really a common drink here: It was his father’s recipe. He could recognize this cold garbage anywhere. Cognac, a tinge of brandy, and a hint of vanilla extract. It wasn’t anything out of this world, but it was definitely more nog than egg. The pungent aroma was strong, but the taste was far stronger.

On a normal occasion like this, Hinata wouldn’t have chosen to drink. He wasn’t a fan of alcohol, really. Before he could even realize what he was doing, however, the drink had been downed. God, that was foul. His throat burned. Rice porridge and eggnog don’t go well together. Yet perhaps, that’s what made the combination work so well. He remembered when his father would put a tinge of booze here and there, like in Hinata’s drink, or the fruit punch at his brother’s high school, or inside that small flask he carried everywhere, his little fetish toy that would make him ‘luckier’, and, well, when he T-boned that van, drunk out his mind… Dad didn’t seem as lucky then.

“How have you been enjoying the dishes?” The waiter asked, again resurfacing from the shadows.

“They’re… They’ve been good.” Hinata responded, not even realizing the plurality of the question. As he would soon realize, the congee had been taken away, replaced by another cloched dish. “And this?”

“Your next experience, of course.” The waiter explained. With the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving only the uncloched piece: A small gingerbread house.

The gingerbread house was really simple, the kind you’d buy at the store for a quick buck and build on the kitchen counter, trying your best to use the small packets of icing to keep the thing welded together, but it’s never enough, and the house comes tumbling down, and you try again, and it falls again, and now the pieces are broken you give up and eat the crumbs as is. The kind of food that is bought not for the taste, or to even enjoy a good meal, but because…

Because of the experience.

As his brain began wrapping around the idea of this place, Hinata tried the gingerbread house, not thinking too hard about what he was experiencing, nor about the changing environment, the familiar smell, the sweet residues tickling the interior of his mouth. The ‘main dish’ was certainly not as inspired as the previous parts, but there was a bittersweet taste that kept making him go for an extra bite, a bigger and bigger piece of the house that he would put on his mouth and chew, destroying the veranda and the entrance, breaking apart the screen on each window, swallowing furniture whole, past the entrance, through the main room, into the dinner room, cracking bedrooms and bathrooms open, leaving no trace of what was once a fairly well constructed building.

With each bite, he remembered: His sister’s birthday, his mother’s mother’s anniversary, the day he graduated high school, and they had ice cream cake and it was delicious, of the time his father got into a fight with their neighbors over their dog trashing their patio, of the day his brother’s left the house, and there was one empty room in the house, and they would soon use the space to store boxes, but the bed? No, the bed remained untouched, because there would always be a place to return to. His mother would always say that, and it made him as happy as it ticked him off, that stupid mantra of hers.

He never returned. And why would he, after dad crashed the car? After he killed that family? After the family that he didn’t kill fell apart? Soon dad was no more, and mom began losing the few marbles she still had and each sibling drifted away from each other, like the walls of this now ravaged candy house, its gumdrops and canes splattered like bodies in a crime scene, waiting for the deputy to put down the markers, the drunk driver escorted to the back of the vehicle.

Hinata stopped, and looked down at the plate. Only crumbs and icing remained, spread all around what remained of the ware. The plate was chipped, claw marks having broken it into pieces. It looked like a wild beast had been eating from it. A human being couldn’t have done this. Something had taken over him, consuming the broken memories and mixing them together, making them whole inside of him. Things were starting to make sense. There was purpose in the madness.

“How have you been enjoying the dishes?” And after what Hinata believed was another moment of lucidity, the waiter returned, another cloche in hand.

“It… It was filling.” And it really was. He felt full of… Full of feelings, sensations, both familiar and not his own. They were someone else’s. Several people’s. A family’s worth.

“And how was the dining experience?”

“Unlike any other.” Hinata replied matter-of-factly. It felt hypnotizing, as if someone else had replied to the waiter, not him. This wasn’t him. Something else resided inside his head now; he could feel it. There was a hand inside his head, pushing outwards. Would it get out? He couldn’t know.

“That is good to know. Here, at this prestigious restaurant, we pride ourselves in always giving our customers an experience they will not forget; an experience so immaculate, with taste unlike any other, that dining will forever change for them.”

And it had indeed. Something had changed. A door had been opened, and now Hinata could see it, the reason why he had decided to come here, on Christmas day. Why he felt the need to escape, and not look back. A memory had resurfaced, and with it, the last puzzle piece fell into place. He knew what to do next with… With the omiyage he was about to receive now.

“Ah, right, here’s the last dish.” The waiter replied, knowing what Hinata was thinking, and lifted the cloche, revealing a small gift, the size of an advent calendar. “The souvenir you are looking for.”

“Thanks.” Hinata replied, accepting the gift with a bow. The waiter bowed in response, before letting Hinata go.

“Enjoy the rest of your life, good sir.” And with that, Hinata turned around, and was met with the alley of memories: The smell of fiberglass and broken verandas and leaking motor oil was replaced with the smell of cheap chicken and even cheaper alcohol.

Hinata turned around once more, and was met with an empty lot. The restaurant had fulfilled its role, and so it was no more. Hinata would question it, but he could feel the effect in real-time, the memories of the restaurant disappearing bit by bit. There had never been a waiter, or an establishment, or a seat, or a table, or porridge, or eggnog, or a gingerbread house. Soon, there was nothing but a packaged omiyage in his hands.

Hinata looked down at it, a familiar feeling coming to him as he intently stared at it. Something was coming to his mind.

Hinata stared at the neat Christmas-themed packaging for half a minute before smiling.

“Wonder if mom’ll like it.”

Hinata began moving again, pulling out his phone, quickly buying a plane ticket to his hometown. To where his mother still lived, in that rickety old house he once called home. To the place he might call home once again, if only for a day.