Pokémon The Emboar Sushi Shop (One-Shot)

[Fennel]

The Emboar Sushi Shop

A restaurant critic attempts to review a highly acclaimed sushi restaurant.

Content Warnings: Strong language and alcohol consumption.
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George entered the restaurant at almost precisely midday.

The place itself was small. Ten polished stools were arranged around a wooden counter, each one giving a clear view into the open kitchen area. A drinks fridge sat humming away in a corner, filled with bottles of wine, sake and soft drinks. Various items such as bottles of soy sauce, cups, chopsticks and napkin dispensers for patrons to use sat on the countertop.

The room was sparsely decorated except a small, wilting potted plant and an old kanji calligraphy scroll hanging on the wall. A series of awards and certificates were stuck, unframed, discreetly onto a small patch of wall off in the far corner. A small notebook sat open on the countertop, facing towards the kitchen, as if someone had just been writing in it but had left to attend to some other matter a short while ago.

There was nobody inside except for George.

George slipped off his coat, sat down on one of the stools and took out a notebook and pen. He set them on the counter in front of him.

He was a young, slight, sandy-haired man in his late twenties.

Settling into his seat, he sat in silent contemplation for a while and waited for something to happen.

A minute ticked by.

And then another minute.

And then another minute.

“How can I help?”

George looked up to see someone standing behind the counter. An Emboar.

He struggled to hide his surprise as he ratcheted around his mind for something to say.

“I’m a restaurant critic,” he said eventually. “For a newspaper. Here.” He reached into his coat pocket, took out a small business card and placed it on the counter.

“I see,” said Emboar. He glanced at the card sitting on the countertop but didn’t pick it up. “We… weren’t expecting you.”

“Neither was I. But hey, I thought to myself, ‘why not take a chance on something new, right?’” George gave a short, barking laugh, which quickly faded into silence.

Emboar did not respond.

George cleared his throat. “Is this the menu?” He picked up a laminated piece of paper that was lying across from him on the counter.

Emboar watched George read.

“A critic for a newspaper?” Emboar said eventually. “That’s impressive.”

“Ah, some might think so,” said George, as he continued to look at the menu.

“Are you here to review us?” asked Emboar.

George raised his head to look at Emboar. “Well. Like I said. Taking chances. On something new.”

“I see,” Emboar said quietly.

Another moment passed as George perused the menu.

“Now,” said George, “can I order a drink?”

Emboar was silent.

“Or… am I going to have to get it myself?”

Silence again.

He blinked. “Looks like it’s self service here then, I guess.”

George got up from his seat and made his way over to the drinks fridge sitting in the corner of the room. He opened the door and, after a moment of deliberation, took out a silver bottle of sake and brought it back to his seat. He unscrewed the bottle and poured a generous slosh into a small cup. “Kampai,” he said, raising the glass and making eye contact with Emboar.

He downed the cup in one.

“A little early, isn’t it?” asked Emboar.

“I’m cutting back,” said George, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Besides, I’m allowed one with lunch.” He poured another glug of sake into the cup.

“Says who? Your work?”

“Yeah, sure, my work,” mumbled George. He took another swig from the cup. “The menu looks good. A shame, though…”

Emboar paused. “A shame… what?”

“A shame I can’t eat everything on here!” George gave a wide smile. “It all looks so good, you see.”

Emboar remained expressionless. “I can recommend the chef’s special platter.”

“The chef’s special? Here’s hoping the food is too, eh? Ha ha ha.”

There was silence.

George cleared his throat again and picked up his pen and notebook. “Anyway,” he started, his tone suddenly business-like. “Can you tell me more about this restaurant? How you came to own it, what your mission statement is? Were you… always interested in food?”

Emboar regarded George closely. “I think you know the answers to those questions already,” he said. “Haven’t you done your research?”

“Of course I have,” said George, unperturbed. “But I’d like to hear it from you. The readers would like to hear it from you.”

“What readers?”

“The readers of the newspaper I work at.” George tapped the business card that was still sitting on the counter. “I’m a restaurant critic, remember?”

“Is that relevant?”

George paused. “Of course it is. Like I said. I’m a critic. This is a restaurant. Ostensibly.” He picked up the bottle of sake and waggled it in front of Emboar’s face. “You can put two and two together.”

“You’re not here to review the restaurant,” said Emboar impassively.

George put the sake bottle down. Another pause. “No?”

“No.”

George shifted in his seat uncomfortably.“How do you know? I could be.”

Emboar regarded George with a steely gaze and thought over his words carefully. “You never were very good at play-acting.”

George blinked. His hands twitched and contracted into tight fists and opened again. He poured another cup of sake and drank it.

“And you always loved being up on your high horse,” he said quietly.

Emboar cleared his throat. “What does that mean?”

“You know what it means.”

Emboar paused. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

There was silence as George stared at the countertop, clasping the sake cup. The only sound was the drinks fridge, humming away from the corner of the room.

Emboar cleared his throat. “I have to say, this is quite the unorthodox approach for a restaurant review.”

George exhaled. “Cut the crap. We’re not kids anymore.”

“Mm.” Emboar nodded. “That’s true. That was a long time ago. We’ve moved on. Haven’t we?” He looked at George pointedly.

“Maybe some of us have,” said George. “Easy for you, isn’t it? You’ve obviously done well for yourself. All this.” He gestured with his hand.

“I’m flattered.”

“Very pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

Emboar paused at the abruptness of George’s question.

“Mum was,” George continued. “Pleased with you, that is. She always was, you know.” George picked up the half-empty sake bottle and swished the contents around. “So proud.”

Emboar shifted slightly on his feet. “Ah. Should I apologise?”

“No.” George set the bottle down. “Don’t apologise. I don’t want you to.”

“Then what do you want?”

George gave a short, sharp exhale. “Like you’d care.”

“I’m asking,” said Emboar. “And you won’t gain anything by being petulant.”

“Right, petulant,” said George. “As if.”

Emboar gave a small sigh. “I can’t-“

“What’s that?” George interrupted. He pointed at the scroll hanging on the wall off to the side of the room. Emboar turned to look.

“A traditional calligraphy scroll. From Johto.”

“Bought it at some kind of flea market, did you?”

“No,” said Emboar. “It was a gift. From my instructor. For completing my training.”

“Training?” said George incredulously. He picked up a napkin and started twisting it in his hands. “You’re a sushi chef, not a brain surgeon.”

“I had to train for years,” said Emboar. “Studying under master chefs who’ve been working to perfect the craft all their life.”

“Uh huh. A lot to learn, is there?”

“More than you’d think,” said Emboar. He had a solemn expression on his face. “Knifework…”

“Oh, really?”

“Manipulating ingredients…”

“Fascinating.”

“Sourcing produce…”

“Mmhmm.”

“Plating and presentation...”

“Wow. Sounds great.”

Emboar paused. “You should know all about that, though. Shouldn’t you? Being a restaurant critic.”

“I do know all about that,” George retorted. “It’s just… odd. Seeing you talk about those things too. Mum was just the same about food too.”

“She was crazy about it.”

“Yeah,” George said. “No wonder we both ended up the way we did.”

Emboar nodded.

“And what does it say then, anyway?” George motioned to the wall. “The scroll.”

“It says ‘Ikigai.’”

“Right, right. Of course.” George looked down at the twisted, crumpled napkin in his hands and gave another short, sharp exhale. “Pretentious bollocks,” he mumbled.

Emboar said nothing but continued to look at George, his expression a little softer. “I know it can’t have been easy for you to come here today.”

George remained silent and stared at his napkin.

“And maybe you’re regretting it already,” said Emboar.

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“For what it’s worth. I am sorry. Truly.”

George looked up with a bemused expression on his face. His demeanour relaxed a little. “Why?”

“It can’t have been an easy time for you,” said Emboar. “I know you were… I know you always found things difficult.”

“Well. Whose fault was that, I wonder?” George started ripping tiny shreds of paper off the napkin and letting them fall onto the counter.

“I said I was sorry,” said Emboar quietly. “Mum found it difficult too, you know.”

“Mum was proud of you,” said George testily. “Proud to have a family that was so different from everyone else’s. Proud to have a Pokemon for a son.”

Emboar let out a small sigh. “Maybe you didn’t know,” he said.

“Didn’t know what?”

“What things were like before she died. Things were… different.”

“Well,” said George. “That’s true, is it? Or maybe it isn’t. Obviously no one bothered to tell me. No one cared to keep me in the loop.”

“Oh no? You’ve not changed at all.” Emboar smiled for the first time. “You still are a proper self-indulgent bastard, aren’t you?”

“You what?” George dropped the tattered remains of the napkin and grasped his empty sake cup as if he were about to pick it up and throw it. He locked his gaze with Emboar’s, who remained, unflinchingly, standing in place.

“You could have reached out to us sooner if you wanted to,” said Emboar. “But you didn’t. Not because you were angry.”

“Oh? Why, then?”

“Because,” continued Emboar. “You wanted to feel sidelined. Didn’t you? So you could keep on playing the victim. That’s why you never reached out to Mum and I.”

“Mum and me.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s mum and me. Not mum and I.”

“Stop it, George.”

“You stop it!” said George, slamming his cup of sake down on the counter, his voice suddenly loud and furious. “Playing the fucking victim? I got the shit bullied out of me every single day because of you. All those kids, calling me names, beating the shit out of me, making my life a misery… them off playing with their Pokemon like… like pets while I was forced to sit next to you and treat you like you were a real person. Like a real human being... How do you think that made me feel? Having to live with… with…”

The look on Emboar’s face was impassive. “With me as a brother?”

George mumbled something intelligible and poured another slosh of sake into his cup.

“Like I said,” said Emboar. “I know it was hard for you.”

“Well. A bit of support would have been nice,” said George. “I mean, you’re a Pokemon who can talk, for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t you ever stand up for me? Or stand up for yourself?”

“It wasn’t that simple.”

“Why not?”

“It…” Emboar paused. “You don’t know. Being different like that. It was a different time. We all struggled.”

“Yeah,” said George. “We did.”

“I could ask you the same question as well, though,” Emboar said.

“What’s that?”

“When did you ever stand up for me?”

George was silent as he mulled the words over in his head. “It…” he started. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“Aha.”

“I was always just trying to fit in,” mumbled George. “It was hard enough with everything else going on. Mum fawning over you every opportunity she got and me trying to stay out of the way. Having to fend for myself all the time. It was… it…”

“It was hard for everyone,” Emboar concluded.

George nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Emboar sighed. “I felt bad for Mum. She had it rough too.”

George looked down at his hands. “Yeah, I know.”

“She always stuck to her guns, though.”

“Yeah.”

“And she loved us. Even when it wasn’t easy.”

“Hmm.”

“She was…” Emboar paused. “She wasn’t perfect.”

“Well.” George took a sip of sake. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“Especially towards the end,” Emboar said. “She became… difficult.”

“Yeah.” George looked away. “I heard one or two things, I guess.”

“And I…” Emboar paused. “I probably could have protected you a little better.”

“Yeah. Maybe so.”

Emboar clasped one of his claw-like hands in the other. “But you had friends. I didn’t. Remember?”

“Some friends they were,” said George, picking up the shredded napkin again. “You should have heard some of the stuff they’d say about you.”

“I heard,” said Emboar. “I heard it all.”

Silence hung in the air as the two brothers looked away from each other, not making eye contact.

“I should probably apologise, right?” George said quietly.

“It’s okay,” said Emboar. “We all had to try our best under difficult circumstances.”

“Oh, god.” George put his head in his hands. “Enough with the fucking platitudes. I fucking hate myself enough these days as it is.” He rubbed his face vigorously and looked at Emboar again, blinking. Emboar stood there, looking back at him. “Why aren’t you more angry?” said George. “Why aren’t you angry at me? Or Mum?”

Emboar remained impassive. “I don’t have the capacity to be angry anymore. Despite everything we had to go through. The only person left who has that ability is you.”

“That’s easily done.”

“You learn to forgive,” continued Emboar. “You learn to forgive others and yourself. Mum and I… we forgave each other whatever went on. Before she died.”

“Dear god.” George sighed and downed another glug of sake. “How am I supposed to know that? I’m losing the plot here.”

“Maybe you are,” said Emboar. “But let me ask you. You obviously didn’t come here to eat. Or to raid what’s left of my drinks fridge. So what is it you want from me? Sympathy? An apology? Forgiveness?”

George set the cup down on the counter.

“The last thing Mum wanted…” began George, slowly. “Was for us to get back on good terms again.”

“That’s a good enough reason to have come here.”

“No, it’s not,” said George. “It’s stupid. And pointless. Because I’m too late, aren’t I?”

“Are you?”

George glared at Emboar. “Of course it is. Why would anyone think otherwise?”

“Because you did come,” said Emboar. “You came. Even though you thought it was too late. Why?”

George paused in quiet contemplation. “I have no idea.” He picked up the sake bottle and stared at the label. “I honestly have no idea.”

“I think that still counts for something,” Emboar said quietly. “I think it might still say something about you and how you feel.”

Both of them were quiet for a moment.

Emboar glanced towards the scroll hanging on the wall. “Do you know what that means?”

George looked up. “What, the scroll? Yeah, you said. ‘Ickiness’… ‘Ecky-thump’… something like that.”

“‘Ikigai,’” Emboar intoned slowly. “Life-worth. It means finding what you’re good at, what you’re passionate about. And finding meaning in life through doing it.”

“That’s cute,” said George. “I’m hardly as successful as you are, though, am I? I’m a restaurant critic for a small-town newspaper. And also sometimes the mail boy. And tea maker. And office Secret Santa organiser. And you’ve gotten awards for your work. Probably more than I’ll ever hope to achieve in my life.”

Emboar shook his head. “Ikigai isn’t about material success or achievements. It’s about finding a sense of meaning and purpose through doing something that you love. And for that thing to be something that the world truly needs.”

George gave a short, dry laugh. “Well,” he started, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “The world definitely needs more restaurant critics, right? We’re the lifeblood of the local economy, I’m sure.”

Emboar ploughed on. “You enjoy what you do, don’t you?”

“Sure. It’s a living.”

“You always wanted to write.”

George exhaled. “I mean, yes, sure. And I like writing about food. Thanks to Mum. So yeah, I guess.”

“And they pay you for it.”

“Hah. Barely.”

“And it contributes something to the world.”

“I’m very doubtful I’m making the world a better place by writing about crap wine and poncey restaurants who don’t know how to sear steak.”

“The world needs writers. The world needs artists.”

“Ah, right.” George straightened up in his seat and glared at Emboar. “And let me guess. You’re one of them, right? An artist? The world needs sushi chefs, too?”

Emboar nodded. “Absolutely.”

George scoffed and then looked slightly ashamed of himself.

Emboar crossed his arms. “I’m just a Pokemon, so what do I know? But maybe… maybe you can give yourself permission to be a little bit kinder to yourself. Practice a little bit of self-forgiveness. Is that what you came here hoping for?”

George exhaled. “At the very least, I hoped I could come here and score a free drink off you.”

Emboar smiled. “That’s completely up to you.”

“Good. Because I’m having one regardless.” George poured another measure of sake and took a swig from the cup.

Emboar regarded George with a curious, almost sympathetic look. “You’ve done well for yourself. And Mum was proud of you,” he said. “Even if she didn’t always show it.”

“I’m going to need a little more convincing than that,” said George. “I was always rubbish at cooking. Better at criticising and judging other people’s efforts. Like hers.”

“She liked that, though,” said Emboar.

“Hah. Hardly a reason to be proud of me though, is it? Getting on her case for not brining the Christmas turkey properly and making Aunt Gloria cry.”

“But she was proud. And you know it, don’t you?” said Emboar, leaning towards George slightly. “Deep down. Even if you’ve chosen to believe otherwise. Why else would you have come here today?”

“I don’t know,” said George. “I got my free drink, didn’t I?”

“Mm. And how does it taste?”

“Honestly?” George drank the last of the sake from the cup. “It’s terrible. Just awful.”

Emboar smiled. “I know.”

“It… it just tastes awful. And it burns. Not even really in a nice way.”

“Yeah,” Emboar said. “It’ll do that. We normally serve it with food, however.”

“Ah, yes.” George put his cup down on the counter. “Food. Am I going to be able to taste your amazing, award-winning sushi or not?”

Emboar smiled. “You didn’t come here to eat, George.”

“Oh? Didn't I?”

“No.” Emboar’s grin grew wider. “You didn’t.”

George grinned back. “You really think you’ve got my number, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” said Emboar, still grinning. “You always were jealous of my powers of deduction.”

“Well, you were always the golden child,” said George.

“You were more popular than you think,” said Emboar.

“You ended up being the big family success.”

“You found a good job in the end.”

“You were always mum’s favourite.”

“You could never let people into your life to help you.”

Instead of retorting, George looked into Emboar’s eyes. The Pokemon’s normally hard, steely expression was instead soft and a little sad. George’s hands contracted and he gave a loud sniff.

“I…” George said.

“I know,” said Emboar. “It’s okay.”

“I just…”

“It’s okay to forgive yourself once in a while.”

George sniffed again. “But…it’s so hard.”

“Yeah,” said Emboar. “It’s supposed to be.”

“I’m… I’ve been…” George struggled to get the words out. “I’ve been an absolute dickhead. To you and to Mum. I’m sorry.”

Emboar nodded and gave a wry smile. “I know.”

“But… I’m here,” said George, his voice trembling. “And I’m trying. I know it’s too late,” said George, as a single tear slid down his cheek. “But I’m trying.”

Emboar leaned forward and smiled, the slightest hint of a twinkle in his eye. “I know.”

George screwed up his eyes and shook his head. He rubbed his face hard. When he opened his eyes, blinking as his vision adjusted to the bright, hazy light, he took another glug of sake and paused for a moment, concentrating on the warm, burning sensation hitting the back of his throat and steadily slipping down into his stomach.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from behind George. He turned around in his seat to see a young woman, blonde and in her mid-twenties, standing in the doorway, dressed in a simple overcoat and carrying a large empty crate underneath her arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry. No, no, I’m good, thanks.” George quickly stood up as if to leave. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” said the woman. She regarded George with a curious look. “Can I ask what you’re doing here? How did you get in?”

“Um.” George cleared his throat. “The door was unlocked.”

“Oh. That’ll be Sandra,” said the woman. “She’s so careless with locking up, especially now when there’s no-one been in here since…” She nodded towards the kitchen preparation area behind the counter. George turned to look as well.

It appeared to be deserted.

“Right, of course.” said George, struggling for something cogent to say. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Erm… I’m a restaurant critic, by the way. Here’s my card.”

“Oh,” the woman said, taking the card from him. “But… you know we’re closing down now, right? I don’t think there’s anything here you can…” She looked closer at the card. “The Lacunosa Journal,” she read aloud.

“‘Putting the Story in History!’ Or so we say at the office. Ha ha ha…”

George’s awkward, shaky laugh slowly trailed off into silence.

The woman ignored George and continued to peer at the card. “That’s funny. Emboar was from Lacunosa.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know him?”

George hesitated. “Yes. For a long time, actually. And then for a long time… not.” George paused. “And then I did, again… maybe. For a little bit.”

“Oh.” The woman shifted on her feet, unsure of how to respond. George gave a small cough.

“Well…” she said eventually. “I have to make a start on clearing this place out and sorting through the stock… we’re handing over to the new owners in a week.”

Her gaze shifted to the open bottle of sake sitting on the counter.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” George put on his coat with haste. “And sorry. I can pay for that.” He reached into his pocket, took out a banknote and placed it on the counter.

“Thanks,” said the woman. “Nice meeting you.”

“And you. Be seeing you, now.” George gave a little salute. The woman smiled weakly in response and walked past George, across the room and through a doorway that presumably led to a back room.

George was left alone in the restaurant.

He took a moment to take in the space: the polished wooden countertop, the bottles of soy sauce sitting next to compact wooden boxes of pickled ginger, the incongruous retro napkin dispensers that looked like they had been salvaged from a 1950’s diner.

George’s eyes came to rest on the scroll hanging on the wall to the side of the counter: one of the very few items of decoration that adorned the otherwise modestly fitted-out room.

‘Ikigai’

In that moment, George was suddenly overcome by a desire to unclip the scroll off the wall and sprint out of the exit as quickly as possible. He had never stolen anything in his life, and yet here he was, fighting an irresistible, brazen and slightly drunken urge to take the scroll and run away as quickly as he could.

Rather than acting on this impulse, George froze. He was alarmed by the suddenness in which this thought had overcome him and how tempting it had been to act on it without any forethought or regard for the consequences.

Gradually, the reassuring ebb of rational thought started to wash over his mind again. He wouldn’t have known what to do with the thing, much less want to display it or put it up in his home, so why on earth would he want to take it?

No - taking the scroll was an absurd notion, and George felt a flush of guilt for having allowed himself to entertain the idea, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. Quite apart from taking something that wasn’t his, he had a nagging feeling that he had no credible reason to even be in here in the first place. At least, no reason that made sense to him at this moment.

And yet, he could not bring himself to move his feet and leave this place, so quiet and empty, with the drinks fridge full of unopened bottles still humming away in the corner and pairs of chopsticks sitting ready and waiting on the countertop. Waiting as though they might be picked up by hungry patrons about to stroll in through the door at any moment, greeted by the sight of a chef working away in the kitchen preparing small, perfect plates of sashimi and nigiri.

George stood, a little unsteady on his feet, in the middle of the empty restaurant.

A minute ticked by.

And then another minute.

And then another minute.

George took his seat on the stool again. A heavy silence hung over the restaurant as he sat, alone, eyes closed, replaying conversations and possibilities inside his head, with nothing but a bottle of sake, an old laminated menu and an empty kitchen sitting in front of him.