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January 20, 2025

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My two regulars argue about the station’s council as I make ramen for a new customer seated next to them. It isn’t their usual discussion. They’re holding back raised voices and choice words. It’s a busy night, though; all eight seats of my Yatai filled.

 

I flick soba dry with the strainer and pour them in a bowl. My opposite hand grabs the ladle to smother the noodles in amber broth. The salty fish smell blooms in the air. I turn to snatch printed pork slices out of the warmer. Bean sprouts and diced scallions follow, coloring the meal.

 

Setting the bowl in front of them, the new customer presses her hands together in thanks, cracks chopsticks apart, and digs in. Their noodle slurp joins the chorus of the other customers.

 

I catch my regulars’ conversation then.

 

“Jacobson doesn’t stand for workers. He’s a coward,” Toshi says, tapping his fingers against the bar top.

 

“He’s not.” Anger touches Sunil’s voice like hints of hot pepper in broth. “He can’t do anything on his own.”

 

“I know for a fact that Yates and Mori would go along with him.”

 

Before they continue, I ask for their starters. Toshi orders the kimchi pork. Sunil choses oden with daikon. Better for the stomach, he says, to Toshi’s grimace.

 

Everything is nearby in my little food stall. In front, the eight seats aligned in a L. Hot plates hold the dented pots of broth. Boiling water to my left. The stewing pan for the oden to the right, closest to the customers. Cold beer and sake underneath the counter. Above, chopsticks in a little canister next to the payment terminal. On the only shelf, a cheap television played the live Gravity game at Io Arena.

 

I pluck Sunil’s order from the stewing broth with tongs and it’s in front of him before he replies to Toshi.

 

For the kimchi pork, my Sujihiki knife cuts the printed meat into little strips with ease before I toss it onto the oiled pan. The meat sears with the charred crackle only an iron pan can release. As it cooks, I fetch the kimchi, stir the jar, and spoon it onto the pork. The white meat turns a spicy red and flavors strike the air. Out of my peripheral vision, I see envious patrons look on, even those with food of their own. I give Toshi his order.

 

The pair eat. But when they finish, all too quickly, their argument restarts.

 

“Did you hear the recording? Shit-talking every hard-earning man on this station,” Toshi says through a last mouthful of pork. “Jacobson wouldn’t last a day hauling asteroids or keeping the air pressurized.”

 

“That was out of context. Listen to the rest of it and it’ll make sense.”

 

“If I’m one of his CEOs. Sure.”

 

They’ve eaten at my stall for years. Almost since I first opened. They would come after a long day of work, on weekends, with their families; I see them more than some friends. They would leave with stomachs full, singing a work song arm in arm, or at the very least relaxed after a long day. Lately, it was hard to keep that tempo.

 

They could have gone to automated machines, as many did. Cheaper. Less commitment. No interaction save the walk back to the habitation rings to sit alone. But they chose to come here.

 

I don’t have to ask what else they want. I know.

 

I place two white bowls next to each other, blue styling rings the edges of each. Soy sauce comes first, strained and cleansed, then on top of it the broth, mixing the colors until a deep salty brown emerges. Little globes of oil sprinkle the crest.

 

“I can’t believe you’re supporting him. After all he’s done.” Toshi stares at Sunil. The edge of a shouting match layers his words.

 

“You just can’t see beyond your own little bubble. If you read what he’s done behind the scenes—”

 

“Behind the scenes? Are you kidding? That’s all he ever does. Says one thing and does the opposite when it serves him.”

 

Would these friends break apart due to a politician? Those crooks have been the way they are since humans first got the idea to put someone in charge.

 

“If you can’t see all he does, I don’t know what to say.”

 

“I definitely see what he does. Yet people like you still vote for him.”

 

Their voices inch higher in volume, dragging the eyes of my other customers over to them. I can tell it’s about more than a politician. It’s more than a disagreement.

 

“I vote for him because I think he’s a better man than you give him credit for.”

 

They’re scared.

 

The noodles slide into the bowls and the broth swamps their pale color with only a hint left at the top. I load their bowls with the pork, the scallions, and the bean sprouts, more than I usually do. Then, their favorite, Zero-G Truffles. Sliced on a mandolin, I layer them like a spread of cards across the edge of the plate.

 

Toshi abandons his reply when I present their bowls. They both grab, say thanks, and are soon slurping up the noodles in a meditative silence while I handle a customer sitting down at a newly empty seat.

 

Minutes pass before either speak again. Now, about the game on the screen. I hear laughter finally instead of anger as I’m slicing more pork. I can tell the warmth of the broth seeps into them, past the cold of the station, loosening the stress across their bodies and in their minds.

 

They drain the last of the broth in unison, pay, say their goodbyes, and walk off together.

 

Still friends.

 

For now.

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

At The Yatai on Kuiper Station Nine

Food breaking through the fear

Joshua Mannix

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