Teriyaki

I once knew a girl named Lucy. She was tall and slender – just how I loved my girls back then – her collar bone jutted from her neck like a flamboyant fountain of water, with a droplet forming a dimple on her chin. Of oval shaped face that complemented her soft sturdy lips which curled into an ‘O’ whenever she said “Eish!” to reveal a white enamel that danced to the slide of her saliva like piano keys. She had tan hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, with round glasses that hid her tiny eyes. Of desert sand skin and curvaceous hips that swirl to the laughter of the wind, and wrinkles that formed creases on her cheeks whenever her lips parted into a smile.
How I wished to kiss her for every night we sailed away sleep on starry skies and warm pillow phone talks, worlds apart. We talked of a house painted pink somewhere in the middle of nowhere, with a lawn of green grass and yellow flowers, a swing-couch on the verandah that she would sometimes sit on while sipping wine and I whiskey as we indulged over lifestyle magazines. A green doormat with a silver lining written ‘welcome’, and a Floor carpeted with zebra tiles, and a landscaped window that let in a fresh breeze that hit the family portrait hanging on the maroon walls in a repugnance that left the curtains wallowing. The interior decor was to be woven of wooden furniture, and a fireplace in place of a television.
Of the things she loved were dark brown chocolate, ice cream and yoghurt of vanilla and strawberry alike while I stuck with sweet potato for breakfast and sugarcane on a midday scorchy sun letting the juice trickle down my fingers, replenishing my strife – and scrambled eggs which I cooked best, but she termed it as a bachelor’s food.
“So whats your favorite food?” I asked.
“I love teriyaki” she said.
“Whats teriyaki?”
The first time to hear of teriyaki, I was weening time past my boyish dreams and fantasies in a small town I called home. Of impassable roads clouded with vegetation on the sides Mostly mango trees that bore fruits which fell and rotted on the soil. Of brown serpentine rivers that meandered downslope – an avenue where women bathed in grace, and children swam serenely and peed at the same time except when it overflowed, men harvested sand with broken spades unto heaps of trucks that drove out of town like swarm of locust, cattle quenched their thirst, and young girls fetched water for home use – cooking and drinking. Teriyaki at first sounded like the clink-clank of an old revving engine. We were of different worlds, and in mine, teriyaki was just another truck that no one knew where it came from or where it led.
There was a better life yonder in her world, so maybe I thought, and changing mine into hers would take a toll. Past the ages into maturity – after I lost her – when I got to her city – of dark devilish alleys and drug addicts. Of neon street lights and traffic lights. Of tall buildings and tarmacked roads. Of men with staunched faces and women with synthetic smiles as though in a beauty pageant contest. Of flashy cars, fowl fragrance and unending chaotic music It was on a weekend evening, rain had pelted on my coat when I saw it written in bold “TERIYAKI GRILLED CHICKEN”.
When I got in, it was nothing more than a restaurant of black leather seats and waiters in red and white. A cashier at the far end, chefs at the sides, a door written STAFF ONLY, and smell of barbecue. Of things I wasn’t accustomed to, the menu had chicken teriyaki, chicken teriyaki spicy, mayo chicken teriyaki, chicken teriyaki fry egg, DX chicken teriyaki, chicken deep fried bowl, chicken cutlet bowl, and BBQ beef bowl, which left me perplexed, wondering why I got in in the first place. They were to be taken with steamed rice, noodles, chips, salad and fresh vegetables. I took a seat in the middle of the restaurant not wanting to look around, when a waitress approached.
“What would you love to have?” She asked.
“Chicken teriyaki and chips”
“Your first time?”
I said yes.
Steam sizzled out from the meal of 3 pieces of hued boneless chicken meat that was served in a brown paper. The waitress took a seat, crossed her legs and rested her chin on her wrist staring at me. Teriyaki wasn’t just a kind of food but a cooking method of Japanese descent. She explained this as she handpicked a piece of chips from my meal. Teriyaki meant grilled with shine, broiled or grilled with a glaze of soy sauce, mirin, Honey, sake and sugar which makes the teriyaki sauce. I was glued on her as she spoke trying to grasp a foreign method that I might use to cook my scrambled eggs later on.
“What you waiting for? Dig in the meat” she hissed as she walked away.
I felt the tangy texture of the meat like a goo that was warmed up as it touched my lips. My gum brazed to the feel of my fangs embedding out, as my saliva rippled on my glands. My eye balls ruptured as I closed my eyes to let my teeth grind on the meat as it slid down my stomach struggling not to swallow the ecstasy.
The fancy salty sweet taste of the meat brought images of the small town and all its virgin versatility of beauty. Images of a pink house somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and a girl lying on a swing-couch smiling, popped in my mind that by the time I opened my eyes, she was long gone the same way childhood dreams relinquish us when we grow up.

Phill Ibsen

Master of Descriptions