The smoke rose in ribbons from the grill, curling into the cool Hakata night like incense for the hungry.
Under a red paper lantern that read やたい—Yatai—Kenta flipped skewers of chicken skin with a grin on his face and a towel slung around his neck. The stall was just big enough for six stools and two burners. It smelled like fat, soy, and fire.
Next to him, Yūto, sleeves rolled, handed out cold beer and shōchū in paper cups. His voice carried down the row of stalls like a half-laugh, half-sales pitch:
“Oni-san, one more? Last order! Best oden in Nakasu, I swear!”
They were twenty-three and twenty-four. Childhood friends. Third-generation vendors.
Kenta’s grandfather had run a yatai back when customers sat in silence and the only lighting was a kerosene lamp. Now it was Spotify playlists, tourists with selfie sticks, and late-night salarymen craving something greasy and real.
But the rhythm stayed the same—
grill, pour, serve, smile.
Repeat.
A group of Taiwanese students slid onto the stools, drawn by the sizzle and the smoke.
“English OK?” one asked.
Yūto winked. “English OK. Beer better.”
Laughter. Orders. Clinks of glasses.
And behind it all, the steady beat of the city pulsing along the Naka River.
Later, when the crowd thinned, Kenta leaned on the counter, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“You think we’ll do this forever?” he asked.
Yūto shrugged, flipping one last skewer. “Dunno. But tonight, it feels like we could.”
And somewhere between the ramen broth, the midnight air, and the sound of old jazz spilling from a neighboring stall—
it felt like they already were.
