Make Shift Read online

  THE RHYTHM OF THE COUNTRYSIDE WAS IN CYCLES OF WORK AND GROWTH, AND waiting. Once the seedlings were all in and growing, our family waited. Come fall, we harvested the golden yellow stalks from the drained paddy. Mom made us beat some stalks against bamboo slats while drones next to us zipped through the threshing process. I invented some other faster methods, with gears and pedals, but Mom insisted this was the way for the sake—that we had to at least do some of the work ourselves to keep up the tradition. We milled and steamed the rice and mixed it with koji with our hands. Then we mashed it all and tossed in sake yeast. This was all done over a period of days—no machines, just arms pushing wooden paddles to get the shubo right.

  Mom even skipped the adding of lactic acid that kept the unwanted bacteria at bay, saying she wanted it straight up old style, using the air’s natural lactobacillus instead of the Sokujo method.

  “Fast is for the impatient,” she said.

  She also quoted Thomas Edison at me—genius is 99 percent perspiration and 1 percent inspiration—but she knew that for me genius is 99 percent impatience—and who knows what for the other 1 percent.

  I couldn’t really disagree. I wanted things done fast.

  She wouldn’t have it. She savored all the steps.

  When we were finished making the sake, we streaked each drone with a fingerprint of the liquid, our own family ritual, in addition to hanging a traditional ball of cedar leaves that signified successful sake production.

  And after more waiting, for the sake to mature, we took some bottles into our home and clinked cups and sipped under the warmth of the heated kotatsu. My parents only allocated one small ochoko’s worth of sake for me. I would nurse it for the night. While we drank, I harbored rebellious thoughts—dreaming up ways to hasten the fermentation process but keep the savory richness of the alcohol that passed down my throat like fire.

  THE WARM TASTE OF YUZU AND SAKE FLOWS DOWN MY THROAT AND I LET OUT A satisfying, “Ahhhh.”

  I turn on my holovid and nod at my cousin Aimi. Ever since my wife passed, she has been my trusty taste-tester.

  Aimi takes a swirl, letting the aromas fill her mouth. She then gulps, her eyes closed. “Too bitter. Needs something bright.”

  “Mint?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” She puts it down. She opens her brown eyes wide, taking in all the details of the drink. “Or maybe it’s the yuzu rind oversoaked. And this cloudy one? That’s next?”

  “Yeah. Have a cracker first.” She bites, swallows, closes her eyes and sips. I turn off my holovid and sip, too. I don’t want her to see my reaction and get biased.

  I put down the sake cup. This was my wife’s favorite tasting cup, with the blue underglaze. Ena was the best at tasting. I could see her now, her piercing brown eyes staring at me as she takes a sip from the cup. She had quite the appetite and love for adventure and gusto in her life. After her judo championships, she would down breaded pork chops and crispy pickled takuan alongside straight sake and some mixed drinks. Even with her athleticism, she had a delicate, discerning palate. She’d gulp sports drinks for the electrolytes but only after diluting them. Sports drink and alcohol companies led her through facility tours, trying to get her face for ads, but she refused, saying it was a conflict of interest with our bar establishment.

  She was an eclectic drinker, sampling all kinds of drinks, until she lost her taste buds from the second ANVID respiratory pandemic and then passed away from complications while rehabilitating from the disease. Her lungs had been severely damaged, she had a stroke and problems with memory. It pained me to watch her change. She became weak, barely able to stand, let alone execute any judo throw, and at the end, drank only rice porridge. Sometimes she would nurse a bowl of porridge while watching judo moves, trying to recall technique names. The tubes they put in her for breathing even after removal disturbed her ability to swallow, so it would take her hours.

  My parents felt bad for me during her illness, and served as my taste testers for a while, but they were never fond of trying my concoctions, since they thought the old ways were the best.

  Aimi took over. At my wife’s holofuneral—virtual because of the pandemic—she heard about my need for a taster and offered. She’s a huge gastronomist.

  “Okay, what about that one?” I pointed at the cup she just emptied.

  “Pretty good. Nice and dry. Could use a touch of sweetness.”

  I mark down her words. I enhance and focus in on her eyes. Sometimes her eyes gravitate to the one she likes best. Ena used to say to watch the eyes for intent. I see Aimi flash a glance at the cup with the “ka” katakana letter written on it. That was the one with the newest koji version.

  She returns the vessels to the delivery drone, which packs and sanitizes them and flies off for the next delivery.

  “Sure,” she says, wiping her hands on her skirt. “And so, which is the control, and which are the ones with the flash ferment? And what changes have you made?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you that.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ll just have to wait for the new line to come out at your bar.”

  I smile. “Yes, will do. Here to please.” It’s true.

  It’s why I opened the bar. All I want is for people to drink sake and be merry. But, the merriment hasn’t been so widespread lately.

  MY MOM’S LOOK OF MERRIMENT AT SAVORING ALL THE STEPS OF SAKE-MAKING WAS contagious. Even when I was anxious to get the drones to do all the work, I saw her putting her full attention into all the details. She called it chanto suru, doing things properly, and it was part of ikigai, that which makes life worth living.

  I responded that efficiency and alacrity are what make life worth living. Increased and swift performance as ikigai. She just shook her head and handed me the wooden mash paddle. “Go and blend.”

  Blend I did. We made the fermenting mash moromi in three stages, adding hatzusoe (more rice, koji, and water), letting it sit as odori so the yeast can make merry, then brought in nakazoe and then tomozoe, all stages of adding rice, koji, and water. Everything was active, lively, and bubbly: starches becoming sugar, yeasts taking this sugar and converting it to alcohol and CO2.

  I had to admit, like my mom, there was part of me that savored the process of doing it “properly.” I enjoyed the sound of the liquids sloshing about as I mixed, my wooden paddle breaking the waves of this little ocean. Yet, even with that small joy, I always thought it could be done faster.

  As a symbolic gesture pushed mostly by my mom for the sake of tradition, we handled a portion of the moromi- and sake-making ourselves, filling up the fermented moromi into permeable bags and pressing them using cedar boards. But we also left the bulk of the processing for the stage-specific drones—their incessant arms mixing the moromi, pressing discrete amounts to separate solids and liquids and taking up the resulting sake into tubes, pasteurizing and moving the sake into storage for it to mature. The machines made all sorts of noises, sucking and pounding, dripping and draining. It was all a whole ecosystem there in the sakagura.

  I tapped my feet to a different rhythm. I was sure I could speed up the tempo of all the machinery and make the whole process of making sake more convenient while maintaining quality.

  USING AIMI’S TASTING NOTES AND THE EVALUATIONS I’VE HIRED A FEW PEOPLE TO run, I reformulate the recipes to enhance quality and convenience. Typically, the traditional sake mixing and brewing process takes about ninety days. I want to bring processing down to a week, and have a dehydrated powder ready for instant sake.

  By day, I pass time. I read books, drink, run laps, and do martial arts rolls and falls. I fix and update cleaner and service drones at the gym and the owner pays me a few yen for it alongside a free gym pass. I don’t mind hanging around there. They sterilize everything after every use and people are careful.

  I’m so used to being Ena’s uke, her throwing partner, that I miss the feel of the wrestling mat under my skin. It smells like her at the gym. Perspiration (under the sting of antisep
tic) and persistence. I’m one of the ones who’ve returned to the gyms, even after the latest epidemic wave of GRAVID that drove them to close for a few weeks.

  By night, I run the bar.

  By dead of the night, I experiment in the food lab I rent out. Rent’s cheap at this hour. I’ve managed to shorten the production process, freeze-dry the liquid with state-of-the-art equipment, and reconstitute it.

  I barely sleep anymore.

  IT’S QUIET AT THE BAR, SO I EXPERIMENT. I DUMP A PACKET I CALL “KWIK KOJI” TO make an instant sake. It has zero sugar, but the savory richness of a junmai that has been brewing for months. I combine it with another powder of rice flakes and throw it in water. It fizzes, releasing a sour smell. I throw in a touch of the famous sea salt from Ako with nigari. I label the batch and put it in an everstate fridge, which keeps discrete portions of food and drink at whatever temperatures I set the small cubbies.

  I make another and shake in lychee and pineapple for the Sun Lush, to Lila’s order. Lila is a holosocial queen and discusses food for diabetics. I watch in anticipation as she pulls the perspiring glass toward her.

  She pulls up her mask, sips, and exhales.

  “When will this hit the shelves?” She stares at the drink, shaking it. Her satisfied look is sublime. “It’s so strangely tasty. Like instant ramen, it’s as if formulated to make me crave it.”

  “Well, it kind of is. Zero sugar, after all.”

  “I can’t believe it. Zero sugar,” she whistles. “I miss this flavor. It reminds me of somewhere tropical, like Okinawa.”

  “We have an awamori version in production.”

  “I’ll be back for that.” She looks around at the stools around her. “Pretty empty, huh?”

  “Nothing new. It gets busier later at night.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth. It’s another slow night, and I expect only a few more customers to straggle in.

  She nods and takes another sip. She sinks into her seat, with a dazed but happy look. Her blushed cheeks and closed eyes seem almost blissful. No wonder she has over half a million followers. She has such vivid expressions.

  The sake’s rolled out only in my bar, but already it’s gotten some publicity. A few small holocelebs like Lila. She opens an eye and says, “Would be a nice evening experiment at home, a puff of fizz. No chance you’ll be releasing the powder kits to supermarkets soon?”

  Since the first epidemic wave of GRAVID, some of these holocelebs keep asking about a commercial release.

  “Sorry, not yet.” A cleanerbot rolls like a coin down the bar, spritzing. I collect her empty cup and chuck it in the sanitizer.

  I guard the insta-sake production method with layers of security. I’ve already gotten numerous calls from investors interested in taking a share of the brand. I’ve always turned them down. I’ve also turned down requests to send the powder over as samples. Competitors haven’t had a chance to try reverse engineering since it’s only available at my bar.

  When she leaves, promising to return soon, I nod. These celebrities are always looking for new experiences, so I have to keep up with new drinks. Despite being busy with my experiments, admittedly, business isn’t great. A few of the regulars have returned, but there’s still a sense of caution in the air.

  At the end of the night I tally up sales, and I groan. At this rate, the bar will go under.

  I need to get the numbers up.

  I CALL UP AIMI LATER THAT NIGHT AND TELL HER ABOUT THE CUSTOMER COUNT.

  “You’re going to go bankrupt,” she says. She’s in the midst of doing stretches, about to teach her cycling class.

  “Thanks for the frankness. I can see that.”

  Aimi purses her lips, the 3D filter lipstick bobs into place as an overlay a split-second behind, as she puts on sweat wristbands. “Y’know, it’s too bad. Because people want to drink. They miss the bar experience. MyPub Meal Kits don’t cut it. They’re just not ready to do the crowd thing. Everyone’s hurting.”

  I know. I’m hurting. I miss Ena.

  “I have my class in three minutes so I have to go, but if there was only a way you could have it be holo. I mean, I know you can’t, since it’s a drink. You can’t taste on the holo. But, if only you could bring the bar experience to them. The quarantine parties are never satisfying because they don’t get the full bar experience. They don’t get the skilled bartender crafting house cocktails. Omotenashi. That hospitality factor that makes the customer feel like a customer. I know my students could use a good drink together served right to them after their spin.”

  “Especially after you yelling at them.”

  “Encouraging,” she says, laughing. “I don’t yell. I encourage.”

  I join in on the laugh as she logs out.

  MY LAUGH FALTERS, AS I THINK ABOUT WHAT SHE SAID. THE QUARANTINI PARTIES don’t have new expert drinks coming in. Sure, there are alcohol delivery kits, but people complain that the limes are warm and the mint leaves wilted. Plus, the last thing they want to do is to serve themselves—a part of the fun is watching skilled hands mix it, pour it, and bring it right to them. Omotenashi: great service that makes you feel pampered. That’s what’s lacking.

  For a while, the situation on the ground had seemed hopeful. People left the MyPub Meal Kits behind. They were coming to bars again. The elastic silicone sipper made by a local university engineering department looked like it could work. I had participated in the effort by bringing the department drinks for the research and later using our bar as an in situ lab. We had a bit of a local flourish of social interaction, with research participants gathering, placing elastic silicone filters over their mouths and in their noses, cradled by their lips with adhesive and with tiny hooks that latched onto nostril hairs and walls. These inserts had a small device that filtered air and we tried the ones that had fittings and latches to position straws right into them, keeping liquids coming in and viruses out. So the young human subjects could drink and chat, the latch catching as you pulled the straw out so the filter cut-out would move back into place.

  It seemed to work with mixed results until a few accidental swallows and choking incidents eroded trust in the technology. Besides the adhesives losing stickiness, people found the masks uncomfortable. They were constantly readjusting and removing them. There were also cases where the epidemic spread despite proper use of the coverings, suggesting the synthetic fibers for the silicone filters weren’t as effective as they thought. It was a mess, and distributors had to recall the devices soon after rolling them out. Hopeful bar owners grumbled and I was distraught.

  We went through COVID-19 and -22 when I was young, and were successful with vaccines at each iteration but it took a while. Then came ANVID-33 and -36 and now the GRAVID series. People developed strategies for coping. In the engineering and commerce world, they moved up the holo tech faster than imagined and drone delivery speeds took off.

  People also tried Portable Personal Bubbles (PPBs), but that was a celeb fad that failed miserably. They were incredibly expensive and stiff. The wearers couldn’t move far beyond their power source since the battery drained fast. Those who could afford to rent them complained they were hard to manipulate and hot as hell. The batteries kept dying. Celebs said they felt like they were swallowed up by a hippo, moving like molasses, and that they’d prefer to interact through holoscreens rather than wrapped in plastic casing. Some even panicked, having trouble breathing in them.

  With PPBs put to rest, GRAVID-37 took a huge toll on the population. Those infected got unexpected rashes as well as respiratory issues and chronic fatigue, and there was no viable solution in sight. Pharmaceutical companies and experts despaired. A viable vaccine was remarkably difficult to achieve and it took a few years.

  We’re still waiting for a vaccine for the latest bug, GRAVID-38, and we’re impatient. I, perhaps, am one of the most.

  I fiddle with a double jigger, rolling it between my fingers as I think about possibilities, ways forward—quick, safe, and easy meas
ures for people to take to get a drink served.

  I look at my jigger, thinking of measuring spirits and shaking drinks as customers look on in rapt anticipation.

  Omotenashi.

  What if I brought the bar experience to them?

  I GATHER PARTS FROM BROKEN CLEANERBOTS AND SERVICE DRONES AND SOME old machines at the gym. I scavenge more parts from a junkyard nearby. I remember my cleanerbot, the old one from my parent’s house in the countryside, that would bump into things. It had a shaking mechanism to deploy these old aerosol cleaners they sold at the mart. They don’t sell the aerosol cans anymore because of environmental regulations, but our bot still had that shake programmed in. It was a bit outdated.

  I give my parents a holocall. It takes them a while before they pick up. They don’t like using these things. Mom picks up as she’s fixing up an ikebana work of art, twisting a sakura branch to the perfect angle, part of her activities in attempting to achieve ikigai. “Just come over and get the antiquated thing. It’s still here. It’s next to a load of your old clothes, chemistry sets, and junk. I don’t think it works though. Just didn’t have the heart to throw it away since I knew you liked it.”

  “Liked it! That thing always malfunctioned!”

  “Yeah, but didn’t you say you liked the sounds it made?”

  Mom has a good memory. I did. The phantom sounds of its gurgling pentatonic melody that played as it shook fill my ears. I’d forgotten about that.

  She snaps a branch in half and chucks it behind her. The newest cleanerbot snatches it up. “I’ll send it over. And your old chemistry sets. They’re sitting around here, gathering dust.”

  I protest about saving the delivery drone extra work, but she logs out. Oh well, I’ll just throw out the chem sets when they arrive.

  After the call, I sketch out designs and order more parts from the hardware holostore, my mind racing.

  WHEN MY OLD CLEANERBOT ARRIVES, I CHARGE IT UP. AS THE STRANGE MELODY drones on, in my mind I see the flowing waves of verdant blades of rice in the paddies, and the heady smell of fermentation in our old shed. I live in that nostalgic space for a moment before I go into plan-execution mode. I say goodbye to our old family cleanerbot and hello to my new tech.