The Hoki’s Guy

This corner is an ugly one. On the more rainy days, the place is made up of nothing but odd light and cold splashes from impatient tires. Leary and 26th feels colder than other intersections around the city. The sidewalk-side of Leary Ave in Seattle is colder than any other single place. My favorite resturant used to be here on this corner. It was a boxy type of building. And even though there were many other places Seattle foodies preferred in Fremont to the south and the Ballard neighborhood just north, this was on its own wet and lonely bit of asphalt and there was no need to go anywhere else for grilled chicken and white rice.

I remember this corner, this restaurant, the food inside and the man who served it with the fond type of clarity only college years can afford.

It was called Hoki’s. For over three years, my closest friends and I had dinner at Hoki’s each Thursday night. The same man worked the counter and cooked in the kitchen. He was the owner. He served us hot food and sweet sauce every week and we tipped him and he cleaned up afterward. I enjoyed getting food from no one more than the stout Asian man in the blue apron.

He hardly said a word to any of us.

The building had four sturdy walls and a loud electric heater. The lights were a strange shade of yellow reflecting from the dusty white walls. The door stuck most days and the cold was like death arriving when anyone wandered in from street. The place never seemed particularly open. This is to say welcoming. If open, the sign on the window read open and the light might be on. The hours of operation were never posted, but whenever we came to eat, the door worked its way open and the Hoki’s man was standing there, as though waiting for us. He never said hello.

Tyrell would drive us all there because he had the car. Kile sat up front. I shared the back of Tyrell’s economy car with Kelsey who wore long dresses and spoke in a mousy Idaho innocence while the rest of us swore and made dirty jokes. We would park in the gravel area by the back door and run from the car through the sudden gusts of wind and angry drivers honking their horns and revving their half-electric engines.

Judging by the possessive punctuation on the hand-painted sign nailed to the roof, the man we saw every week was named Hoki. Maybe not. Again, we didn’t speak. He nodded when we ordered and wrote down our orders on a pad of paper marked CHECK at the top. He looked past us through his round glasses and cursed his dull pencils with silent sighs and a too-firm grip. Each of us always ordered the same thing. We even spoke in the same order from week to week. But The Hoki’s Man just kept looking past, as if he wished he were somewhere else besides this soggy corner of north Seattle.

Hoki’s was decorated by a man with little time or care for decoration. Dried flowers were nailed to the wall by the bathroom. Near our favorite table by the windows a poster of Hawaii hung in a toothpaste-color frame.

The radio station never changed and we spent most evenings listening to soft rock love songs on FM 98.9. The motherly voice of the DJ could be heard behind a make-shift wall that hid the undoubtedly make-shift kitchen. We heard pots and pan clashing with bent utensils as the radio told stories of love, lover reuniting over a forgotten passion before leading into Michael Bolton’s “When A Man Loves A Woman.”

Our passion? The Hoki’s Man. Kile, Ty, I and Kelsey were united for the cause of homesteading our own version of Cheers inside the tilting matchbox of a restaurant; to make the Hokie’s Man happy to see us. We had visions of The Hoki’s Man taking a seat with us to find out what was up and how our classes were going. He’d bring us soda for free and tell us to come on back soon. And we wouldn’t have to order, only sit down and be given Our Usual.

As it was, The Hoki’s Man brought out our food in silence. And with each plastic plate he set on the table, I could see him look at the poster which hung above us. I could see him sigh. He’d glance at the ariel view of some tropical beach before returning to his counter to patiently wait for the next customer who never showed.

Leaving our plates and forks on the table, we exited and said thank you. The Hoki’s Man nodded but did not speak. I forced the door closed and saw him through the window, dragging himself from his post to pick up our scraps. This went on for years. Week after week. Same order. Same night. Same Hoki’s Man with the same straight face.

II.

Now, the moment was short. I could have missed if I wasn’t looking. The moment when our eyes met and I could see, so slight it almost wasn’t there, a sign of recognition as we passed each other in the hardware section of the Ballard Fred Meyer. As I saw him approach, I expected to receive the same look I had for countless Thursday evening before. But, he nodded at me. He remembered. He tilted his head slightly foward as if to say in a perfect Northwest drawl, Hey Bud. How’s it going? I remember ya, don’t you worry bout that. I’ll be seeing ya tomorra night. Thursday Night Terryaki. Take care, bud.

I told everyone I knew about my silent interaction with The Hoki’s Man. I told perfect strangers about it. I wanted everyone to know about The Hoki’s Man, about the beautiful island of familiarity I had help create in that piss-ugly corner of town.

Thursday night, our dream came true. The Hoki’s Man’s pale skin glowed when we pushed open the door. Kile walked in, then Ty, then Kelsey, then me.

“Sit, sit, sit,” he said. “Chicken, rice and an orange soda, yes?”

“That’s right. Thanks,” said Ty.

“And you for, chicken bowl!”

“Uh-uh,” peeped Kelsey.

“Grilled chicken and white rice for you, I know.”

“You bet,” said Kile.

“And you,” he said and pointed with his blunt pencil. “You will have the Chicken Katsu and extra rice.”

“Yes I will,” I said.

The chicken was a little dry and the rice very sticky. It was the best meal I’ve ever had.

III.

We found the menu board in pieces in front of our parking lot the week after. The door was locked. I tried it three times. The dried flowers, the make-shift wall, the hand-held radio were buried under scrap wood and melting into a soft blue memory running into the drain along with the fossil fuels and discarded pages of the Seattle Weekly. I almost looked for some kind of note from The Hoki’s Man, something to say, Hey bud…so sorry. Knew you’d be comin, but I didn’t see you at the Fred Meyer at all this week. No chance to say so long. Know, though, that I’ll always remember your order.

I cursed out loud. Kile did too. Even innocent sweet Kelsey could be heard saying, well…shit, under her breath. We gathered in the car to stay out of the rain. We look through the windshield at the scraps of our favorite place to eat. Our Place. Ty didn’t turn on the engine right way. Rain beaded on the car. We imagined The Hoki’s Man somewhere else. Maybe on that beach, the one displayed in the poster which still hung on the dusty wall inside. I could see a lone, solitary restaurant on that dry beach and the Hoki’s Man ordering the same thing time after time and waiting patiently.

Photo Credit: Hoki’s menu board courtesy of retsu@retsu.com.