Кори Доктороу - Make Shift - Dispatches from the Post-Pandemic Future

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 TOrun, 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 antiseptic) 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” TOmake 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 PARTIESdon’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.