Kanpyo

No, Kanpyo is not the beloved hero in Hayao Miyazaki's lastest animated feature. It is the name bestowed by the staff upon a particular customer, in part because of his habit of ordering kanpyo rolls (kanpyo is a Japanese gourd,) but also because the shape of his body is undeniably gourd-like.

Kanpyo's exploits are the stuff of restaurant folklore. He falls into a special category of lunatic--the type that shows complete and utter disregard for the menu. It seems that the twelve pages filled with appetizers, entrees, drinks, and desserts are somehow inadequate for Kanpyo, for he is forced to design his own creations to suit his dietary needs. True, Kanpyo does belong to the breed of vegetarian-that-occasionally-eats-fish-if-say-the-handsome-young-man-he-has-hornswaggled-into-dining-with-him-happens-to-order-a-grilled-salmon-dinner, so the entire menu, by his own volition, is not available to him. On the other hand, there are a number of vegetarian and vegan options on every page of the menu--in fact, there are two entire pages dedicated to vegetarian sushi alone. Unfortunately, this is not enough to sate the unique and refined tastes of Kanpyo. Instead, Kanpyo bellies up to the bar and from his mouth comes a series of instructions to the chef on precisely which ingredients he would like in his sushi roll as well as the manner in which the roll is to be constructed--all in a polite, effeminate voice.

Kanpyo's attempts to reshape the restaurant into something that conforms to his own personal vision do not stop at ordering off-menu. He apparently takes issue with the dishware as well.

KANPYO, a round little man, enters and takes a seat at the sushi bar. A SERVER approaches him, carrying a menu. The server sets the menu down in front of Kanpyo.

KANPYO: I won't be needing that.

SERVER: Can I bring you something to dr--

KANPYO (mispronouncing miso, making a little bowl shape with both hands): Could I get my mizo soup in a ceramic bowl?

SERVER: Uhh, sure . . .

KANPYO: And could I have extra tofu and green onions?

SERVER: There may be a charge for that. I'll have to check.

Kanpyo makes a sort of grunt-scoffing noise. The server begins to walk toward the kitchen.

KANPYO (calling after Server): And could I get my water in a wine glass?

The plastic miso bowls in which we regularly serve the soup are not good enough for Kanpyo. Neither are the plastic spoons, for, upon the server's return he will also request to be brought a silver spoon with which to bring the soup to his pink, virginal mouth (it's a good thing we already use cloth napkins, otherwise our servers might very well find themselves in the kitchen bent over a sewing machine whenever Kanpyo arrives). Perhaps he also has some suggestions for music or uniforms for the servers--I'm inclined to think he may suggest French maid uniforms for the women and something involving mustaches and leather chaps for the fellas.

Rosy-cheeked Kanpyo lifts his water-filled wine glass to the light, a bright slice of lemon perched on the the lip, and gazes deeply into it. He moves the stem in a gentle circular motion and the ice tinkles cheerily inside. He brings the glass to his nose and inhales--is this guy seriously judging the nose of tap water? A plate full of edamame shells have been arranged in the the shape of a perfect crescent, Kanpyo's way of artfully diverting himself while he waits for his meal. From over the top of the bar, the chef hands Kanpyo a plate. On it's surface a vegetarian sushi roll is artfully arranged by Kanpyo's favorite chef. Kanpyo begins to methodically eat the roll piece by piece, going on at length to the chef about his enjoyment between bites. He is as much lauding the chef's skill in making the roll as he is himself in designing it. His lunch has been a success. He has reshaped not only the menu, but the very traditions of the restaurant so that they conform to the idealized restaurant that exists in his fantasy life. When finished, he uses the red cloth napkin to tiptoe around the perimeter of his mouth, exhales slowly, and with a flick of his fingernail sounds a round tone from the crystal wine glass.

They broke the gourd-shaped mold when they made Kanpyo, or perhaps Kanpyo cracked it himself with his unwieldy frame. Is it any wonder that sixteen times out of seventeen he dines alone, or that the chef, at Kanpyo's appearance, suddenly finds a number of tasks that he must complete as far away as possible from the sushi bar?

Kanpyo gets zero out of five giant lollies. In the event that he was made to wear sailor suits as a child (and I suspect that he was) that score goes up to one out of five sympathy lollies, but back to zero if his primary means of getting from one place to another was skipping.

Little Lord Kanpyo