The Paradox of Plenty

From Heathrow Airport to the rented house in Camden, Shinomiya Seiichi could not take his eyes from the scenery beyond the car window. November London was wrapped in mist, and the dead leaves of the street trees lay scattered across the cobblestones. The experience of the “Last Measure of Rice” in Aogawa six months earlier already felt like a distant dream.

“Grandpa, look at that,” Misaki said, pointing excitedly out the window. “There are so many supermarkets.”

As the taxi ran along the high street, the four members of the Shinomiya family — Seiichi, Chiyo, Kentaro, and Misaki — were overwhelmed by the giant food shops that appeared one after another. For people who had gone more than three weeks unable to buy rice in Aogawa, this abundance looked unreal.

“I suppose every shop here has rice,” Chiyo murmured quietly. Her voice still carried a note of disbelief.

Kentaro spoke while looking over the documents that listed his international conference schedule. “It’s certainly a fitting setting in which to debate ‘sustainable food systems.’ There seems to be a great deal to learn here.”

When the taxi reached their destination, the four stood before a three-storey building of brick. It was a typical London house, with autumn flowers planted in the small front garden.

“So this is where we’ll stay for three weeks,” Seiichi said, looking up at the building. “A calmer setting than I expected.”

Once they had carried in their luggage and settled into their rooms, Chiyo was the first to suggest, “While we’re here, let’s go and see the supermarket nearby. We need ingredients for dinner anyway.”

The supermarket, a five-minute walk away, far exceeded anything the Shinomiya family had imagined. When the automatic doors opened, an expanse of aisles spread out before them, piled high with colourful vegetables and fruit.

“This is…” Seiichi was lost for words. “Overwhelming.”

Misaki walked through filming the inside of the shop on her smartphone. “Compared to the supermarket in Aogawa, everything is bigger. The variety of vegetables, the variety of bread.”

Chiyo examined the food with the eye of a former nutritionist. “So much fresh produce. But isn’t it rather too much?”

Her observation was correct. Every product was sold in large bulk packs, in quantities too great for a single family to consume.

Kentaro stopped at the rice section. “Look at this. At least twenty kinds. Basmati, jasmine, even Japanese rice.”

“Japanese rice!” Misaki hurried over. “It’s true — it says ‘Sushi Rice.’”

Seiichi picked up a bag of Japanese rice and weighed it in his hand. “Five-kilogram bags, sold as a matter of course. And in Aogawa, even a single gō was precious.”

But when he looked around the aisles a little more carefully, something troubled him. Among the vegetables were items marked with a “REDUCED” label for nothing more than a slightly bruised spot. Bread was half-price only two days after it was baked.

“They’re awfully strict about the sell-by dates,” Chiyo remarked. “It all still looks perfectly edible.”

After paying at the till and stuffing their purchases into large reusable bags, the family found themselves reflecting once more on this contradiction between abundance and severity.

On the way back to the house, Chiyo stopped. “Oh — what is that, I wonder?”

From the communal refuse area behind the building drifted the faint scent of bread. Drawn by curiosity, Chiyo went closer and saw a great deal of food discarded inside a transparent bag.

“This is… but it still looks edible,” Chiyo said, astonished.

Misaki came closer too. “You’re right. Bread, vegetables, sweets. Looking at the dates, there’s still a day to spare.”

Seiichi knitted his brows. “An interesting phenomenon. So the underside of abundance inevitably comes with waste.”

Kentaro recalled the materials for the international conference. “There was a session on food loss. I understood it in theory, but seeing it in person carries a different weight.”

The four entered the building in silence. In the lift, everyone was thinking the same thing: the gap between their experience in Aogawa — treasuring every single grain of that last measure of rice — and the reality they had just witnessed.

Back in their third-floor rooms, Seiichi sat in the chair by the window and opened the research notebook he had brought.

“There is plenty of theoretical research on the relationship between food abundance and waste,” he murmured, as if to himself. “But when you experience it directly, there is a complexity that theory alone cannot capture.”

Chiyo had begun preparing dinner in the kitchen. Looking over the ingredients they had bought, she remembered her days in Aogawa — the time when she had cooked nutritionally balanced meals from limited supplies.

“Mother,” Kentaro said, “what do you make of what we saw today?”

Chiyo paused and turned to her son. “Abundance is a complicated thing. Having a great deal of something may not always be purely good.”

Misaki sat on the sofa, looking back over the photos she had taken that day. Photos of the supermarket’s abundant food, and photos of the discarded food at the refuse area. The contrast gave even her a great deal to think about.

“I thought I’d post it on social media,” Misaki said, “but I don’t know how to explain it. How am I supposed to convey this to my friends back in Aogawa?”

Seiichi understood his granddaughter’s hesitation. “It’s not a question with an easy answer. Cultural background, economic systems, differences in values — they’re all tangled together.”

Just then, an English voice came from the next room. A woman’s voice; she seemed to be on the phone with someone.

“…the food bank receives huge donations every day, but we simply can’t keep up with processing them…”

Kentaro, who understood English, listened with interest. “Our neighbour seems to do some kind of food-related volunteer work.”

“Perhaps we should introduce ourselves sometime,” Chiyo suggested. “She might be able to teach us about this place.”

Dinner was a simple Japanese-style meal made from the ingredients they had bought. But around the table, the four discussed the unease they had felt over the course of the day.

“In Aogawa we couldn’t waste a single grain of rice,” Misaki said, setting down her chopsticks. “But here, a whole loaf of bread is thrown away without a second thought.”

“It isn’t a matter of which is right,” Seiichi said carefully. “It’s simply that different systems give rise to different values and patterns of behaviour.”

Kentaro was thinking about the international conference that began the next day. “At the conference we’re meant to debate the global food problem, but I’ve realised that local food loss is just as important an issue.”

Chiyo said as she cleared away the dishes, “Tomorrow I’ll introduce myself to the neighbour. I’d like to ask what kind of work she does.”

Outside the window, the London night was deepening. People still walked the lamplit streets, and warm light spilled from the restaurants and pubs. It was the rich, complicated nightscape of a city that wanted for nothing when it came to food.

Seiichi opened his research notebook again and began to record the day’s experience. The phrase “the paradox of plenty” came to mind. He went on thinking about the new problems that abundance brings.

In her own room, Misaki was sending a message to a friend in Aogawa. “Today left me with such complicated feelings. There’s so much food in London, but I’m not sure it’s a good thing. I’m going to observe more from tomorrow.”

After pressing send, she looked out of the window. Over these three weeks in this city, she would surely learn a great deal. And it would deepen her understanding of food in a way quite different from her experience in Aogawa.

So began the Shinomiya family’s stay in London — the first step of a three-week journey, facing new questions amid abundance.