The Heart Behind the Recipe

The biggest illusion in life is this: "I think I can do it."

That illusion had visited you. It had visited me. And it had visited Kojirō Shinomiya.

He had memorized the French vegetable terrine recipe down to the gram. And yet, when students attempted to recreate it, mistakes always found their way in. To Shinomiya, the recipe was sacred—every step a law, every deviation a failure.

He believed that precision equaled excellence. Even instant noodles made by two different people tasted different. That was enough proof for him.

But today, Megumi Tadokoro's dish cracked that belief.

As her terrine passed beneath his nose, Shinomiya felt something stir—something warm, almost nostalgic. She had reminded him of his younger self. The self who cooked not for awards, but for others.

Just then, a familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

"You finally realized it, didn't you?"

Shinomiya turned. In the doorway stood Gin Dōjima, arms folded, expression knowing.

"You saw it all?"

"From the moment she plated the terrine. Honestly, I thought your pride would get the better of you and you'd fail her."

"I nearly did," Shinomiya admitted, voice low. "But her cooking… it brought something back. Something I'd forgotten."

Dōjima smiled slightly. He could see it clearly now—Shinomiya was changing.

"It's been two years since you won the Prix Prosper Montagné," Dōjima said, walking in. "Back then, we thought your SHINO'S would soon earn a third star. But recently… you've been stuck."

Shinomiya didn't respond.

"Your sous-chefs left one after another. And the way you ran yesterday's test—half the students failed. That's not just high standards, Shinomiya. That's something else."

"You think I don't know that?" Shinomiya growled. "They were slow. Incompetent. My methods were perfect—they just couldn't keep up."

"Maybe," Dōjima said gently. "Or maybe your recipes became too rigid—soulless."

He continued, voice calm and instructive.

"Standardization works in fast food chains. KFC, McDonald's, Starbucks—they succeed not because of taste, but because of predictability. But we're not in the burger business. We're chefs."

"There are no two identical leaves in nature. No identical fish in the sea. Why should every dish be a copy?"

Shinomiya stood in silence.

"Emotionless food becomes mass-produced junk," Dōjima said. "Megumi's dish—maybe it wasn't perfect. But it had heart."

He placed a hand on Shinomiya's shoulder.

"Learn from her. Cook with feeling again."

And with that, he turned and walked out.

Left alone, Shinomiya gazed down at the unfinished terrine and slowly sat. For the first time in years, he didn't see a dish. He saw a memory.

Meanwhile, at Tōtsuki's Chinese Cuisine Research Society—

The ornate red doors opened to reveal a hall resembling an ancient palace. Lanterns swayed. Golden dragons coiled around the eaves. It was a bold fusion of tradition and flair.

Terunori Kuga jumped in surprise as a familiar figure strode in.

"Rindō-senpai? What brings you here?"

"Am I not allowed to visit?" she replied with a mischievous smile.

"O-of course you are! It's an honor!"

She waved off the flattery. "I came to give you some advice, Kuga."

His expression shifted.

"You've been… assertive about recruiting new members, haven't you?"

Kuga's smile froze.

"The rest of the Elite Ten are starting to notice. Step on too many toes, and they'll push back. Even eighth seat won't protect you then."

"…So it was Eizan who complained, huh?"

"Don't jump to conclusions." Rindō smirked. "Just think before you act."

Kuga bowed. "Understood, senpai. I'll ease off."

"Good." She turned to leave, then paused. "Got anything spicy ready? I skipped breakfast."

"Coming right up!"

Mapo Tofu—

Kuga moved with speed and confidence.

He blanched cubed tofu with a bit of salt—hot water, not boiling—to firm it up without breaking it.

Then, in a hot wok, he sautéed minced beef until crispy, adding doubanjiang, chili powder, fermented black beans, ginger, and green onions. The fragrance hit instantly—deep, umami-rich heat.

He ladled in broth, added the tofu, and let it simmer, giving the flavors time to meld.

With a quick flick of the wrist, he thickened the sauce, letting it coat each cube in a glossy red sheen.

The final touch: ground Sichuan peppercorns scattered over the top.

He placed the bowl before Rindō.

"Mapo tofu? That early in the day?" she raised an eyebrow.

"You know I only make spicy dishes, senpai."

Rindō sighed. But the aroma was too good to resist.

She picked up a piece of tofu with her chopsticks. It trembled slightly but held firm. As it entered her mouth, a silky softness spread across her tongue, followed by the slow burn of spice and a numbing tingle.

"Hot," she murmured, fanning herself—but still took another bite.

It was fiery. It was bold. And most importantly—it was alive.