Claws of Flavor, Fangs of Memory

Molecular cuisine thrives on mystery — on surprise and subtle provocation.

Alice Nakiri understood this principle in her bones. As long as her dishes elicited awe the moment they were revealed, her mission was complete. That was her belief.

True, she couldn't match Erina in terms of raw talent or prestige. But that didn't matter to Alice.

She would forge her own path — with liquid nitrogen, agar gels, and edible fog — to express a side of cuisine that was dazzling and deeply personal.

As the final hour of the breakfast assessment approached, the tide turned.

At first, she had been ignored. The crowd flocked to Erina's booth, dazzled by her royal pedigree and classical perfection. Alice stood alone, her poached eggs and milkshakes untouched, her expression unreadable.

But she didn't fold.

Instead, she reevaluated the environment, understood the problem, and shifted her strategy with the precision of a scientist and the boldness of an artist.

And it worked.

Curious onlookers, intrigued by the strange vapors and colorful concoctions, began to line up. Word spread. By the end, she had sold out — 200 breakfasts, gone.

"It was thrilling… but not dangerous," Alice sighed, slumping against the counter with a lopsided smile. Her feet ached, her hands smelled like truffle foam and egg yolk, but her eyes glimmered with quiet pride.

Dojima Gin, watching from a distance, crossed his arms.

"Interesting," he murmured. "At first, Erina absorbed all the attention, and any ordinary student would've crumbled. But she didn't flinch."

"She read the situation, stayed calm, and pivoted. That kind of courage… it's rare."

He gave a small nod.

Another Nakiri. Looks like the future's in good hands.

That evening, a soft chill crept over the city. Lights flickered on across town, and the scent of winter filled the air.

Some people craved hot pot on a cold night.

Others? A chilled drink — something with bite and sparkle.

Rindo Kobayashi sat at the counter of Zane's tavern, holding a tall glass of ginger soda. Condensation trickled down the side like morning dew on metal.

She took a long sip.

"Ahhh… refreshing."

The subtle burn of ginger tickled her throat, mellowed by a splash of lemon and a whisper of sugar. The bubbles danced like mischievous sprites across her tongue.

"This… this rivals sake in satisfaction," she mused aloud. "No sting, but all the delight."

Zane, standing behind the bar and methodically wiping down his knives, looked down at her with an arched brow.

"You always say that. Then two drinks later, you're asking for yakitori with double spice."

"That's different." Rindo smirked. "That's post-bliss indulgence."

Business had been booming lately. Zane, always the pragmatist, had expanded the menu — ginger soda, orange fizz, even classic cola. Now even teetotalers could find joy under his roof.

But tonight, the tavern was officially closed.

And yet, here she was.

"Why aren't you open tonight?" Rindo asked, pretending to pout. "When I saw the 'Closed for the day' sign, my heart broke. I was about to crawl home and cry into instant noodles."

"You're lucky I spotted you pacing outside like a ghost," Zane said, shaking his head.

"I don't run a chain restaurant. I open when I want and close when I feel like it. This isn't some salaryman sweatshop."

"Sure, sure," she teased, resting her chin in her hands and flashing him a grin. "But imagine how much money you're not making tonight…"

Zane rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the twitch of a smile.

"I suppose I can make an exception," he sighed. "What do you want?"

Rindo's eyes gleamed with mischief. She reached into her bag and thunked something heavy onto the table.

A massive, hairy bear paw.

Zane froze.

"…What the hell."

In Japan, hunting bears is tightly regulated. With a license, hunters can cull black or brown bears when necessary to protect crops or people. Bear meat can be legally sold at designated game markets.

Zane, however, had always been cautious.

He never endorsed excessive use of wild game. His kitchen had a rule — "Any ingredient is usable" — but that never meant everything had to be used.

He avoided shark fin entirely.

He'd rather perfect his mastery of humble chicken and duck than chase applause with controversial ingredients.

But he also knew — some dishes carried centuries of culture.

Losing them meant losing a piece of culinary history.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, studying the thick paw, covered in black bristle.

"Wild game market," Rindo replied smoothly. "The good kind — certified and chilled properly. Now the question is, can you handle it?"

"You're the expert in this department," he countered. "Shouldn't you be cooking it?"

"I could," Rindo admitted with a shrug. "But I want to see how you do it. I want to taste your take."

She leaned forward, voice softening.

"Please, Zane."

He studied her face — the glint in her eyes wasn't teasing anymore. She genuinely wanted this. To taste his interpretation. To compare, to learn, to enjoy.

"…Alright. But bear paw's no joke. It takes time."

"I'll wait as long as it takes."

Her voice was firm.

Zane sighed. "Your words. Don't complain when it takes four hours."

He set the pot on the stove.

In ancient China, bear paw was revered as a delicacy of emperors and nobles. Tough, fatty, gelatinous — it was difficult to cook and harder to master.

One strange legend said that bears, during hibernation, would suck on one paw to survive hunger. The next year, they'd suck on the other. So, each paw aged differently — one tender, one unpalatable.

As the pot simmered, Zane muttered to himself, "Wonder which one you brought…"

He shaved the outer fur, carefully handling the tough fingers, boiled the paw with chicken, duck, scallions, and aged ginger, and extracted the golden broth.

Then came the deboning, slicing, and the second cooking — this time with bamboo shoots and shiitake mushrooms.

In a final flourish, he sautéed aromatics, added broth, thickened the sauce, and gently plated the glistening bear paw over a bed of blanched baby bok choy.

The result? A masterpiece.

Golden. Steaming. Rich.

Orchid Bear Paw.

A champion dish from China's first national cooking competition in 1983.

"Ohhh…" Rindo murmured, poking it with her chopsticks.

It jiggled slightly. The broth shimmered. The scent — musky and herbal — intoxicated her.

Zane passed her a towel soaked in hot water.

"Eat fast. The gelatin will thicken quickly."

She didn't need a second invitation.

Her first spoonful melted on her tongue. Rich collagen coated her lips. The bear paw's meat, soaked in essence, was softer than pig's trotters but more structured than beef tendon.

"I can't even describe this," she whispered. "It's wild… but delicate."

She guessed saffron. Star anise. Maybe even galangal. But nothing overpowered the meat itself.

Zane had respected the bear.

"That texture… like braised veal. But more primal."

She chewed, sighed, and fell back.

"Zane… you win. You win this round."

He gave a quiet, amused smile.

And then, it hit her.

She closed her eyes… and her imagination took flight.

In the snowy forests of Hokkaido, she wandered alone — an adventurer in a land of beasts.

Every tree whispered. Every twig snapped beneath her boots.

Then she saw it.

A massive black bear.

Its fur shimmered like obsidian. Its eyes glinted with primal intelligence.

It roared and lunged.

She braced herself, lifting her walking stick.

And then…

"GAAAH—!"

Rindo jolted awake, gasping, cheeks flushed. "I… I can't take it anymore!"

She collapsed over the counter, groaning in bliss.

Zane handed her the soda again, smirking.

"Next time, bring chicken."