The One Noodle That Binds Us

The moment the kitchen's ambient warmth met the 65℃ water, Zane's expression grew serious. Today, he was going to serve something truly special—something few chefs dared attempt: the legendary "one noodle" dish.

He began with the dough, carefully combining high-gluten flour with the warmed water. His hands moved with rhythmic precision as he kneaded, muscles flexing with each motion. Ten minutes of kneading passed before he covered the dough with a damp cloth and let it rest. Then, the process repeated—knead, rest, knead, rest—for four full cycles.

Each round brought the dough closer to perfection—gluten fully developed, pliable yet strong, smooth like silk beneath his fingertips.

Finally, it was time.

Unlike conventional noodles cut with a knife or pulled into strands, Zane rolled the dough into a thick rope. His movements were unhurried, filled with care. He coiled the dough gently onto a plate, brushed it with oil to prevent sticking, and covered it once more with a damp cloth for a final thirty-minute rest.

"Making one noodle takes time," he said to himself, wiping his brow.

To keep his guests entertained, Zane stepped into the main hall with a tray of chilled fruit wine. The glasses shimmered under the tavern lights, their contents gleaming with translucent hues—ruby, amber, and pale gold.

"Here," he said, offering the drinks. "A little something to keep you refreshed."

Hinako Inui's eyes lit up as she took a sip. "Mmm! Light and fruity… not too strong."

"High-quality plum wine," Kojiro Shinomiya noted after a taste, his expression softening ever so slightly. "Mild sweetness with just enough acidity. Balanced."

Gin Dojima leaned back with a relaxed chuckle. "Kojiro… are you planning to open a branch of SHINO'S in the city?"

Kojiro turned to Gin, his gaze distant. "Yes. During the training camp, I realized… it's too soon for me to go global."

He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the reflection of the tavern's dim lights dance in the liquid. "I lost my original purpose. To get it back, I need to return to the essence of cooking."

Gin nodded thoughtfully. "I brought you here because I thought this place might show you something new. The philosophy here is different—no set menu, only what the customer desires. A stark contrast to your quest for perfection and consistency."

He took another sip. "Even this plum wine… it tempts the heart."

Kojiro didn't reply, but his silence spoke volumes.

Back in the kitchen, Zane stood ready.

The dough had rested enough. Now came the moment of truth.

He grasped the rope of dough with both hands, and in one smooth motion, it began to fly.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The long rope twirled through the air, stretching, dancing like a white snake under moonlight. Each pass elongated it, refined it. The room watched in awe.

And then—with one final flick—it landed gracefully in a pot of boiling water.

The silence that followed was absolute. Even Gin, Kojiro, and Satoshi Isshiki were momentarily stunned.

"One… noodle?" Hinako whispered, covering her mouth. "He made… just one?"

"How long was that?" Fuyumi Mizuhara asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Too fast to tell," Isshiki murmured. "But that wasn't ordinary craftsmanship."

"I thought he'd go for knife-cut noodles, or hand-pulled ones," Gin muttered. "But this? This is the hardest of them all."

He exhaled slowly. "It's not just showmanship… This kind of noodle requires perfection in both dough and form. It has to be resilient, chewy, smooth, and uniform. One misstep, and it snaps."

Soon, six large bowls arrived, steam curling from their surfaces. The golden broth shimmered, framing one continuous noodle in each.

No breaks.

No joints.

Just one unbroken thread of wheat mastery.

Hinako's mouth fell open. "It's so slippery… and thick!"

"It looks two meters long," Fuyumi guessed, still fixated.

"No," Gin said, eyes narrowing. "It must be longer. He used a low-temperature rest method. Takes more time, but strengthens the gluten and improves texture. He oiled it repeatedly too—keeps it from sticking."

"So how long is it?" Kojiro asked.

Zane smiled.

"Exactly 3.8 meters."

The group gasped.

"Seriously?!" Fuyumi nearly dropped her chopsticks.

Zane nodded. "It could've been longer, but that's the max our bowls could handle, considering portion size and appetite."

"Still… 3.8 meters? That's incredible," Hinako murmured.

"Just because you haven't seen it doesn't mean it doesn't exist," Zane said. "In Weishan, China, a chef named Su Lao San once pulled a single noodle that was 1,704 meters long. World record."

Their jaws dropped.

"Over a kilometer?!" Hinako exclaimed.

She lifted her chopsticks. The noodle shimmered under the tavern lights, smooth and slightly translucent, with the light broth dripping off like dew. For a moment, she didn't dare eat—only admire.

Then hunger took over.

She blew gently, then took a bite.

Soft yet chewy. Smooth, with the rich aroma of scallion oil and wheat lingering on her tongue.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

"Mmm…"

The others followed. One bite. Two. Chew. Slurp. Bite again.

The noodle couldn't be eaten in one go, so each diner had to work their way through the spiraling ribbon of flour, broth, and flavor.

They had expected something gimmicky.

What they got was transcendence.

"I get it now…" Gin finally muttered, eyes half-lidded in thought. "It's not just about the noodle. It's the broth. The balance. Every sip, every bite—there's a wave of flavors dancing on the tongue."

"The clear broth is the soul of this dish," Kojiro added.

It was light on the surface, but layered with umami from lamb bones, aromatics, and Zane's secret spice blend. With every bite, the flavor intensified, unfurling like a story told in chapters.

Gin suddenly understood.

Zane had added a small amount of salt during dough-making. That helped the sodium ions stabilize the gluten strands, creating a chewy yet elastic texture. A nod to science within tradition.

3.8 meters wasn't arbitrary. It was earned.

All around the tavern, the sound of slurping and sipping filled the air. The noodle's resilience surprised everyone—no breaking, no clumping. Just clean, smooth texture and perfect broth adhesion.

By the time the bowls were empty, silence returned.

And then—

Sighs. Long, dreamy sighs.

Eyes closed, heads tilted back.

"It's like… I just traveled the world," Fuyumi whispered.

"A dream," Hinako added, "but one that ended in warmth and fullness."

They opened their eyes.

Only empty bowls, faint steam, and Zane's quiet smile remained.

In that moment, no one spoke.

They didn't need to.

The Spirit-Calming Noodle had said everything.