Eggxamination

An egg.

A single, simple ingredient.

Yet within it lies the foundation of countless dishes across every cuisine in the world.

The egg is a culinary cornerstone—an ingredient that serves as both the main attraction and the silent backbone in a multitude of recipes. It can be the hero of a dish, standing proudly as the centerpiece, or it can disappear into the background, binding, emulsifying, enriching, and transforming.

It creates structure in cakes and pastries, turns into delicate curds in custards, adds richness to broths, and forms the base of sauces so fundamental that entire cuisines would collapse without them. Mayonnaise, hollandaise, béarnaise, custards, soufflés, tempura batter, pasta dough—the egg is present in all of them.

Despite its simplicity, it is an ingredient that demands respect.

Because it is deceptively difficult.

Cooking an egg isn't just a task—it is a test of precision, control, and knowledge.

Soft-boiled, hard-boiled, poached, scrambled, fried, coddled, basted, steamed, baked, sous vide, cured—each method results in a different texture, a different experience, a different story told on the plate.

The difference between perfection and failure?

Sometimes, it's a single degree of heat.

A second too long, and the delicate proteins will tighten and toughen beyond repair. A second too short, and the dish will be undercooked and incomplete.

And for a taster like Nakiri Erina, whose God Tongue can detect even the most microscopic imperfection, presenting her with anything short of perfection is equivalent to culinary suicide.

I can safely assume she has tasted hundreds, if not thousands, of egg-based dishes—many of them prepared by the best chefs in the world.

A simple Eggs Benedict, a refined tamagoyaki, or an elegant soufflé might work on an ordinary judge.

But against her?

The odds of passing with something so predictable are close to zero.

That's why Yukihira is the optimal candidate to handle this.

He comes from a culinary world Nakiri completely disregards—a world of family diners, homestyle meals, and practical cooking.

That world will surprise her.

It is a world she has never stepped foot in—a world where flavor and experience matter more than presentation and exclusivity.

And because she underestimates it, she is completely unprepared for what's coming.

But there's a problem.

Yukihira himself.

His teasing and competitive personality could be his own downfall.

He enjoys pushing people's buttons, and Nakiri is no exception.

Even if his dish is brilliant, if he provokes her too much, she could fail him out of spite.

I doubt he would care about status, but he wants to win.

However, winning in cooking is different from winning in battle.

To win here, he has to play his cards right.

And as for me?

I need to choose my own path to victory.

I glanced at the egg in my hand, its smooth shell reflecting the light.

A fragile, simple object—yet within it lies limitless potential.

Now, the question is:

How do I turn this into something even Nakiri Erina cannot deny?

An unknown dish—something Nakiri Erina wouldn't normally consume.

Something not too simple yet not overly extravagant.

There were countless egg-based recipes, each with variations spanning different countries and cultures.

And in my mind, I carried them all—like a walking library of cookbooks, each recipe cataloged, analyzed, and understood.

I began filtering through the possibilities.

Tamagoyaki? No. Too well-known in Japanese cuisine.

Oyakodon? No. Not enough impact.

Eggs Benedict? No. She had undoubtedly tried the best versions already.

Egg Risotto? No. Too familiar and predictable.

Omurice? No. Too childish.

Frittata? No. Too common.

I needed something different—something that would challenge her God Tongue in a way she had never experienced before.

Something completely outside her expectations.

I continued eliminating options, quickly narrowing my focus down to five candidates.

A dish like Tojásos Nokedli, a Hungarian specialty of soft egg dumplings, scrambled together in rich, golden yolks—light yet deeply satisfying. A dish that felt simple but in reality required an exact balance of technique and timing to achieve its pillowy texture.

Or perhaps Shakshuka—a North African dish of eggs poached in a spiced tomato sauce, bursting with flavors of cumin, paprika, and cayenne, the warmth of garlic and peppers seeping into every bite. A dish that could be mild and soothing or fiery and bold, depending on the chef's touch.

Menemen wasn't far off either—a Turkish take on eggs and tomatoes, but instead of poaching the eggs, they were stirred into the sauce, scrambling into silky, delicate curds. A breakfast dish by tradition, but one that could be transformed into something far beyond its humble origins.

Or something even more unconventional—like Chipsi Mayai, a Tanzanian street food dish where crispy golden fries are folded into a rich, fluffy omelet. A meal that blended textures in an unexpected way, bridging the gap between a classic egg dish and something heartier, more indulgent.

Or perhaps I could take a risk with Mayak Gyeran—the Korean "drug eggs," marinated in soy sauce, garlic, and honey, absorbing every layer of umami. Simple at first glance, yet explosive in flavor—the kind of dish that lingered in your memory long after the first bite.

There were too many possibilities and only one chance to choose correctly.

I gave a small exhalation.

I had decided.

Across from me, Yukihira was already in motion. He had wasted no time, confidently gathering ingredients with a smirk on his face, as if he already knew exactly how he was going to prove Nakiri wrong.

Across from me, Nakiri Erina let out a slow, impatient sigh, her slender fingers tapping against her crossed arms in irritation.

Her purple eyes locked onto me, filled with thinly veiled condescension, as if she were silently asking:

"Are you going to waste my time as well?"

I met her gaze, completely unfazed.

Then, without another word, I stepped forward and began gathering my own ingredients.

I grabbed ingredient after ingredient, swiftly gathering everything I needed and placing them onto the cooking station I had claimed as my own.

Before me, a selection of fresh, vibrant ingredients lay ready for use—two red bell peppers, garlic cloves, canned tomatoes, fresh parsley, fresh cilantro, two onions, two chili peppers, feta cheese, green onion, various spices, and, of course, the star of the dish, the eggs.

But that wasn't all.

I had also gathered couscous, flour, and yeast.

Just by looking at these ingredients, it was clear—I was going to prepare either Shakshuka or Menemen.

And I had decided.

Shakshuka.

While the Shakshuka would be the main dish, it would be incomplete without something to accompany it.

Shakshuka was often served with bread—traditionally pita or another flatbread—to soak up the rich, spiced tomato sauce.

And while many would opt for store-bought bread, I had no intention of taking shortcuts.

That's where the flour and yeast came in.

A fresh, quickly proofed flatbread, something rustic yet soft enough to complement the dish—that would be my approach.

The couscous, on the other hand, wasn't entirely necessary—but it would provide a layer of texture, a subtle yet significant addition to round out the dish and elevate it further.

Now the question: Why not the other dishes?

Tojásos Nokedli was out of the question.

While eggs were essential to its preparation, they took on a supporting role rather than the main focus. The dumplings, absorbing the egg's richness, blurred the ingredient's identity, turning it into something closer to a pasta dish rather than a true egg-centric recipe.

That wouldn't be enough to satisfy Erina Nakiri's criteria.

Then there was Chipsi Mayai.

A dish she had undoubtedly never tasted before, but that wasn't enough. Novelty alone wouldn't win this test.

It was too simple. Too close to something she could dismiss as common street food.

The impact would be fleeting—not memorable enough.

And at last, there was the dish I had originally wanted to prepare—Mayak Gyeran.

This would have been the most fitting choice. Unlike the others, where eggs shared the spotlight with other ingredients, Mayak Gyeran was entirely about the egg.

It was a dish built on contrast—a soft, runny yolk encased in a shell of umami-rich marinade, creating an almost addictive experience.

However, there was one unavoidable problem.

The eggs needed time to marinate—time that I simply did not have.

This test wasn't about who could make the most perfectly refined dish over hours or days. It was about who could create the best dish right now within the limited time given.

That left me with two choices:

Shakshuka or Menemen.

And between the two, I preferred the way the egg was presented in Shakshuka.

Rather than being scrambled into the mixture as in Menemen, Shakshuka allowed the egg to stand out, creating a perfect harmony between the rich, spiced tomato sauce and the delicately poached yolks.

It was the ideal dish for this test.

Now... It was time to cook.

Nakiri, Hisako, and even Yukihira were now watching me closely.

Their gazes lingered on my ingredients, Nakiri's sharp purple eyes scanning every detail, her mind likely connecting the dots.

While Shakshuka wasn't a dish commonly found in Japan, it was still an internationally renowned recipe—one that she had probably encountered before in theory, if not in practice.

She wasn't the type to be completely ignorant of world cuisine.

Still, she didn't comment.

Instead, she simply observed.

I ignored their lingering stares and turned my attention back to the flatbread dough.

Grabbing a bag of flour, I poured it into a bowl, stopping the moment the digital scale below the bowl displayed 250 grams. Without hesitation, I added a bit of yeast, salt, and sugar—each approximately one or two teaspoons.

Next, I reached for a measuring cup, carefully pouring in 150 milliliters of water before adding it to the dry ingredients.

There was no need to mix it myself.

I placed the bowl into the kitchen stand mixer, attaching a dough hook before switching it on.

That was all it needed for now.

With the dough taken care of, I could turn my focus to the main dish.

First, the preparation work.

I chose the onion, picked it up, and placed it on the cutting board.

Dicing an onion was simple, at least in theory. I had read about it and studied the techniques—but reading and doing were two entirely different things.

I positioned my knife and began to dice, following the exact steps I had memorized.

And the result?

Crude.

It was painfully slow, and the cuts were inconsistent—some pieces too small, others too large, their shapes uneven and unrefined.

If someone were to judge purely based on appearance, it would look as if I had never stepped into a kitchen before.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Nakiri watching me closely.

Then—

A scoff, followed by a suppressed laugh.

"Pfft—!"

She wasn't even trying to hide it.

Even Hisako turned slightly, though she was more composed than her mistress.

It was clear what Nakiri was thinking.

"What a joke. He can't even dice an onion properly?"

I paid her no mind.

Instead, I analyzed the results of my cuts.

Huh. So this angle and motion resulted in uneven pieces? Then, if I adjust my grip slightly, align the blade differently...

I picked up the second half of the onion and began again.

This time, my pace was significantly faster.

My cuts were smoother and more refined—still not perfect, but the difference was stark.

The first attempt looked like a child awkwardly trying to dice an onion for the first time.

This one?

It was sharper, more precise—closer to the level of someone who had at least some kitchen experience.

Nakiri's expression shifted.

The amusement in her eyes vanished, replaced by something else.

A split-second flicker of surprise.

A brief break in her composure.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She had just witnessed something unusual—a noticeable improvement in a matter of seconds.

She didn't say anything.

But I could tell.

She was shocked.

I think I understand it now.

The mechanics of the movement.

The way the knife should glide.

The angle, pressure, and rhythm—everything was finally clicking into place.

I placed the diced onion into a plastic container.

This one, I would steal and bring home.

Now that I had practiced dicing an onion for the first time, it was time to apply what I had learned.

I reached for another onion.

This time, there was no hesitation.

I inhaled slowly, then exhaled, clearing my mind.

And then I moved.

The moment the blade touched the onion, it was different.

A precise, fluid motion.

The tip of the knife remained anchored while the handle rose and fell, an almost effortless rocking rhythm dictating each cut.

A sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoed through the hall, the sound of my knife meeting the cutting board with flawless control.

My hands moved with measured efficiency, fingers tucked in perfectly, guiding the blade with absolute precision.

The onion disintegrated beneath my blade, layer after layer falling into uniform, perfectly diced pieces.

By the time 15 seconds had passed—

The onion was gone.

What remained on the cutting board were short, evenly cut, textbook-perfect onion pieces.

I set the knife down.

Silence.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then—

"Who do you think you're fooling here?!"

Nakiri's voice cut through the quiet, sharp with undisguised irritation.

Her arms were crossed tightly, her posture rigid, and her purple eyes burning with suspicion as she stared me down.

"Why did you deliberately make a fool of yourself with the first onion, only to dice the second one near perfectly?!

Her tone wasn't just angry—it was demanding an answer.

She had caught the gap between my first attempt and my second.

And it irritated her.

She wasn't just someone with a refined palate.

She was someone who had been surrounded by prodigies her whole life. She had seen countless chefs refine their skills and hone their techniques through years of rigorous training.

Yet, here I was, making it look as if I had just figured it out in real time.

That wasn't normal.

That wasn't something she could easily rationalize.

Behind her, Hisako remained quiet, but I could see it in her expression—she had the same question.

Even Yukihira, usually carefree, was now watching me with an intrigued expression, arms crossed as if waiting to see what I'd say next.

I met Nakiri's glare with calm indifference.

"I was just adjusting my technique," I answered simply.

Her eye twitched.

"Adjusting?" she repeated, incredulous. "Don't be ridiculous! No one adjusts their technique that fast!"

I tilted my head slightly, my tone devoid of any arrogance yet matter-of-fact.

"I do."

A brief flicker of frustration crossed her features.

She hated that answer.

Because she couldn't disprove it.

"Tch." She clicked her tongue, then turned her face slightly away, flipping her golden hair behind her shoulder with a scoff.

"Hmph. Whatever. It makes no difference. Knife skills alone won't be enough to impress me."

Her arms remained crossed, but I could tell—

Even though she acted dismissive, she was now watching me much more closely.

I repeated the process with the red bell pepper.

At first, my movements were unrefined.

The cutting itself was going well, but I was slow. Removing the inner core, scraping out the seeds, and getting rid of the white pith took more effort than it should have.

It wasn't a complete disaster, but it was awkward.

Then—

I picked up the second pepper.

And just like with the onion—

Everything changed.

I made a single precise incision at the top, then rolled the pepper open against the cutting board in one smooth motion.

The core, seeds, and inner pith were effortlessly exposed and removed in a matter of seconds.

Now, with only the edible portion remaining, I quickly sliced it into four sections—a simple trick to make dicing easier and more efficient.

This time, my knife moved with calculated precision, swiftly reducing the bell pepper into even, uniform pieces.

The entire process was flawless, effortless—almost too perfect.

It looked like a comedic scene.

And when I looked up—

I saw Nakiri, angrier than before.

Her lips pressed tightly together, and her arms now crossed even tighter than before.

Her purple eyes burned with frustration, a clear contrast to her composed, condescending demeanor.

She wasn't even trying to hide how much my "work process" irritated her.

Yukihira, despite being busy with his own preparations, couldn't help but take a moment to laugh out loud.

"Haha! I already like you!"

I repeated the process with the chili pepper, following the same pattern.

For the first one, I pretended to struggle—deliberately fumbling, cutting unevenly, and taking longer than necessary.

But just like before, when I moved on to the second one, my motions were smooth, precise, and effortless.

And just like before, I gracefully secured another container to take home.

With that, my preparation work was complete for the moment.

For this dish, I wouldn't be mincing the garlic cloves myself. Instead, I would use a garlic press, allowing for a smoother integration of flavor into the sauce.

The only thing I needed to do now was peel the cloves, a quick task that I finished in seconds.

I then turned my attention to the dough, which had finished kneading in the mixer.

Removing the bowl, I covered it with plastic wrap and set it aside to rest.

Letting the dough rest was a crucial step that allowed the gluten network to relax and develop.

During mixing, the proteins in the flour—glutenin and gliadin—formed bonds, creating elasticity and structure in the dough.

If I tried to roll it out immediately, the dough would be too tight and resistant to shaping.

By letting it rest, the gluten strands would loosen, making it more pliable and easier to work with.

Unlike other bread recipes that required long fermentation times, this particular flatbread didn't have a large amount of yeast.

Because of that, it wouldn't need much time—just a brief resting period before it was ready to be shaped and cooked.

With the dough resting, I could now focus entirely on the main dish.

There were many types of cookware, each with its own unique advantages depending on the dish being prepared. Choosing the right pan wasn't just about convenience—it could make or break the final outcome.

For this dish, I decided to use a stainless steel skillet.

Many chefs prefer to cook Shakshuka in a cast-iron pan, however, there's a catch.

The acidity from the tomatoes can cause trace amounts of metal molecules to leach from the cast iron into the dish, giving it a slightly metallic taste.

While this is perfectly safe to consume, the metallic undertones can interfere with the natural sweetness and umami depth of the tomatoes, which is something I wanted to avoid.

A stainless steel skillet, on the other hand, provides even heat distribution without altering the flavor of the ingredients. It's also non-reactive, making it ideal for acidic dishes like Shakshuka.

With my cookware decided, I turned on the stove, and placed the stainless steel skillet over the flame, letting it gradually heat up.

Once the pan was warm enough, I drizzled in a generous splash of extra virgin olive oil. The oil shimmered as it spread across the surface, signaling that it was at the right temperature.

Without hesitation, I added the diced onions, the gentle sizzle confirming that the pan was evenly heated. The air immediately filled with a savory aroma as I stirred them, ensuring they were evenly coated in the oil, allowing their natural sweetness to begin developing.

A few moments later, as the onions softened, I added the red bell pepper and chili pepper. The onions gradually turned translucent, releasing a fragrant, slightly sweet scent. This was the perfect moment to add the garlic. I pressed the peeled cloves through the garlic press, letting the minced garlic fall directly into the pan. Almost instantly, a pungent, rich aroma mixed into the air, deepening the dish's complexity.

It was time for the spices.

I sprinkled in salt, black pepper, a generous spoonful of paprika powder, and cumin.

The fragrance intensified, the combined aromas of sautéed onions, peppers, garlic, and spice now filling the air around me.

With everything mixed and sizzling together, I reached for the canned tomatoes.

I grabbed the metal can, cracked it open with a swift pull of the tab, and without hesitation, poured the entire contents into the pan.

The bright red tomatoes merged with the softened vegetables, immediately thickening into a rich, aromatic sauce.

The base of the Shakshuka was now coming together.

This would now simmer for 15–20 minutes, I thought quietly, watching as the tomato sauce bubbled gently, thickening and absorbing the flavors of the sautéed aromatics and spices.

With the Shakshuka base left to develop, I shifted my focus to the couscous, which would take approximately the same amount of time to prepare.

I reached for a pot, pouring in just the right amount of water before adding a pinch of salt. Using a spoon, I stirred the mixture, ensuring the salt dissolved evenly into the liquid before placing the pot on the stove to bring it to a boil.

Couscous wasn't like rice—it didn't need long cooking times or constant monitoring. Once the water reached a rolling boil, the process would be almost effortless.

While waiting for the water to heat, I turned my attention to the flatbread dough.

I pulled the bowl closer, removing the plastic wrap to take a closer look.

The dough had rested just enough—it had become softer, more elastic, and was now pliable enough to shape without resistance.

I lightly pressed my fingers into it.

It felt perfect.

Now, all that was left was to roll it out and cook it.

I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, preparing to work the dough.

The moment I did, I felt three pairs of eyes lock onto my forearms, their gazes heavy with undisguised scrutiny.

Gulp.

The small, barely audible sound didn't go unnoticed.

I didn't look up, but I could tell where it came from. Hisako.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the clipboard she was holding, her posture more rigid than before. She quickly looked away, pretending to focus on something else—but the damage had been done.

Nakiri clicked her tongue.

"Tch."

Her irritation was obvious, the usual air of superiority wrapped around her like a shield.

Yet, if one looked closely enough, past the sharp glare and the way her arms remained tightly crossed, they would notice it—

The faintest hint of red dusting her cheeks.

A reaction she probably hadn't even realized she was having.

Her pride wouldn't allow it.

And Yukihira?

He broke out into laughter, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Hahahaha! Dude, you are insane!" He clutched his stomach, shaking his head in disbelief. "And you're the same age as me?! Damn it, now I feel like I've been slacking!"

His laughter was genuine, unfiltered amusement, as if he had just witnessed something completely ridiculous yet impressive at the same time.

Nakiri, still irritated, snapped her gaze toward him.

"Will you shut up already, Yukihira-kun?"

But that only made him laugh harder.

Amusement flickered through me as I observed the scene unfolding before me.

For a brief moment, I had the distinct feeling that my mouth almost curled up, almost.

But just as quickly, I dismissed the thought and returned my focus to the dough.

Sprinkling a light dusting of flour over my work surface, I took the dough and split it into three equal portions, each one carefully shaped into a smooth, rounded ball.

Grabbing a rolling pin, I pressed into the first ball, stretching and rolling it out into a thin, even circle—roughly the same size as the pan surface I would be using.

Once the first was done, I repeated the same motion with the other two portions, ensuring each piece was evenly flattened and ready for cooking.

The moment I finished and brushed the excess flour off my hands, I heard the water bubbling in the pot behind me.

Perfect timing.

Without missing a beat, I turned toward the stove, ready to finish the couscous preparation while the dough rested for just a few minutes before cooking.

I removed the pot from the stove, carefully setting it aside on a pot stand to prevent any heat damage to the table's surface.

Without hesitation, I poured the couscous into the hot water—equal parts couscous to water—and gave it a quick, gentle stir to evenly distribute the grains.

Then, I placed the lid back on, sealing in the steam, and mentally set a five-minute countdown.

Couscous wasn't something that needed constant attention. It was a grain that absorbed moisture quickly, fluffing up perfectly in just a few minutes without needing direct heat.

That meant I had time to focus on the other components.

I turned my attention back to the Shakshuka.

The tomato base was simmering along beautifully, the spices melding together into a rich, deep red sauce. The aroma was thick in the air—warm, smoky, slightly sweet, yet bold with the scent of cumin and paprika.

It was coming together exactly as it should.

However, it still needed a little more time before I could add the eggs.

With that in mind, I left it to cook for a bit longer and moved on to the flatbread.

This time, I chose a cast iron pan.

While I had avoided using cast iron for the Shakshuka because of the reaction between the acidic tomatoes and the metal, flatbread was a different matter entirely.

Cast iron held heat exceptionally well, allowing for an even, beautifully charred surface—exactly what I needed for a soft-yet-slightly-crispy texture.

I drizzled a thin layer of olive oil over the pan, letting it heat for a moment before grabbing one of the rolled-out dough rounds.

As I placed it into the pan, it fit perfectly against the surface, settling in with no wrinkles or uneven folds.

Now, I just had to cook it through, ensuring it was golden, slightly puffed, and perfectly soft.

As I had a moment before flipping the flatbread, I took the opportunity to glance over at Yukihira, curious about what he was preparing.

He had already gathered all his ingredients, and from what I could see, he was steaming rice in a pot.

Next to it, a kettle of simmering broth sat on the stove, its fragrant steam rising into the air. He was currently tasting it, his brows furrowed in concentration, while his other hand cracked an egg into a separate bowl.

Before he could proceed, Nakiri stepped forward, approaching him with her usual air of authority.

"Yukihira-kun. What dish are you making?"

He turned to her, momentarily shocked and bewildered, as if he hadn't expected her to take interest.

Then, his expression shifted completely in an instant.

"Wha—?! You've been watching this whole time, and you don't know?"

A sudden, teasing grin spread across his face as he pointed at her, barely able to contain his laughter.

"Hah! That's hilarious!"

Nakiri's cheeks darkened instantly, her posture stiffening.

"Don't make me fail you right now!" she snapped, her voice rising in frustration. "I have no time to waste on imperfect dishes!"

"I am asking you if you have any intention of making a dish worthy of my tongue!"

Yukihira, still smirking, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Then, he finally answered.

"Okay, I'll tell you."

He lifted his hand, dragging out the suspense with a dramatic pause.

Then, with absolute confidence, he declared:

"The dish I'm making... is Yukihira Family Restaurant's Secret Menu #8!"

For a brief moment, Nakiri looked intrigued.

However, I had a feeling that her expression would change drastically in the next few seconds.

"Furikake Rice."

Silence.

A pin-drop silence filled the hall. The only sounds that remained were the soft bubbling of the mixture and the sizzle of bread in the pan.

"You must be joking!"

Nakiri's voice rang out, sharp and filled with absolute disbelief. Her hand slammed against the table, the impact echoing through the hall as she glared daggers at Yukihira.

"Just as I thought... a second-rate cook. What an utter waste of my time!"

Her expression twisted in frustration as if she had just been insulted on a personal level.

"A transfer exam, an opportunity to prove yourself in front of me, and the best you can come up with is a commoner's rice bowl?!"

"Hey, hold on! I'm not done explaining yet!"

He took a step back, pointing his hand toward the pot where the rice was steaming.

"This isn't gonna be just ordinary Furikake Rice."

His voice dropped just slightly, enough to shift the mood from teasing to confident.

Then, with an unmistakable spark in his eyes, he grinned.

"What I'm making..."

A dramatic pause.

"...is Morphing Furikake Rice!"

Nakiri's anger wavered as a brief flicker of wonder crossed her face.

"Morphing... Furikake Rice?"

It wasn't a dish name she had ever heard before.

I, too, found myself mildly intrigued.

Morphing.

A term that implied transformation, evolution—an unexpected change.

Yukihira had clearly planned something beyond a simple bowl of rice.

But the question was—would it be enough?

Nakiri was already on the verge of dismissing him outright.

Would his next move be enough to force her to acknowledge him?

I supposed I'd find out soon.

For now, my flatbread needed flipping.

I drizzled a small amount of olive oil onto the surface of the flatbread before carefully flipping it over, watching as the golden-brown side was revealed.

Perfect.

Just as I was about to focus back on my dish, I heard Yukihira's voice cut through the air.

"Yep! Hang on just a minute... It's almost done."

I glanced in his direction just in time to see him grab a yellowish-golden block, placing it onto his cutting board.

The moment his knife sliced through it, I immediately understood.

Ah.

I see.

So that's what he's going to do.

He had chosen Furikake Rice as the foundation—but this wasn't going to be some basic, pre-packaged seasoning mix sprinkled over steamed rice.

No, Yukihira was taking a completely different approach.

Instead of using store-bought Furikake, he had created his own unique blend, and if that golden block was what I thought it was...

Then he wasn't just playing with texture.

He was about to completely change how Furikake was perceived as a dish.

Fascinating.

Nakiri, of course, had no idea yet.

Her arms were still crossed, her face still set in mild contempt, waiting for something—anything—that would justify her continued presence here.

It was about to get interesting.

I continued tending to my flatbread.

Taking a quick glance at the tomato mixture, I noted that it had thickened perfectly, and the flavors had melded together into a rich, aromatic sauce.

Now came the crucial step.

I carefully created small wells within the sauce, ensuring there was enough space for the eggs to sit evenly without blending into the mixture too much.

Then, I cracked an egg into each well. One after the other, I repeated the motion five more times, until six eggs were evenly distributed across the surface of the dish.

Reaching for the lid, I placed it over the pan, allowing the eggs to poach gently in the sauce.

This would take a few minutes, so I turned my attention to the couscous.

Lifting the pot's lid, I observed the tiny grains, now fully fluffed and hydrated, having absorbed all the water completely.

Taking a fork, I lightly stirred it, breaking up any clumps before drizzling in a dash of olive oil. Mixing it thoroughly, I grabbed four bowls and evenly distributed the couscous between them, ensuring equal portions.

Then, my focus shifted to the flatbread.

The first piece had reached the perfect level of doneness—golden brown, slightly puffed, soft but with a slight crisp along the edges.

I removed it from the pan, setting it aside on a plate, and immediately placed the next piece of dough into the pan to cook.

While the bread was cooked, I prepared the final garnish for the Shakshuka.

I grabbed feta cheese, green onions, fresh parsley, and fresh cilantro.

Using a sharp knife, I finely chopped the feta, reducing it to small, crumbly pieces, the kind that could be sprinkled over the dish like salt.

The green onions were sliced cleanly into rings, while the parsley and cilantro were roughly chopped into small, fresh pieces, ensuring they would add color and texture without overpowering the dish.

As I flipped the flatbread, I finally removed the lid from the Shakshuka.

The eggs were perfect.

The whites had set just enough, holding their shape within the sauce, while the yolks remained slightly runny, their golden centers still soft.

Had I left them for even a minute longer, they would have been fully cooked through—and that wasn't what I wanted.

Without hesitation, I removed the pan from the stove, ensuring that the residual heat wouldn't continue cooking the eggs.

Then, with precise movements, I garnished the dish—

A sprinkling of feta, adding a creamy, salty contrast.

The green onions, providing a fresh, sharp bite.

And finally, the fresh parsley and cilantro scattered over the surface, bringing a vibrant, herbaceous aroma to the dish.

Just as I withdrew the second flatbread, placing it onto a separate plate, I set the final piece onto the pan to cook.

Everything was nearly ready.

"Order up!"

Yukihira had finished his dish.

He placed a bowl down in front of Nakiri with a confident smirk.

The dish seemed insultingly simple—a bowl filled with scrambled eggs.

Those scrambled eggs should take the role of Furikake. Furikake was traditionally a dry condiment sprinkled over rice, fish, or vegetables. It was typically made of a blend of dried fish, sesame seeds, chopped seaweed, sugar, salt, and monosodium glutamate—a simple yet flavorful topping.

Yet, what he presented, or rather, seemingly presented, was barely even that.

It was unassuming, an outright insult to someone of Nakiri's caliber.

A simple bowl of rice, with scrambled egg as the garnish.

Hisako leaned in, inspecting the dish with narrowed eyes.

"It really is just... Furikake Rice," she muttered, her tone bordering on disbelief.

Nakiri, however, didn't immediately react.

For a brief moment, she simply stared at the bowl, her expression unreadable.

Then, without warning, she turned on her heel and walked away—straight toward me.

Her voice was sharp and dismissive.

"Completely out of the question. This concludes your test."

A definitive rejection.

"Hmph." She scoffed, flicking her golden hair behind her shoulder as if shaking off the mere idea of acknowledging him.

"A second-rate cook with a third-rate dish after all. You haven't stirred my appetite in the least."

The finality in her tone made it clear—as far as she was concerned, Yukihira had failed.

But Yukihira?

He didn't look concerned in the slightest.

In fact—

He didn't falter.

He simply looked at her, his previous teasing gone, replaced by a deadpan expression.

Then, slowly, his smirk returned.

"But you haven't even seen the full shape of this dish yet."

Nakiri froze mid-step.

She immediately turned back around, her heels clicking against the floor as she fixed him with an icy glare.

Yukihira, unfazed, reached down and lifted the bowl into the air.

And then—

He poured its contents over the white rice.

The moment the egg slid out, golden, translucent cubes tumbled down with it, cascading onto the steaming rice below.

It was only now that the true form of his dish became clear.

Small, delicate gelatin cubes, glistening under the light, landed onto the hot rice—

And immediately began to melt.

The once solid Furikake transformation broke down in real-time, releasing its concentrated umami essence into the egg and rice.

"Have a look for yourself," Yukihira declared confidently, stepping back.

"The real value of Furikake only shines... when you pour it over piping-hot white rice! Now, it's done!"

The dish, which had at first appeared deceptively simple, had now transformed before their very eyes.

The melting cubes sank into the grains, their concentrated flavors seeping into every inch of the rice, elevating it far beyond the ordinary.

Nakiri's expression shifted.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes betrayed her intrigue.

She hadn't expected this.

Meanwhile, as the scene unfolded before me, I couldn't help but ponder a single thought.

"How did everything in that bowl land so perfectly on the rice without spilling out earlier?"

As I observed, the aroma finally reached me.

The scent of thoroughly simmered chicken stock filled the hall, blending with the rich umami essence of the melted Furikake cubes, deep and comforting.

Even without tasting it, I could tell—the broth had been carefully reduced, its flavors concentrated into those gelatin cubes, designed to bloom the moment they met the heat of the rice.

Nakiri narrowed her eyes, arms still crossed as if trying to maintain some sense of authority over the situation.

"One bite. I will be generous and taste a single bite for you."

Her voice now carried an edge of eagerness and anticipation.

"If you want my judgment, hand over that bowl!"

Huh.

Another Horikita?

No.

She was even more tsundere than Horikita.

Yukihira's grin widened.

"Dig in!" he said, sliding the bowl toward her without hesitation.

She picked up her chopsticks and took her first bite.

The moment the rice, egg, and melted Furikake touched her tongue, her head tilted slightly upward, her body reacting before she could even process what was happening.

A fleeting expression of pleasure crossed her face, unguarded, unfiltered—her eyes widened, and for just a second, she was completely absorbed in the flavors.

And then, just as quickly, she gulped down the bite, snapping back into reality.

"What is going on?" I mused silently, watching her closely.

It wasn't just good—something about the dish had completely thrown her off balance.

Despite herself, she reached for a second bite, almost instinctively, her body moving before her pride could intervene.

Yukihira wasn't about to let that slide.

"Goin' for a second bite? I thought you said you'd only taste one."

His teasing tone hit its mark immediately.

Nakiri froze, a deep blush creeping up her face, before she slammed her hand onto the desk with a loud smack.

"Do you have a problem with that?!" she snapped, her voice sharper than before, her embarrassment manifesting as aggression.

I observed silently.

"Definitely worse than Horikita."

This was textbook tsundere behavior.

In the meantime, I executed the last flip of my flatbread.

Yukihira just grinned, completely unfazed.

"Nah, I was just kidding. Enjoy!"

He leaned back slightly, utterly satisfied with himself.

Nakiri huffed, still glaring at him, but that didn't stop her chopsticks from moving again.

This time, however, she had herself under control.

She straightened her posture, her expression returning to its usual composed, analytical state.

"You used an aspic." Her voice was cool, calculated—as if distancing herself from her previous reaction.

"Bingo!" Yukihira smiled, completely unbothered. "Those golden cubes under the egg are a chicken aspic!"

He gestured to the dish as he spoke.

"I simmered chicken wings in bonito broth, seasoned with sake and light soy sauce. This drew the chicken's natural savory flavor and gelatin into the broth."

His tone was relaxed, but his confidence was undeniable.

Nakiri's chopsticks hovered over the dish as she listened.

"Once the broth was fully infused, I quickly chilled it until it gelled—then cut it into small cubes."

His eyes glinted as he leaned slightly forward.

"And here's the magic part."

He pointed at the dish.

"Sprinkle the cubes over piping-hot rice... and the rich chicken aspic melts, coating the egg curds with a 'ploop'!"

Nakiri was speechless.

Because Yukihira had delivered a dish she had never eaten before.

It was a new experience.

An entirely different take on something so familiar, so ordinary, that it forced her to acknowledge his creativity.

Yukihira, of course, wasn't one to let her sit in silence.

"Well?" He leaned forward, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. "Whatcha think? Aren't you glad you didn't just leave?"

"B-Be quiet! I'm still judging!" she snapped, her voice flustered but not nearly as commanding as before.

Yukihira simply chuckled, completely unfazed.

"Furikake is a common, dirt-cheap dish," he continued, resting a hand on his hip. "But with a bit of creativity, you can turn it into a masterpiece. This is Yukihira cooking!"

Despite her resistance, Nakiri's chopsticks moved again.

She took another bite.

Then another.

Her face, though still reluctant to accept this type of cooking, betrayed her true feelings.

Even as she tried to fight it, her body had already accepted the undeniable pleasure of the dish.

I observed her carefully. Why does she react like that every time she takes a bite?

She was making the same expression Karuizawa did when we engaged in particular activities—

But here?

The reason was food.

I blinked.

For a fleeting moment, I genuinely questioned if everyone at Tōtsuki reacted like that to food.

I slightly shook my head at the thought.

"If everyone in ANHS reacted to food like that, I would have dropped out on my own accord..."

Nakiri Erina—one of the most notorious food critics in the culinary world—was standing there, flushed, visibly reacting, struggling to keep her composure.

Over a bowl of rice.

Unbelievable.

While Nakiri struggled to regain her composure, I quietly retrieved the final flatbread from the pan.

Placing it on the cutting board, I took my knife and sliced it cleanly into two halves, setting them aside.

Everything was ready now.

"Yeah, Yukihira is just a tiny restaurant," he admitted casually. "And I don't doubt you guys are the culinary world's upper crust."

"Still, if all you're doing is sitting on your laurels up at the top..." His eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to challenge. "I think there's stuff out there you just can't make."

That hit a nerve.

I could practically feel the temperature drop.

Hisako immediately picked up on the shift, her expression tightening.

"Miss Erina..." she murmured, sounding genuinely concerned.

But Yukihira wasn't done.

"Well?" He placed one hand on the table, completely fearless. "How is it? My Furikake Rice? Good? Bad? Say it!"

Sigh.

Not good.

I silently observed the exchange, already predicting the worst outcome.

Provoking her like this was a mistake.

Nakiri's pride wouldn't take it well.

I had already realized that she wasn't the type to simply admit when she was impressed.

And Yukihira?

He was forcing her into a corner.

One that her pride wouldn't take.

With one swift motion, I gathered everything. The pan of steaming Shakshuka, the plate stacked with warm flatbreads, and the four bowls of couscous, carefully balancing them along with the necessary utensils.

Without hesitation, I approached their table, where the standoff was still happening.

I placed everything down with a loud, deliberate thud.

The sound cut through the tension instantly.

Silence.

All heads snapped toward me, their attention now completely redirected.

Nakiri, still glaring at Yukihira, now turned her attention towards me and the dish I brought along.

Yukihira turned to me as well, his grin still intact.

"Well, well," I spoke casually, rolling down my sleeves as I was now finished with the cooking. "We don't want to rush her, Yukihira. Right?"

A faint amusement flickered in his eyes as he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms.

"Oh?" He smirked. "So, you're finally done stalling?"

I ignored the teasing, instead turning my gaze toward Nakiri, who had now fully shifted her attention to my dish.

Her violet eyes scanned the food before her, her expression cool and unreadable—but I didn't miss the way she subtly inhaled, taking in the rich, spiced aroma of the dish.

Now, it was my turn.

I took a moment, glancing at Nakiri and the others, before shifting my focus to the dish before me.

"This here is Shakshuka," I began, my voice even and composed. "A dish originating from the Maghreb region, meaning it stems from the western part of the Arab world. This region encompasses countries such as Algeria, Libya, Mauritania, Morocco, and Tunisia."

Nakiri's eyes flickered with recognition at the name, but she remained silent, waiting for me to continue.

"At its core, Shakshuka is a dish of eggs poached in a sauce made from tomatoes, olive oil, peppers, onions, and garlic. It is typically seasoned with cumin, paprika, and cayenne pepper, giving it a deep, warming flavor."

"The process is simple but precise. Onions are sautéed in olive oil until softened, followed by garlic, red bell pepper, and chili for heat. Once fragrant, canned tomatoes are added, simmering until the sauce thickens. When ready, eggs are cracked into wells in the sauce and poached under a lid until just set, ensuring the yolks remain soft."

I motioned toward the garnishes.

"As for the side, this is a simple flatbread, traditionally served with Shakshuka. It's meant to be used for dipping, allowing the eater to scoop up the sauce and eggs directly, enhancing the experience with texture."

Then, I gestured toward the couscous, neatly portioned in bowls.

"And finally, to complement the intensity of the dish, I prepared couscous. With its light and fluffy texture, it serves as a mild base to balance the boldness of the spiced tomato sauce. It absorbs flavors while offering contrast, ensuring the meal doesn't become overwhelming."

I finished my explanation, standing there as the aroma of warm spices, simmered tomatoes, and freshly baked bread lingered in the air.

I grabbed three paper towels, carefully placing one full piece of bread on one and two halves on the other two. Then, without hesitation, I distributed them—a bowl of couscous and a portion of flatbread for each person.

The full bread was handed to Nakiri, while Hisako and Yukihira each received a half.

Their reactions were immediate.

Yukihira's eyes widened slightly, and even Hisako, who had remained composed throughout, looked momentarily surprised.

"Huh?" Yukihira blinked before a small grin formed. "You actually made enough for us too?"

"Yes," I replied evenly. "The portion is large enough for everyone. Shakshuka is traditionally served in the pan, shared among the table, but if you'd prefer your own plate, just say so."

Nakiri's eyes flicked toward the remaining bowl beside me, and the untouched piece of bread.

"What is that for?" she asked, her tone skeptical. "You don't look like you intend to eat yourself."

I remained silent for a moment, then casually let my gaze drift away, settling on a seemingly unremarkable closet in the corner of the room.

More specifically—the gap just beneath the door.

Where a faint shadow shifted.

My eyes locked onto the presence hidden inside, meeting a pair of concealed eyes peering out from the darkness.

"Who knows."

I turned back to Nakiri, expression unreadable.

I let my gaze sweep across the group, keeping my expression neutral.

"Why don't you go ahead and taste the food before it gets cold?"

Yukihira was the first to respond, his excitement practically radiating off him.

"Ho ho! Then I won't hesitate!" He grinned, eagerly picking up his flatbread, eyeing the dish with genuine enthusiasm. "This looks tasty, and I've never had it before."

Without a moment's pause, he tore off a piece of the warm bread, scooped up a generous amount of the rich, spiced tomato sauce, ensuring he got some of the perfectly poached egg, and took his first bite.

The moment he did, his expression shifted immediately.

His chewing slowed, his eyebrows lifting to show that he was fully processing the flavors—not just eating but experiencing the dish.

Nakiri remained silent, still waiting.

Hisako, however, after initially hesitating, took a bite next.

Her movements were more refined, less outwardly expressive than Yukihira's, but I caught the way her shoulders subtly relaxed and the slight widening of her eyes as she let the flavors settle.

Nakiri finally relented. She tore off a piece of flatbread and then scooped up a modest portion of the Shakshuka, making sure to include a bit of the soft egg yolk.

Her first bite was met with complete silence, her eyes widening. Then she quickly lowered her gaze, unwilling to let anyone see the unguarded surprise that flickered across her features.

She swallowed, paused, and then immediately took another bite, this time with more fervor as if confirming that the first bite hadn't been a fluke.

Yukihira, who had been observing with a teasing grin, let out a little laugh and scooped up more of his own serving. "Yeah, pretty good, right?" he murmured between mouthfuls.

On the other side, Hisako, still holding her flatbread, ventured a second helping as well—this time combining the sauce with couscous, letting the tiny grains soak in the spiced tomato base.

"This couscous..." she noted softly, taking in the contrasting textures, "it really balances out the heat."

Nakiri, too, took a small spoonful of couscous next, setting it onto her plate before ladling a bit of the sauce on top. She was silent, yet the deliberate way she tasted the combination spoke volumes.

From where I stood, the scene resembled a family gathering around a meal, casually sharing bites from the same pan. The once-tense atmosphere had eased, giving way to something more relaxed and enjoyable.

At some point, Nakiri seemed to take notice of this shift, and let out a frustrated grunt.

"Damn it... First, a second-rate cook with a bad attitude serving an unsightly dish, and now this—" she gestured vaguely at me, her tone laced with irritation. "An expressionless guy who, until today, had never even chopped an onion, yet somehow managed to do it flawlessly on his second try and..." She trailed off before muttering under her breath, "...with strong forearms."

Yukihira nearly choked on his food at her last comment, his grin widening as he struggled to suppress his laughter.

"Pfft—what was that last part, Nakiri?" he teased, leaning forward with obvious amusement.

Nakiri's expression froze for a split second before she whipped her head around, glaring daggers at him. "I said nothing! Absolutely nothing, you second-rate fool!"

Hisako, who had been quietly eating, let out a soft sigh as if already used to these antics.

Nakiri clicked her tongue in frustration before muttering again, this time even quieter—

"...And the dish isn't bad either."

This time, no one beside me seemed to hear her.

They were fully immersed in their meals, and if I didn't intervene, there wouldn't be a single bite left. But I still needed to save a small portion.

"So, Nakiri," I spoke up, drawing their attention. "How were our dishes? Have we passed the exam?"

At my words, they all paused, turning their focus toward her.

Nakiri's face was a storm of hesitation, frustration, and stubbornness—before, at last, it hardened with resolve.

"Y-you... You p—"

"And? It was good, right?" Yukihira grinned, cutting her off with his usual teasing tone. "Come on, admit it!"

I sighed internally. She was about to say we passed, but that one sentence just ruined everything. Not that it mattered—I knew we would still pass. My gaze briefly flickered toward the unassuming closet once more.

Nakiri, who had been on the verge of giving her verdict, froze. Then, as Yukihira's taunting words sank in, her expression twisted. Frustration, anger—pure stubbornness took over. Her golden eyes, sharp with defiance, burned with an intensity that could sear through steel.

"It was disgusting! You two fail!"

Yukihira blinked, momentarily stunned, before his brows shot up in disbelief. "Huh?"

Hisako flinched at the outburst but said nothing, merely watching her mistress.

Nakiri, however, wasn't finished. Her shoulders trembled ever so slightly—not from anger alone, but from something else, something deeper. Frustration? Embarrassment?

"The flavors were all over the place! Overpowering, aggressive, completely unrefined!" she continued, her voice growing louder as if trying to convince herself more than anyone else. "And your technique—your technique was—!"

She bit her lip, her breath unsteady. The memory of the perfectly poached eggs, the rich, aromatic sauce, and the way the warm, spiced flavors had melted onto her tongue haunted her. She loathed it. She loathed how much she had enjoyed it.

And most of all, she loathed the two idiots responsible for making her feel this way.

"You fail!" she repeated, spinning on her heel as if putting distance between herself and the meal would somehow erase the experience from her memory. But no matter how much she tried, the lingering taste still clung to her, defying her every word.

Nakiri stormed out of the hall with a huff, her exit reminiscent of a child throwing a tantrum. Hisako immediately followed, but just before stepping through the door, she paused, casting a lingering glance back at the two of us.

Beside me, Yukihira stood frozen, his expression blank, as if the ground had suddenly vanished beneath him.

I nudged him, snapping him out of his daze. "Come on, let's go."

Still barely recovered, he turned to me, utterly baffled by the outcome of the exam.

"Wait... is that it?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief. "Did we really just fail like that?"

I exhaled lightly, my gaze shifting toward the inconspicuous closet—the silent observer who had been watching this entire time.

"No," I said simply. "We passed."

Yukihira's confusion only deepened. He looked at me as if I had just spoken in a language he couldn't understand.

Without offering further explanation, I grabbed my loot—the filled containers—before placing a firm hand on his shoulder, meeting his gaze one last time before turning away.

"See you in a month, Yukihira."