Chapter 14:Main course~Crimson Rendezvous

Within minutes, the appetizer plates were wiped clean—every last bite gone. Laughter still hung in the air as Rina rose to stack the dishes. "Give me a moment, Yamada-san," she said with a knowing smile. "I'll start on the main course."

She moved to the kitchen, Chiaki trailing behind like an eager sous chef.

"Black plates?" Chiaki pulled three onyx-colored dishes from the bag, running a finger along their matte finish. "Let me guess—the theme's 'midnight' or something?"

Rina smirked, a playful glint in her eyes. "Wrong. The theme is red. It's called A Crimson Rendezvous."

She opened the fridge and retrieved a thick-cut, brick-shaped A5-grade ribeye steak, freshly bought that afternoon. The meat was a perfect square, vibrant red marbled with delicate, snowflake-like veins of fat.

Chiaki poked at the meat. "Why such a thick brick of meat? Wouldn't pre-sliced cuts be easier?"

Rina lifted the steak slightly, letting the light catch the marbling. "Because I'll be slicing it myself after it's seared. The presentation matters—it's all in the detail."

She reached for sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, sprinkling them evenly before massaging the seasoning into the meat with care.

"This kind of premium beef doesn't need much marinating. Too much, and you lose that natural umami," she explained, covering the steak with plastic wrap to let it rest and reach room temperature.

While the meat settled, she set a small pot on the stove and poured in sugar and water. "I'll prep the caramel net."

Her hands moved swiftly as she stirred the mixture, eyes never leaving the pot. As the sugar turned a rich amber, she pulled it off the heat, dipped a long-handled fork into the syrup, and began flicking it across a sheet of parchment in rapid strokes. Delicate threads solidified into a golden, lacy web.

"Timing's everything," she murmured, setting the net aside to cool. "Once it hardens, you can't shape it anymore."

When the net was done, she returned to the steak, gently patting away moisture with a paper towel.

Rina said, "Searing a brick-shaped steak requires precise control of heat and timing. But if you get it right, the thickness helps lock in the juices, making every bite tender and full of flavor."

She fired up the stove, setting a heavy cast-iron pan over the flame. A brush of butter across the surface sizzled instantly, releasing a wave of rich, creamy aroma. With tongs, she lowered the steak into the pan. It hissed as it hit the metal, a crisp sear forming almost instantly. Rina watched, eyes sharp, turning the steak to brown each edge to golden perfection, locking in flavor.

"This is the trick," she said quietly, turning the meat, confident. "Sear on high to seal the surface. Then lower the heat. Let it cook slow—keep the center pink and tender."

Minutes passed. She pulled out a meat thermometer, inserting it precisely into the center. When it reached the perfect medium-rare temperature, she nodded in satisfaction and transferred the steak to a rack to rest.

"Resting's critical," she said, tenting it with foil. "It lets the juices redistribute. You want it to melt, not bleed."

Once rested, she sliced the steak into even pieces, each cut revealing a glistening gradient: crisp edges leading to a warm, rosy center. Juices beaded along the surface, catching the light. The marbling looked almost painted.

"Now," Rina said, voice laced with anticipation, "for the final touch."

She arranged the black plates. Each got three slices, stacked with care, like cards fanned across a canvas.

Next came the tomato foam. She grabbed a squeeze bottle and pressed. Delicate red bubbles formed a full circle around the beef, creating a vivid contrast against the black plate. Then came the strawberry potato purée, piped into four symmetrical florets, arranged around the foam in a perfect circle—soft, shaped with rhythmic precision. Finally, Rina took the caramel net, delicately placing it atop the potato purée, its brittle texture contrasting with the softness of the mash, adding another layer of complexity to the dish.

Lastly, a few drops of red wine reduction, placed with surgical care from a dropper, met the black plate with vivid contrast—red and black intertwining like a living painting.

Rina stepped back and exhaled.

"A Crimson Rendezvous," she whispered.

Chiaki stood wide-eyed beside her. "It's… beautiful."

The black plates framed the vibrant red, creating a visual impact that hit like a symphony. Every detail reflected Rina's obsessive devotion to aesthetics. It wasn't just food—it was a performance. A composition of color, aroma, and emotion.

Chiaki pulled out her phone, already snapping photos.

Rina offered a soft smile. "Let's head out."

She carried the plated dish to where Chef Yamada waited, barely concealing his anticipation.

"Main course," she announced with quiet pride. "Crimson Rendezvous."

Chef Yamada's gaze dropped to the plate. The interplay of vibrant red against the matte black surface caught his eye immediately. He gave a small, approving nod before picking up his knife and fork. He sliced into the steak—rosy pink at the center, its juices glistening like a promise. The meat's aroma rose delicately in the air.

He took a bite and closed his eyes.

For a long moment, he simply tasted—savoring the tenderness, the richness, the depth. Then he opened his eyes slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a satisfied smile. "Beautifully done," he said. "The texture is perfect. Cooked just right."

He carved off another piece, this time letting it graze the red wine reduction before tasting. The beef and the sauce met on his tongue in a harmony of flavor—lush, full-bodied, with a satisfying warmth that lingered. His shoulders relaxed; he exhaled softly, as if emerging from a vivid daydream.

"A flawless pairing," he murmured. "The beef sings with subtlety. The sauce pairs perfectly with the beef—the flavors truly complement each other."

Chef Yamada's eyes shifted to the mashed potatoes on the plate. He gave them a light prod with his fork, brow slightly arched.

"Mashed potatoes? They're red?"

"Strawberry-infused," Rina said, a playful curve to her lips.

He took a bite, chewing slowly as he absorbed the unexpected combination. After a quiet moment, he murmured, "Surprisingly refreshing. The berry's acidity cuts through the richness in a way I didn't expect. It completely redefines what mashed potatoes can be."

His attention shifted to the soft red foam spiraling around the steak.

"And this?"

"Tomato foam—an example of molecular gastronomy's foam technique," Rina answered softly, a glint of pride in her eyes.

With a curious glance, Yamada scooped up a bit. It melted on his tongue, bursting with fresh tomato flavor and a whisper of sweetness. The airy texture surprised him.

"The texture of this foam... it's nothing like I imagined. It retains the freshness of the tomato, yet carries an airy lightness—like each bite is dancing with my taste buds."

He glanced up to find both Rina and Chiaki watching him, amused.

"You're not going to try it yourselves?"

Chiaki grinned. "I was just waiting for your cue." Her knife sawed through the steak with unbridled enthusiasm. "Ohmygod," she moaned around a mouthful, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. "This is stupid good."

Rina rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her grin. "Must you perform?"

"Can't help it!" Chiaki protested, waving her fork. "When food tastes this illegal, you have to make noise!"