Mandarin fish—also known as Chinese perch. It has long been a favored substitute in classical cuisine, a tradition passed down for generations, attesting to the wisdom of the common folk.
Now, take the mandarin fish.
With practiced ease, Zane descaled it, removed the innards, cleaned out the bloodlines and the fishy membranes. Then with a thud, he brought the chef's knife down, slicing the head off cleanly at the base of the pectoral fins.
A splash of blood marked the board. The fish head was set aside, saved for later.
Next came the scoring—Zane pressed down on the spine, making deep, even slashes two-thirds into the fish flesh, each cut evenly spaced.
"What kind of knife technique is that?" Ryoko, who specialized in fermentation cuisine, stared wide-eyed.
"Scoring," Satoshi said with a knowing smile. "It's a technique commonly used in Chinese cuisine."
Soma, observing silently, furrowed his brows. He'd seen that technique before—his father, Joichiro, had used it too.
"Yep," Satoshi nodded. "It's very precise, very difficult to master."
In Chinese cooking, not all cutting is just cutting.
The classic downward chop—blade perpendicular to the board—is only the beginning. For tougher ingredients, slashing or hacking techniques are used. Softer ingredients may require slicing with the blade angled, gliding rather than pressing.
And then there's scoring—cutting just deep enough into the surface of the food without slicing all the way through.
"Soma, watch carefully," Satoshi whispered. "You'll understand why I told you not to rush into proving yourself like Alice did."
Soma said nothing, simply straightened his posture and kept watching.
Zane continued, seasoning the fish with salt, ginger, sugar, and cooking wine, letting it marinate for ten minutes so the flavors could penetrate.
Then came the starching—he carefully coated the fish in a fine layer of starch, making sure it filled every crevice. This would protect the meat from drying out during frying, keeping the texture tender.
The wok was heated, the oil brought to a shimmer—about 70% hot. Zane gently laid in the fish and shallow-fried it for five minutes before removing it to a plate.
Next, he poured off the oil and added a fresh drizzle, then stirred in salt, sugar, and white vinegar over low heat. Water and starch were whisked together to make a paste, and finally, he poured in the prepared tomato sauce.
Pine nuts and green peas were sprinkled over the top, and the green leaves and fish head were arranged carefully to resemble a… squirrel.
SSZZZ!
As the hot gravy touched the sizzling fish, it let out a high-pitched crackling sound—just like a squirrel's squeak.
The scored fish now bloomed open like a chrysanthemum. Its head, reattached with care, had its mouth wide open. Pine nuts scattered near the head resembled the remnants of a squirrel's meal.
It was a feast for the eyes.
"Whoa!"
"It's incredible!"
"This… this actually looks like a squirrel!" Yuuki exclaimed.
The delicate lattice of scored fish slices had held together perfectly, and everyone looked on, stunned.
"I didn't catch it earlier," Satoshi murmured. "But now I see—Zane's scoring technique is on another level."
Squirrel-shaped mandarin fish was not a dish for amateurs. The knife work alone—dozens of precise cuts requiring nuanced control—could defeat even experienced chefs.
Too shallow, and the visual effect would be ruined. Too deep, and the flesh would fall apart. Consistency was critical. The angles had to be precise, the spacing perfect.
But Zane had made 108 cuts.
"Chef, how many cuts did you make?" Satoshi asked.
"108," Zane answered casually, as if it were nothing.
"I'm convinced," Satoshi said, shaking his head. "There's nothing more to say."
As the rest of the dishes came out, the squirrel-shaped mandarin fish clearly stole the spotlight.
Satoshi raised his teacup. "First, a toast to Megumi for passing the first school exam. And second, let's welcome the new transfer student—Soma Yukihira—to Polar Star Dormitory!"
Everyone raised their cups with cheers and warm laughter.
The tea liquor filled their cups with a rich aroma—notes of glutinous rice, the bitterness of tea leaves, and the floral hints of rose.
It entered smooth and full-bodied, transitioning from sweet to bitter and back to sweet again in an elegant finish. The flavor was layered, the aftertaste crisp and spicy, like chewing fresh orange peel.
Ryoko took a sip and blinked. "This isn't jasmine tea like last time… Is this tea liquor?"
She sniffed again, then smiled in realization.
"Glutinous rice and tea leaves fermented with yeast… then distilled to retain both the tea's fragrance and the kick of alcohol. Technically, it is a tea-flavored liquor."
Though Zane had experimented to lower the alcohol content without losing flavor, it had still caused issues before. This time, he brewed a faux-alcohol for younger patrons, blending tradition with innovation.
Yuuki stared at the squirrel-shaped fish, then dropped her teacup and dove in with her chopsticks.
The texture was springy, the fish succulent and juicy despite being fried. A tangy, sweet-sour flavor exploded in her mouth, enhanced by the slight crispiness of the skin.
Her eyes widened.
She took another bite.
And another.
"The tenderness, the layers of flavor…" she started, but her words trailed off.
There were no descriptions grand enough.
Just one word came to mind: Delicious.
Squirrel-shaped mandarin fish was a test of every facet of Chinese cooking.
From knife work to marination, from frying to the final sauce—each step had to be perfect. But Zane's secret weapon wasn't just technique.
Most chefs used basic ketchup and sugar for the sauce. Zane used rock sugar, preserved plum, and lemon, giving his version a fruity, layered finish that transformed the entire dish.
When Soma took a bite, his eyes narrowed.
Why did this taste so familiar?
The sweet, tangy layers… the subtle technique…
It reminded him of him.
Of his father.
Unwilling to believe it, Soma took another bite, slowly analyzing the textures and flavors.
It wasn't just the flavor—it was the spirit behind the dish.
He swallowed and asked, "Chef, the fish was already firm. Why double-fry it?"
Zane turned to him, a bit surprised.
As expected of Joichiro's son.
His technique still needed refinement, but his instincts were sharp.
Zane answered, "Double frying is a classic Chinese technique. The first fry cooks the fish, but it stays soft. A quick second fry gives it the crisp exterior while keeping the inside tender. But the timing has to be perfect—overdo it, and it becomes tough."
Soma nodded. "I see."
For reasons he couldn't explain, Soma saw an image of his father in Zane.
A few days ago, when Yaeko Minegasaki tried to force him to sell Yukihira's restaurant, she'd sabotaged the kitchen. She expected him to fail. Instead, Soma created a dish from what remained—and it impressed her.
Yukihira wasn't just a place—it was his dream.
And yet, Joichiro had shut it down and sent him to Totsuki without warning.
Soma still didn't understand why.
"Dad," he murmured to himself. "Why did you make me come here?"
Totsuki was overwhelming—its scale, its talent, its pressure. Every student seemed exceptional.
And Alice Nakiri's incredible debut only pushed his anxiety further.
He wanted to prove himself—but Satoshi had warned him not to rush.
Now, tasting this squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, he understood why.
Soma clenched his fists.
"Dad, what do I need to do here? I just wanted to take over the restaurant…"
Satoshi, watching him, asked gently, "Soma, what do you think of the tavern's chef?"
Soma didn't hesitate.
"Strong. Really strong."
"I can feel the same pressure from him… that I felt from my father."