Chapter 149: Childhood Never Fades, The Symphony of Hot Oil
If there is any sound in the culinary world that possesses the power to instantly hijack the senses, bypassing the logical centers of the brain and striking directly at the primitive hunger lying dormant within, it is undoubtedly the sound of oil.
Sizzle. Crackle. Pop.
It is a violent, joyful rhythm. It is the sound of moisture meeting heat, of cold batter transforming into golden crunch, of raw ingredients undergoing a glorious, irreversible metamorphosis. No matter what meets that boiling golden liquid—whether it be a humble slice of vegetable, a marinated piece of meat, or a delicate ball of dough—the result is always a promise.
A promise of indulgence. A promise of caloric warmth. A promise of happiness.
"Oh..."
Hori Yuriko whispered, her eyes widening as she stared toward the navy blue noren curtains shielding the kitchen. She tilted her head, listening intently to the acoustic performance of the fryer like one might listen to a favorite song.
"That sound..." Yuriko murmured dreamily, clutching her cheeks with both hands. "That is definitely not a bad fellow. It sounds like... celebration."
At this moment, the appetite of every single person in the dining room was violently reawakened. The air grew heavy with anticipation, charged with the static electricity of hunger.
The Hori family, who had previously been locked in a chaotic, circular debate about their order, fell into a reverent silence.
Hori Souta stopped swinging his legs under the chair. His nose twitched like a bunny's as he tried to catch the first whiff of whatever was causing that heavenly noise. Hori Kyosuke sat up straighter, abandoning his usual slouched, lazy-dad posture. His eyes gleamed with the keen interest of a man who appreciated good food and cold beer above all else.
Even Cerberus, who usually had the attention span of a goldfish when meat wasn't directly in front of her, stopped scrolling on her phone. She sat up, her white dog ears perking up beneath her hair, tracking the sound like a military radar.
Then came the smell.
It started as a whisper—the nutty, toasted scent of heating sesame oil. Then it grew, layering itself with the briny sweetness of fresh shrimp, the earthy aroma of burdock root, and the savory, golden punch of frying batter. It was a thick, rich scent that seemed to coat the back of the throat, triggering an involuntary salivation reflex in everyone present.
It felt almost like the legendary sensation described in gourmet manga—the ability to "eat" the food just by breathing the saturated air.
Finally, under the weight of everyone's expectant gaze, the curtains parted.
Ren emerged.
He was pushing a wooden dining cart, the rubber wheels rolling silently over the polished floorboards. He moved with a calm, professional grace, his chef's whites crisp and spotless despite the intense frying session he had just concluded. There was no sweat on his brow, no oil stains on his apron—only the focused serenity of a master craftsman.
However, at this moment, no one paid attention to Ren himself. Not even Lucifer, who usually tracked his every movement with possessive, crimson eyes. Everyone's gaze was magnetically locked onto the cart. They were tracking the steam rising from the dishes, their imaginations running wild with what treasures lay beneath the covers.
Ren walked step by step towards the table near the window.
The anticipation in Inui Hinako's eyes grew increasingly obvious. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning slightly white. She wasn't just a diner; she was a chef, an alumnus of the Elite Ten, and the owner of a successful restaurant. She was about to be served by the man who had casually, almost surgically, critiqued her cooking from twenty feet away.
Ren stopped the cart.
"Miss Inui," he announced, his voice soft but clear in the quiet room. "Thank you for your patience. This is your course."
He began to transfer the dishes to the table with practiced precision, arranging them in a harmonious layout.
"Housho Yaki (Paper-Wrapped Grilled Fish). Chawanmushi (Steamed Egg Custard). And Mixed Tempura (Kakiage)."
He placed a small ceramic jar and a dish of dipping sauce beside the tempura.
"If you need Sansho pepper or extra Tentsuyu sauce, it is here. Please enjoy your meal."
Hinako stared at the spread in front of her. She swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly in the silence. She nodded mutely, unable to find her voice in the face of such exquisite presentation.
Ren bowed slightly, then turned to address the Hori family, who were looking at Hinako's table with undisguised envy and hunger.
"Please wait a moment longer," Ren assured them with a gentle smile. "Your Chinese feast requires a higher flame. It is nearly ready."
"Okay!" Souta chirped, though his eyes were still glued to Hinako's golden tempura.
Ren disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Hinako alone with her challenge.
She took a deep breath to steady herself. She looked at the first dish.
The Housho Yaki was stunningly beautiful. It sat in a shallow woven bamboo basket, presenting a rustic yet elegant aesthetic that perfectly matched the season. A parcel of white Housho paper lay on a bed of fresh green bamboo leaves. The paper was slightly charred at the edges, turning a delicate brown, and it emanated a smoky, savory heat that wafted up in visible waves.
A few slices of bright yellow lemon and a pristine white lily were placed decoratively on the side, adding a pop of color to the composition.
It looked less like an ordinary dish and more like a painting of a traditional Japanese garden in late autumn.
"Housho Yaki..." Hinako murmured, picking up her chopsticks. Her hand trembled slightly.
Many people underestimated this dish. In the eyes of the uninitiated, it was simply fish wrapped in paper and thrown in an oven. What was there to evaluate? Where was the technique?
However, true connoisseurs—and professional chefs like Hinako—knew better. The 'Housho' paper was not ordinary parchment. It was a thick, high-quality Japanese washi paper, traditionally used for imperial decrees and official documents during the Muromachi period. Because it was flexible, durable, and breathable, it acted as a sealed pressure cooker when dampened and heated.
Hinako reached out with her chopsticks. She slid the tip under the fold of the paper.
She lifted the layer covering the fish gently, like a groom lifting a bride's veil. In this action, she moved as gentlemanly as possible, respecting the effort that went into the wrapping.
Whoosh.
A concentrated cloud of steam escaped the packet. It carried the intense aroma of the sea, premium sake, grilled scallions, and the sweet, earthy scent of shiitake mushrooms.
The smell hit Hinako's face, enveloping her. Her eyes widened.
The sauce beneath the paper bubbled gently, a rich, amber glaze that clung to the ingredients. The fish itself—fresh Sea Bass—was pure white, completely unlike something that had been grilled directly over an open flame. It glistened with moisture, the flesh looking pearlescent under the warm lights of the restaurant.
Hinako separated a piece of the fish. The meat flaked away effortlessly, revealing the tender interior.
She lifted it to her lips and placed it in her mouth.
The texture was a revelation.
It was soft. Incredibly, impossibly soft. Because the Housho paper had locked in all the moisture, the fish had steamed in its own juices and the sake-based sauce. Yet, the high heat of the oven had penetrated the paper, giving the fish a robust, roasted depth that steaming alone could never achieve.
It was the best of both worlds—the melt-in-your-mouth tenderness of steamed fish with the concentrated flavor profile of grilled fish. It was juicy, delicate, and utterly devoid of any dry hardness.
The savory soy sauce, the sweetness of the mirin, the umami of the kelp stock—it all danced on her tongue. The fragrant and warm fish meat, combined with the subtle fresh scent of the bamboo leaves beneath... it was intoxicating.
"Mmm..."
Hinako closed her eyes, a shiver of pure culinary pleasure running down her spine. She leaned back in her chair, exhaling a long breath.
"So comforting..." she whispered. "It's gentle, yet powerful."
She ate another bite, this time including a slice of the mushroom that had absorbed the fish juices. The burst of flavor was overwhelming.
She now understood why so many of her seniors—Dojima Gin, Saiba Joichiro—had praised this Restaurant. This wasn't just "good cooking." This was mastery. This was a chef who understood the soul of the ingredients better than anyone else.
There was a hint of disappointment in her heart as she realized her own Housho Yaki—her proud new creation that she had served to Erina earlier—was inferior to this. Her sauce had been too sharp. Her paper wrapping too loose.
But she quickly shook the negative thoughts away. As Ren had said to her: Eating is eating. Thinking too much will make you tired.
With this thought, Hinako surrendered to the experience. She wasn't a chef critiquing a rival right now; she was just a diner enjoying a hot meal. She simply couldn't stop.
She turned her attention to the second dish.
Next to the fish sat a small, elegant ceramic cup with a lid. The Chawanmushi (Steamed Egg Custard).
Compared to the dramatic, steaming Housho Yaki, the Chawanmushi seemed aloof, quiet. It didn't compete for attention. It sat there with the dignity of a classic.
Hinako lifted the lid. A small puff of steam rose up.
The surface of the custard was as smooth as a mirror, a pale, creamy yellow without a single pockmark or bubble. It looked like polished jade.
Chawanmushi is a dish beloved by children and adults alike in Japan. It is simple on paper—eggs, dashi broth, soy sauce, and mirin. It is essentially similar to steamed eggs. But simplicity is where mistakes have nowhere to hide. A degree too hot, and it becomes rubbery. A minute too long, and it becomes porous.
However, a common dish given such an elegant name naturally has its unique qualities.
She dipped her porcelain spoon into the cup. The custard yielded with a silky resistance, wobbling gently like pudding.
Inside, she found treasure. A slice of savory ham. A tender piece of chicken thigh. A golden ginkgo nut. A plump, springy shrimp. And mushrooms—the all-purpose ingredient.
She scooped up a spoonful, capturing a bit of broth, egg, and shrimp. She took a bite.
It dissolved.
It wasn't like eating eggs; it was like eating a savory pudding made of clouds. The dashi broth was rich with umami, permeating every molecule of the egg. The texture was so smooth it felt like velvet against her tongue, slipping down her throat and warming her from the inside out.
"This texture..." Hinako whispered to herself, inspecting the spoon. "It's flawless. No separation. Just... silk."
It left a lingering taste in the mouth and a celebratory feeling in the stomach. Perhaps the only outstanding feature was the beautiful tea bowl it was served in. But isn't that enough? For a dish, it is more than enough.
Soft and silky Chawanmushi. Tender and juicy Housho Yaki. Both were stunning examples of "soft" cuisine. They were soothing, healing dishes.
But too much softness can make the palate crave excitement. A bit of crunch. A bit of noise. A bit of chaos.
Hinako turned her gaze to the final dish.
The Mixed Tempura (Kakiage).
It sat on a piece of oil-absorbing paper, a golden, crispy puck of fried vegetables and seafood. It was a chaotic jumble of julienned carrots, onions, burdock, and small shrimp, all bound together by a light, lacy batter.
It looked rustic compared to the other two dishes, but its aroma was the most aggressive. It smelled of nutty sesame oil and sweet onions.
Hinako picked it up with her chopsticks. It held together perfectly, light and airy.
She dipped the edge into the Tentsuyu sauce, watching the liquid soak into the crispy batter for a split second.
Crunch.
She bit into it.
The sound resonated in her skull. It was the sound of perfect frying—shattering, crisp, but not hard.
Mixed Tempura never had the elegance of a single prawn tempura. It was a rustic dish, often made with leftovers or cheaper ingredients. But that chaos was its strength. How could a dish that had been through a deep fryer always be mediocre?
There is no rich flavor, no complex layering of spices, but it's that crisp sound, that hint of aroma after being fried in batter. This actor can take on any role—that's probably the best description. No matter how delicious the dish you've eaten, when you come back to your senses, one bite of Mixed Tempura can ignite your taste buds again.
The onions were sweet and caramelized inside the batter. The shrimp were bouncy and briny. The batter was a masterpiece of temperature control. It wasn't oily; it was light, shattering upon contact with her teeth and dissolving into savory flakes.
"This..." Hinako chewed, her eyes widening as the sweetness of the vegetables flooded her mouth. "This is... nostalgic."
It wasn't fine dining. It was the taste of a festival. It was the taste of a home-cooked meal made by a grandmother who knew exactly how hot the oil needed to be. It was the taste of childhood summers.
Soft, tender, crispy.
Three simple words, three distinct textures that complemented each other perfectly in this set meal.
When the last bite of Chawanmushi went down, soothing the throat, and only the Mixed Tempura remained... when that Mixed Tempura entered the mouth with its audible crunch... this was the taste of childhood. Simple, rustic, yet bringing a strong sense of comfort.
As the night deepened outside, the streetlights flickered on in the alleyway, casting long shadows through the window. The adjacent street grew lively with the sounds of people returning home, but inside, it was a sanctuary.
Inui Hinako sat in the quiet shop, savoring the crispness of the tempura.
She took a sip of her hot oolong tea to wash down the oil, the floral bitterness of the tea balancing the richness of the fry.
The wind chimes outside tinkled softly in the breeze. Ting... Ting...
For a moment, the pressures of running her own restaurant, the stress of the tasting session with the Nakiri family, the rivalry with other chefs—it all faded away.
There was only the food, the warmth, and the memory of simple joys.
Childhood never fades. It just waits for the right taste to wake it up.
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