They had stopped taking customers that morning so they could properly welcome their two guests, then spent the entire afternoon waiting for them. The ingredients had been prepared well in advance. All that remained was to start cooking once everyone arrived.
Wakaba was a perfectly ordinary little restaurant. No secret family techniques. No mysterious signature dishes. Just simple, homely food.
"So, Shino, want to come see the kitchen?"
Misa sidled up to her again and helped her out of her down jacket.
"Mm, look at you. So small and sweet."
Shino folded her arms protectively and twisted away.
"Wouldn't that be a little inappropriate...?"
"Don't be silly. We're practically family."
"Um..."
"Shino, do you like Suzuki-kun?"
"Huh?! I..."
"Oh, my. Being shy is adorable, but if he's the one you like, you'll need a little more courage. Suzuki-kun isn't a student anymore. He's a working adult, isn't he? Men his age respond much better to honesty than bashfulness."
Misa gave a casual wave.
"I know men that age better than anyone."
Then she realized how that sounded and covered her mouth.
"Or so Ken tells me, anyway."
"..."
"Can you cook?"
"A little," Shino admitted.
She lived alone in Tokyo and took care of herself, so she knew the basics.
"I'm not exactly good at it, though."
"That's perfect! A girl doing her best even when she isn't quite there yet is adorable."
Misa clasped her hands together, already delighted by her own plan.
"Come on, Shino. Let's go show Suzuki-kun what a catch you are. I'll be right there cheering you on."
"Wait, I don't think—"
"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. After all, that's how Ken won me..."
Misa stopped.
"No, wait. I mean, that's how I won Ken over."
Half coaxing and half pushing, she guided Shino into the kitchen.
And then...
The sharp knock of a knife rang against the cutting board in a crisp, precise rhythm. Ingredients fell beneath the blade without hesitation. Hot oil crackled as it met the seasonings, and within seconds, a rich, spicy aroma filled the kitchen. Meat was laid out, opened with a single cut, and rinsed clean. Every movement was swift, simple, and meticulous.
"Scallions, ginger, star anise, dried shrimp, and chilies," Satoru said.
"Got it."
Beside him, Ken's knife rose and fell. Moments later, several small dishes of prepared ingredients appeared at Satoru's elbow.
Satoru swept them all into the wok, tossed everything twice, then turned toward the other burner.
"Shredded pork."
The second wok had already been heated dry, and the oil inside was shimmering.
"Got it."
Ken passed it over. Satoru tipped the pork into the wok, reached into several seasoning containers, and added a few pinches entirely by feel. Seconds later, he turned up the heat and began stir-frying. The oil grew hotter by the moment. He gave the wok a few practiced tosses with his left hand, sparks dropped into it, and a bright tongue of flame leaped from the pan for a second.
"Won't that be too spicy?"
"Add sugar," Ken said.
"Why didn't you prepare the base earlier?"
"I thought you weren't getting here until tonight. Didn't you say you had something to take care of first?"
"Forget it. Hurry up and butcher the chicken."
"All right. I'll do it."
"It's alive?!"
"That means it's fresh."
"Fine. Hold it still and let me handle it. You always chop chicken into pieces that are too big. The girls need smaller bites."
The two men switched places. Satoru took the live chicken, still beating its wings, and crouched over a basin. Steel flashed once across its throat.
"Where's the plucking knife?"
"On the table, behind that cloth. Hurry up, and cut the vegetables over there too."
"For crying out loud..."
Misa and Shino stood frozen in the doorway.
We don't stand a chance.
The same thought passed through both of their minds.
Satoru and Ken had once worked together at a Chinese restaurant. Ken had started first and later brought Satoru in, and both of them had stayed there for years. The only problem was that they had learned to cook almost nothing except Sichuan cuisine.
In traditional Chinese kitchens, labor was divided by station. The white station handled dough, pastries, and dim sum, while the red station prepared savory dishes. Both men had worked on the red side. The head wok handled banquets and difficult, high-end dishes. The second wok prepared dishes for individual tables and sauces. The third took care of everyday dishes and soups.
Then there were the cutting-board chefs, whose knife work and preparation determined how each dish came together.
Ken had once worked as both head wok and second cutting-board chef at that restaurant.
Satoru had served directly beneath him as second wok. He had been especially skilled with cold dishes and cold-station prep.
Why he had abandoned those skills instead of finding a proper job, only to become a professional power leveler, was another question entirely.
Maybe there really was something wrong with his head.
...
Thirty minutes later, the two men emerged from the kitchen after preparing dinner at astonishing speed. They plated the food, laid out the bowls and chopsticks, and served the rice in one seamless rush.
For all their personal disasters, they moved like veterans once they were in a kitchen.
The centerpiece was a hot pot, surrounded by side dishes and a large bowl of chicken soup with codonopsis and astragalus. Evening had settled in, and beneath the restaurant lights, the glossy spread looked almost extravagant.
Misa urged Shino to try a piece of beef from the hot pot.
One bite left her gasping from the spice.
"I told you it was too hot. The Sichuan flavors we learned are far too strong for Japanese tastes."
Satoru sighed, rose, and returned to the kitchen. Pots and pans clattered for a moment before he came back carrying another plate.
"I made this shredded pork with green peppers milder. You should be able to handle it."
"Oh... thank you."
Shino flushed a little.
He had made it especially for her.
"You're a wonderful cook, Satoru. You should come work at our restaurant too," Misa said with a bright smile.
Ken went rigid.
His eyes said everything.
Don't do it. She'll work you like a mule.
"..."
"This calls for a drink. Oh, but Shino can't have any, of course."
Misa produced an unlabeled bottle from somewhere, apparently part of her private stash. The moment she opened it and the fumes reached Satoru, he gave her a wary look.
That had to be at least fifty-three percent alcohol.
What kind of woman kept liquor like this hidden away?
His uncle was doomed. He would spend the rest of his life under her thumb.
Ken sighed and reached for the bottle. Ever since the Demon of Inari had taken control of his life, he had gone days without a drop.
"Why are you pouring that into your glass? Over here."
Misa watched him serve himself with a gentle smile, but her voice carried the chill of a winter gale.
"Yes, ma'am."
Ken nodded as hurriedly as a servant attending royalty.
Satoru watched with mournful sympathy and reached for the bottle, but it sat just beyond his reach. Shino quietly picked it up instead and filled his glass for him.
Across the table, Ken regarded that scene with the same mournful sympathy.
"All right, bottoms up..."
Misa paused.
"No, wait. Everyone just take a sip. Shino, I'll get you some juice."
She covered her mouth and stood.
...
Satoru sat on the veranda beside the restaurant's little courtyard, one hand pressed to his forehead as the world spun around him.
Dear God.
Was Aunt Misa a demon?
Fifty-four percent alcohol, and she drank it like water.
Ken had gotten the worst of it. He was already reeling after taking that much baijiu head-on. Once he finally collapsed, Misa, who seemed to have been waiting for that very moment, dragged him back to their room with a cold smile.
It looked exactly like some illustration from a pop-science book about prehistoric humans: one caveman clubbing another senseless, dragging them into a cave, and then...
No wonder his uncle had looked so worn out lately.
Satoru had never been the type to visit hostess clubs or anything like that, but he was still an adult. He knew perfectly well what happened between men and women.
Good luck, Uncle.
He sighed, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his waistband, and slipped one between his lips.
"Misa-nee said we can use the room upstairs."
Shino had appeared beside him without his noticing. She had already bathed, and her skin still carried a trace of warmth from the water.
"You reek of alcohol..."
She covered her nose.
"I'll be fine tomorrow, but my head is definitely going to hurt..."
Satoru lit the cigarette.
He had always preferred beer.
This was the first time Shino had seen him smoke in front of her. He had to be truly drunk. Until now, he had always been careful about his manners around her and had never lit one in her presence.
"Hey, what does a cigarette taste like?" she asked.
"What else? Loneliness."
Satoru pursed his lips.
"...And the alcohol?"
"Beer tastes like horse piss. Baijiu..."
He frowned, already swaying slightly.
"Huh. What does baijiu taste like again?"
Shino nearly laughed. He made it sound as if he knew what horse piss tasted like.
"Now you're making me curious."
"No. You're too young to drink or smoke."
"Why?"
"Because kids can be perfectly happy without smoking or drinking."
Then he ruined the line with a brutal belch, blasting her with alcohol fumes.
Shino stared at him.
It might have sounded respectable if he had not immediately destroyed it himself.
The drunken man beside her was a mess, yet somehow, she found herself strangely amused. He was always showing her some side of himself she had never seen before. The cooking skills he had suddenly revealed tonight were only the latest surprise. From what she had heard over dinner, his life had not been easy either.
She gently took his right hand.
It was unmistakably a man's hand, slender but bony, with calluses left from years of hard work that had begun far too young. Compared with her father's hand in her memories, it looked much younger.
"You're so unfair," Shino murmured. "You just barged into my life without any warning."
"Mm?"
A drunk, useless sound was the only answer.
"If you feel that bad, come inside. Why are you sitting out here in the cold?"
She looked at him with concern. His eyes were half closed, and the cigarette was nearly slipping from his lips.
"Heat makes me feel worse. The cold clears my head."
"Should I make you some green tea?"
"No. You're underestimating me. Back when I used to drink with guys in Gunma, and I'm not bragging..."
Halfway through the sentence, he turned toward the courtyard and vomited.
"Honestly..."
Shino did not recoil. She firmly hauled the staggering man upright. He was taller than she was, but surprisingly light. She could probably drag him upstairs by herself.
"He'll need clean clothes and a shower..." she muttered, already working out what to do next.
"No, don't bother. I'll sleep on the floor..."
He barely finished before he lurched and vomited again.
"Don't we both need showers now...?"
Shino looked at the wreck slumped against her shoulder and realized the problem had just doubled.
"Wash... yeah, wash..."
And with that, Satoru completed the third hit of his vomiting combo, apparently unconcerned that his target was an underage high school girl who had already bathed once that evening.
For Shino Asada, it turned into a very busy night.
Mostly spent cleaning.
And with that, this little episode finally came to an end.