Although Lance hadn't learned much about the situation from Tanjirō, it didn't stop him from trying.
To excite appetite, "color" and "aroma" were essential, but the real key lay in taste. Even if a demon's sense of flavor had changed, one thing remained the same... spiciness!
People often lump "sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, salty" together as tastes, but that's wrong. "Spicy" isn't a flavour at all—it's pain!
He couldn't be sure it would work, but compared to anything else, it offered the best odds. Besides, spice was known to stimulate appetite—a perfect starting point.
When people thought of "spicy," they thought of Sichuan cuisine, one of China's Eight Great Cuisines. The humid region had perfected its love of chilli's fiery heat. Classic dishes leapt to mind: Fish‑Fragrant Pork Shreds, Kung Pao Chicken, Boiled Fish in Chilli Broth, Boiled Beef Slices, Sliced Beef and Offal, Spicy Chicken, Mapo Tofu… each one mouthwateringly vivid.
Unfortunately, most of Lance's "training" had focused on fundamentals, not regional dishes. Still, his solid basics meant he could handle any recipe given a goal.
With little time to spare, he picked one of the most iconic yet efficient Sichuan dishes: Mapo Tofu.
Most home cooks used the store‑bought sauce pack- quick, simple, decent. But Lance wasn't just cooking; he was crafting. Perfection was his only aim.
He'd earned fifteen points from previous customers, spent a few, yet enough remained.
The soul of Mapo Tofu lay in tofu and chilli. He ordered E‑grade versions of both, along with fermented black beans, Sichuan pepper, and, crucially, beef.
In modern thought, Mapo Tofu was a cheap dish, almost fast food, but genuine Mapo Tofu was anything but simple.
Cold oil first, medium flame rising. Lance took up his knife and sliced a chunk from a beef shank.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The meat turned quickly to minced beef under precise, rhythmic strikes. His knife work might appear stiff to a culinary master, more like a craftsman than an artist, but to the boy watching secretly from the doorway, it felt entirely different.
Tanjirō sensed the man's aura shift, gentle warmth turning razor‑sharp. Even his extraordinary sense of smell picked up a change like tempered steel cutting the air.
Does he have two personalities?
The rhythm of chopping became hypnotic; if Tanjirō didn't know better, he might have imagined ending up minced.
Soon, the beef was ready, and the real show began.
Whoosh!
The flame burst up. Oil sizzled violently. With effortless control, Lance slid the minced beef down the flat of his knife straight into the pan.
Sizzle!
He stirred it rapidly, and the meat darkened to gold within seconds. Most amateurs would fear high heat here, but he knew the truth: searing instantly sealed in juices, keeping the inside tender.
When done, he lifted the meat out into a bowl, saving the fragrant oil behind.
That greasy‑looking oil would ruin presentation but make an amazing stir‑fry base for personal meals. He mentally filed that away for later.
Now for the tofu. Usually, he'd pre‑boil it to remove its bean smell, but with E‑grade quality, the odour was negligible. In the storm of spice ahead, any trace left would vanish.
He carefully sliced the soft blocks. Mapo Tofu prized its texture - smooth, creamy, nearly untouched. Each precise cut mattered.
Left hand pressing lightly, holding shape without crushing it, he guided the knife down in delicate strokes - a move perfected only through endless failed attempts. Each piece went neatly into the basin beside him.
He exhaled once, lowering the tofu gently into boiling water along with scallion and ginger wrapped in a thin cloth bundle. Then came the crimson chopped chillies.
Boom!
Fire flared again, brighter. The heat danced like spirit energy, but Lance stood unfazed, utterly focused. His expertise with fire was now unmatched - a chef who forged flame both in the kitchen and forge alike.
The smell filled the air, strong enough to make even the boy at the doorway swallow hard. His stomach rumbled audibly.
When Lance finally plated several portions, the system flashed evaluations one after another:
"Mapo Tofu – Completion 63%."
"Mapo Tofu – Completion 67%."
"Mapo Tofu – Completion 68%."
Each test and adjustment helped, yet he couldn't break 70.
It must be the broth, he realised. True Mapo Tofu needed rich stock boiled for hours. Without it, complexity was missing.
Still, time was running late. He sighed and chose the fourth plate for service.
Even with small regrets, he hid them behind a calm smile and stepped out.
"Thank you for waiting, dear customer. Please enjoy this 'Mapo Tofu.'"
The plate's fiery aroma hit Tanjirō instantly. Thick red sauce encased soft white cubes scattered with green onion, glowing vibrant and alive. Drool gathered before he could stop it.
But he didn't forget the owner's purpose. Carefully, he slid the dish toward his sister.
"Nezuko, do you want to try this?"
Though she still seemed bewildered, her brother gently removed the bamboo muzzle, scooped a spoonful, blew on it twice, and held it to her lips. She only blinked back at him, uncomprehending.
Disappointed but still determined, Tanjirō demonstrated, bringing a spoonful to his own mouth.
The result was instant.
His entire face flushed scarlet. Not from spiciness, but from heat!
It was still scalding despite his blows. He flailed briefly, gulping for air, but then the numbing spice spread over his tongue, and flavor exploded. Intense pain, then addictive joy, it was impossible to stop.
Sweat poured from his forehead as he continued eating; Lance stayed silent, kindly refilling his cup.
The clink of glass against the table jerked Tanjirō back to reality. Glancing down, he saw half the plate gone and scratched his head sheepishly, not that anyone could tell under his already red face.
"It's alright," Lance said, smiling. "If it's not enough, I can always make more."
When cooking was no longer just labour but an act of joy, each satisfied smile became its own perfect reward.
(Chapter End)