The kitchen of Fujihira, one of Tokyo's most esteemed French-Japanese fusion restaurants, was a battlefield of controlled chaos. Stainless steel gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, steam hissed from pressure cookers like angry serpents, and the air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of truffles, seared wagyu fat, and reducing wine sauces.
In the corner of this culinary war zone, hidden behind a stack of industrial-sized stock pots, a young man was engaged in a battle of his own.
Nom. Nom. Nom.
Kotaro Arai closed his eyes, letting the creamy texture of the mushroom risotto wash over his tongue. It was a symphony of earthiness and umami, the rice cooked to a perfect al dente bite.
"It needs... just a hint more pepper," he mumbled to himself, scooping another unauthorized spoonful from the reject pile. "But the texture is divine. As expected of Dad."
Thwack.
The sound of a metal ladle connecting with a human skull rang out with a hollow, comedic pitch.
"Ouch!" Kotaro yelped, nearly dropping his spoon. He rubbed the top of his head, looking up with wide, betrayed eyes. "Dad! That actually hurt!"
Looming over him was Head Chef Arai, a man whose mustache was as stiff as his discipline and whose culinary reputation was worth more than the building they stood in. He glared down at his son, his white toque towering like a judge's gavel.
"How much longer are you going to be eating?" the Chef barked, his voice cutting through the kitchen's din. "We open in ten minutes. Stop treating the prep station like your personal buffet."
"But I'm quality testing!" Kotaro protested, holding out the empty bowl with shameless optimism. "Hey, Dad..."
"What?"
"Can I get another bowl? I feel like I missed a subtle note of thyme in the first one."
The Chef's eyebrow twitched. The vein in his temple pulsed.
"Get. Back. To. Work."
Kotaro was unceremoniously shoved through the swinging double doors, stumbling out into the pristine, hushed elegance of the dining hall. He straightened his black vest, smoothed his tie, and sighed.
"My father is so cold to me," Kotaro muttered, patting his stomach. "But I guess it can't be helped. Since I've been grazing for the last hour, I'm about eighty percent full. I'll need to pace myself for the staff meal later."
"You're finally back."
The voice was dripping with ice. Kotaro turned to see Emi, the senior waitress, standing by the reservation podium. She looked at him with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief.
"Hey, Emi!" Kotaro beamed.
"Geez..." Emi massaged her temples. "You disappeared for forty minutes. Forty! How much time were you spending eating? You're going to eat us out of business."
"I was hungry," Kotaro defended himself. "We were busy with the lunch rush until late afternoon. A growing man needs calories."
"You're twenty-two, Kotaro. You stopped growing three years ago. You're just expanding horizontally." She sighed, arranging the menus. "If you weren't the Head Chef's son, you'd have been fired six times by now. You know that, right?"
"That's right," Kotaro nodded, completely missing the insult. "I am the son of the man who holds the highest position in this restaurant. A top-tier chef who traveled the world before settling down to open this place. It's only natural I inherited his palate."
"You inherited his appetite, not his skills," Emi deadpanned. "Just... go check table four. We have a VIP reservation."
"Everything will be okay!" Kotaro gave her a thumbs-up.
"Oh, I'm not sure about that..."
The heavy oak doors creaked open, signaling the arrival of the evening's first guest.
She was striking. That was the first thing Kotaro noticed. She wore a deep navy dress that looked simple but likely cost more than Kotaro's yearly salary. Her hair was dark, pinned back elegantly, revealing a slender neck and a face that was beautiful, yet etched with a profound, quiet sorrow. She carried herself with a heavy dignity, the kind that made the air around her feel denser.
"Welcome!" Kotaro's professional smile snapped into place.
The woman offered a small, tired nod. "I have a reservation for two. Under the name Fujihira."
"Fujihira. Yes, right this way."
Kotaro led her through the dining room, past the crystal chandeliers and the velvet-upholstered booths, to a prime table by the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of the Tokyo skyline was breathtaking, the city lights just beginning to flicker on as twilight settled.
He pulled out her chair. "Here is your table."
"Thank you very much." She sat down, her movements slow and deliberate. Her eyes immediately drifted to the empty chair across from her. She stared at it for a long moment, a shadow passing over her face. "Oh... my party is not here yet."
"Shall I wait to take your order?"
"No," she said softly. "You can go ahead and bring the food. The full course for two, as requested."
"Understood."
Kotaro walked back toward the kitchen, his brow furrowed. It was unusual for a guest to order the full course before their partner arrived, especially with dishes that relied on temperature for their quality.
Emi intercepted him at the pass. She grabbed his arm, pulling him close. Her voice was a harsh whisper.
"Hey. Listen to me carefully."
"What?"
"That woman," Emi tilted her head toward table four. "Make sure you're not being rude to her. Be perfect. Do you understand?"
"Of course," Kotaro blinked. "I'm always perfect. But why the sudden intensity? Is she a food critic?"
"Worse," Emi hissed. "That is Yanagi Fujihira."
"Who?"
Emi looked like she wanted to hit him with a ladle, much like his father. "Yanagi Fujihira! The CEO of the Fujihira Group! You know, the massive conglomerate that owns half the spice trade in Japan? They also own a chain of high-end hotels and restaurants. Technically, her company owns the land this building sits on!"
"Oh," Kotaro said. "So she's rich."
"She's powerful," Emi corrected. "And she's a famous gourmet blogger. She has millions of followers. If she writes one bad thing about us—if she says the water was too wet or the waiter was too dense—we could go out of business overnight. So, behave."
"Got it. Behave."
Kotaro went about his duties. He brought out the amuse-bouche, a delicate spoon of sea urchin and foam. Then the appetizer, a terrine of seasonal vegetables. Then the soup, a rich lobster bisque.
He placed two servings of everything. One in front of Yanagi. One in front of the empty chair.
"Please enjoy," he said each time.
"Okay," she would whisper, not looking up.
Time began to stretch. The restaurant filled with the low hum of conversation, the clink of silverware, and the soft jazz playing overhead. Couples laughed, business partners toasted, and families celebrated.
But at table four, there was only silence.
An hour passed. Then two.
Yanagi Fujihira sat like a statue. She held a glass of red wine by the stem, swirling it hypnotically, but she hadn't taken a single bite of the food. The beautiful wagyu steak Kotaro had served twenty minutes ago was now sitting in a pool of congealing fat. The steam had long since vanished from the vegetables.
Kotaro stood by the back wall, his stomach rumbling.
What should I eat after work? he wondered, trying to distract himself. There's only fancy food here. I'm sick of foam and reduction sauces. I want ramen. A big, greasy bowl of tonkotsu ramen with extra pork belly...
His eyes drifted back to Yanagi.
She looked small against the backdrop of the sprawling city lights. The untouched food sat before her like an accusation.
She hasn't touched a thing, Kotaro thought, his brow furrowing. It's all getting cold. The chef's work... the ingredients... it's all going to waste. And she's still sitting there alone.
He felt a pang in his chest. It wasn't just the glutton in him mourning the food; it was a human empathy. She looked like she was drowning in plain sight.
"She's been sitting there like that the whole time," Emi whispered, appearing at his elbow with a tray of dirty dishes. "My legs hurt just looking at her."
"I wonder if she's okay," Kotaro murmured.
"Maybe she got stood up? Or maybe something happened."
"The food..." Kotaro said, his voice dropping an octave.
Emi stared at him. "You're worried about the food? Seriously?"
"There is one thing I cannot stand," Kotaro said, his eyes narrowing with a terrifying intensity. "And that is to have food go to waste. My father put his soul into that steak. That cow spent years growing for this moment! I'm going to go talk to her."
"Stop! Don't!" Emi panic-whispered, reaching for his vest. "Do you want to get us all fired? She's the CEO! She can buy and sell you!"
"Why are you stopping me?" Kotaro shook her off.
"She is Yanagi Fujihira! If you upset her, she'll write a blog post and destroy us! She's waiting for someone, obviously!"
"Whether she's a popular blogger or a rich CEO," Kotaro said, adjusting his cuffs, "I don't tolerate anyone disrespecting Dad's food. Watch me."
Swish.
He moved before Emi could tackle him. He marched across the dining floor, his footsteps silent on the carpet, and came to a stop at table four.
"Ma'am."
Yanagi jolted. The wine in her glass sloshed dangerously. She looked up, her eyes wide and wet, as if she had been pulled from a deep, dark dream.
"Huh?"
"Is everything okay?" Kotaro asked. He didn't use his customer-service voice. He used his normal voice—blunt, honest, and concerned.
Yanagi looked down at the cold plates. A deep flush of shame colored her pale cheeks. "Oh... I'm sorry. I know I'm being rude. Taking up a table and not eating..."
Kotaro looked at her. He saw the tremble in her fingers. He saw the red rims of her eyes. She wasn't an arrogant rich girl wasting food. She was in pain.
"No, not at all," Kotaro said gently. Then, unable to help himself, he asked, "Are you hungry?"
Yanagi blinked. "No... I'm not."
She looked at the empty chair across from her. Her lips trembled.
"If you like..." she started, her voice barely audible. She looked up at him, a desperate need for connection in her eyes. "Would you... would you enjoy this food with me? I can't finish two meals all by myself. And I... I don't want to be alone right now."
From the service station, Emi let out a silent scream, clutching her head.
Kotaro, however, lit up like a Christmas tree. "If the customer is asking me! I guess I don't have a choice!"
He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"No, thank you," Kotaro said, eyeing the cold steak. "Nom, nom."
He took a bite. "You know, even cold, Dad's steak is incredible. The texture changes, becomes a bit firmer, but the flavor is so concentrated."
Yanagi watched him eat. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You eat a lot."
"I was hungry," Kotaro said between bites. "I've been eyeing this steak since it came off the grill."
Yanagi swirled her wine again. "I'm sorry the food got cold. It's disrespectful to the chef."
"Were you waiting for someone?" Kotaro asked, wiping his mouth.
"You don't have to speak to me so politely," she said, her shoulders relaxing. "And... well, it wouldn't be incorrect to say I was waiting for someone. But the person I'm waiting for will never show up."
She looked out the window at the city. "Today is the memorial for my father. He passed away recently in an accident. I made a reservation for two at this restaurant because this place was his favorite. I thought... if I came here, I might feel him. But sitting here alone, with his empty chair... I'm such an idiot. A deceased person would never show up."
Kotaro paused, his fork hovering over the pasta. He looked at her. This woman, who controlled a massive empire, looked like a lost child.
"I see," Kotaro said. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He just acknowledged her pain. "He must have loved this place."
"He did." Yanagi pushed the second plate toward him. It was a creamy carbonara. "I'm very sorry to do this when I was the one who ordered it, but would you please eat this too? I ordered it because my father loved it, but... I'm actually allergic to eggs."
Kotaro stopped. "Allergic to eggs?"
"Yes. It's gotten better as I grew up. I pretty much grew out of it, but I used to suffocate whenever I had eggs when I was little. Anaphylaxis. It was terrifying. So... ever since then, I try not to eat it. I'm traumatized, I suppose."
"I see," Kotaro said, pulling the plate closer. "That makes sense. If you can't tell if a dish has eggs just by looking at it, it's scary."
"Exactly. I could probably eat it now without dying, but when the egg is obviously there... I hesitate."
Kotaro finished the pasta with impressive speed. "Well, consider it eaten. It was delicious."
Yanagi smiled fully this time. "I can see why my father loved this restaurant. The food is wonderful, but the staff... you're very kind."
"I just like food," Kotaro shrugged.
"You know," Yanagi leaned forward slightly, "there is a dish I've been looking for. A dessert I had once when I was very little. I've been searching for it for years."
"A dessert?" Kotaro's ears perked up. "What kind?"
"I don't know the name," she admitted. "My memory is vague. I can't remember the shape or the color. But I remember the taste. It was a jello-like texture. It was sweet, but with a distinct, sophisticated bitterness. I've never tasted anything like it since. My father wouldn't tell me what it was."
"Sweet, bitter, jello-like..." Kotaro mused. "That's... vague."
"I know," she laughed. "A legendary dessert that a gourmet blogger seeks... I'm curious what it really is."
Kotaro looked at her. He saw the spark of life returning to her eyes as she talked about food.
"Will you let me help you find it?" he asked suddenly.
Yanagi blinked. "Huh?"
"I'd like to help you out," Kotaro said, clenching his fist. "More importantly, I want to try it! A legendary dessert? That sounds amazing!"
Yanagi stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Okay. Let's find it together."
***
The following Sunday, the sun beat down on "Sweets Alley," a vibrant district in Harajuku lined with pastel-colored shops, crepe stands, and high-end patisseries. The air smelled of spun sugar and vanilla extract.
Kotaro stood near the entrance archway, checking his watch. He was dressed in his casual clothes—a brown button-down and slacks. He looked like a normal college student, stripping away the formality of the waiter's uniform.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting!"
He turned. Yanagi was jogging toward him. She looked completely different from the grieving CEO in the navy dress. She wore a soft maroon blouse tucked into a long white skirt, and her hair was loose, blowing in the wind. She looked... adorable.
"Not at all," Kotaro said. "I just got here."
Yanagi stopped, catching her breath. She fidgeted with the strap of her purse, her cheeks pink. "I... I'm a little nervous."
"Nervous? Why?"
"Well," she looked down, "I've always been all about work. So... it's my first time going out with a man on a... you know, a private outing."
Kotaro nodded sagely. "I see! Then, I shall be a girl from now on to make you comfortable."
Yanagi stared at him. "That's not really the point... And please don't do a falsetto voice."
"Okay. Let's go!"
They began their tour of Sweets Alley. For Yanagi, it felt like a date. Her heart pounded every time their arms brushed in the crowd. For Kotaro, it was a tactical mission.
"I wonder if we'll find it here," Yanagi said, looking at a display of macarons.
"There are a lot of sweets here," Kotaro analyzed. "Statistically, this is our best bet. If we can't find it here, it might not exist in the modern market."
They moved from shop to shop. They shared a strawberry crepe (Kotaro ate 80% of it). They tried a matcha tiramisu. They sampled fruit tarts.
"How is this one?" Yanagi asked, feeding him a spoonful of coffee jelly.
"Delicious. But is it the dessert?"
"No," Yanagi sighed. "Not even close."
As they walked, a passerby bumped into Yanagi. She stumbled, and Kotaro caught her by the shoulders.
"Whoa, careful," he said.
Yanagi looked up at him, her face burning. "O-Okay..."
"Ms. Fujihira—"
"Yanagi," she corrected him quickly. "You can call me Yanagi."
"Okay. Then you can call me Kotaro."
"Okay, Kotaro." She smiled, hugging her bag. "It kind of tickles when a younger man calls me by my first name."
Kotaro tilted his head, confused but accepting. "Right. Anyway, Yanagi, you've been eating a lot of different things, but you've avoided quite a few shops."
"That's right," she said. "Because of the allergy. I have to be careful."
Kotaro stopped walking. The crowd flowed around them. He looked at Yanagi, really looked at her.
"Yanagi," he said slowly. "You said you remember the taste perfectly. Sweet, bitter, jello-like. But you don't remember the color or the shape."
"Yes. It's strange, isn't it? It left such a strong impression, but visually... it's a blank."
"And you said you had an allergic reaction when you were little. One that made you suffocate."
"Yes. Why?"
Kotaro's eyes widened. The gears in his head, usually reserved for calculating calorie intake, clicked into place with detective-like precision.
"I get it," he whispered. "I think I know why you can't find it."
"You do?"
"Since there's a possibility we won't find it in the market, walking around is pointless." He grabbed her hand. "We need to go back to the restaurant."
"Eh? Why?"
"*We should create it!*"
***
Back at Fujihira, the kitchen was in its afternoon lull. Chef Arai stood with his arms crossed, watching his son raid the pantry.
"I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner," Kotaro muttered, grabbing milk, sugar, and vanilla beans.
Yanagi stood by the counter, looking confused. "Kotaro? What are you doing?"
"To start off," Kotaro said, tying an apron over his street clothes, "I borrowed the kitchen. Dad said it was okay."
"My son said he wanted to do this," Chef Arai grunted, though his eyes were soft. "He's helping you out of goodwill. He's not asking for anything."
Yanagi watched Kotaro work. He moved differently in the kitchen. He wasn't the clumsy, gluttonous waiter anymore. He was focused, precise. He mixed ingredients, heated milk, and caramelized sugar with a steady hand.
"That tastes goood!" Kotaro tasted a spoonful of caramel. "Yanagi, try this."
He held out a spoon. She tasted it. "It's bitter... but sweet."
"Exactly."
Kotaro poured the mixture into molds and placed them in the chiller. While they waited, he whipped up a quick batch of agar-agar jelly for comparison.
"Kotaro, I didn't know you could cook sweets," Yanagi said.
"Dad taught me everything," Kotaro said. "He never cooks at home, so I have to do it. He just complains that I don't stew things long enough."
"He might as well cook for himself," Yanagi giggled.
"Right?"
An hour later, Kotaro pulled a plate from the fridge. He inverted the mold onto the ceramic.
Wiggle.
A golden-brown mound sat there, glistening under the lights. Dark caramel sauce pooled around the base.
"A Flan?" Yanagi stared at it. "That matches the description... jello-like, sweet, bitter."
Chef Arai nodded. "It fits."
"But..." Yanagi took a step back. "A flan uses eggs. It's basically custard."
"That's right," Kotaro said. "That's why you've always avoided them. You see a flan, you think 'eggs,' you think 'danger.' Your brain blocked out the visual memory of the dessert because it was the source of your trauma."
"I see..." Yanagi whispered. "I wouldn't suppose my father would feed me that knowing I was allergic."
"Exactly," Kotaro said. "Your father loved you. He wouldn't risk your life. But you said you had it once. And then you suffocated."
He stepped closer. "What if you had the flan, loved it, and then had the reaction? The trauma was so severe you forgot what you ate, only remembering the taste that made you so happy before the pain started. And your father, terrified, never let you near it again. He couldn't tell you the name because he didn't want you to try it and get hurt again."
Yanagi covered her mouth. "So... he was protecting me."
"But," Kotaro smiled, presenting the plate, "this isn't a normal flan."
"It isn't?"
"I made this one specially. It contains *no eggs*."
Yanagi's eyes widened. "No eggs?"
"I used agar and gelatin to replicate the texture of the egg custard. I adjusted the cream and milk ratios to get the richness without the yolk. It's a Kotaro Arai original: The Egg-Free Flan."
Yanagi looked at the dessert. It wobbled invitingly. The scent of burnt sugar filled her nose—a scent that triggered a deep, buried memory of a warm hand and a kind voice. Her father's voice.
"I... I can eat this?"
"You can," Kotaro said softly. "It's safe."
With a trembling hand, she picked up her spoon. She scooped a piece, making sure to get plenty of the dark sauce. She put it in her mouth.
The texture was silky, melting instantly. The sweetness of the vanilla cream danced with the sharp, nostalgic bitterness of the caramel. It was the taste of her childhood. It was the taste of the day her father smiled at her, before the ambulance, before the fear.
Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over.
"Yanagi?" Kotaro panicked. "Is that an allergic reaction?! Dad, get the EpiPen!"
"No..." Yanagi laughed through her tears, wiping her eyes. "No, it's not. I just remembered. This is it. This is the dessert I've been seeking."
She looked at Kotaro, her face beaming with a radiance that outshone the kitchen lights. "Thank you so much... I'm so glad you found it."
Kotaro grinned, relieved. "I guess it was hiding under my nose all along."
"Yes." Yanagi took another bite. "Wow, this is so delicious! Can I have another?"
"Hey, don't eat too fast," Kotaro warned. "You'll get a stomach ache."
"She's acting like a kid," Chef Arai grunted, but he was smiling too.
***
*Epilogue*
A month passed.
The review on Yanagi's blog was titled: "The Phantom Flavor and the Kindness of a Glutton." It didn't just praise the food; it praised the heart of the restaurant.
Fujihira was packed. Reservations were booked out for three months.
"Welcome!" Kotaro called out, balancing three trays of appetizers.
"Hello."
Yanagi stood at the entrance. She wasn't wearing her severe business suit. She was wearing a soft pink sweater. She looked happy.
"Yanagi has become a regular customer," Emi whispered to Kotaro, nudging him in the ribs. "And thanks to her, our sales are through the roof. You actually did something right for once."
"I'm too hungry right now to appreciate your praise," Kotaro grumbled.
Yanagi walked over to him, ignoring the other customers.
"Hey, Kotaro."
"What is it?"
"I was thinking," she said, twisting a ring on her finger. "You love fried rice, right?"
"I do! Dad makes the best fried rice, but he never makes it for me anymore."
"Well," Yanagi looked up at him through her lashes. "I'm an expert in eating food, and I'm not a good chef... but I practiced. I want to cook fried rice for you."
Kotaro stopped. He looked at her.
He remembered his own childhood. The tiny apartment he shared with his mother before she passed. The three of them—Mom, Dad, and him—eating fried rice at a small table. It was his comfort food. His memory of family.
"I can't possibly beat the fried rice cooked by a top-tier chef," Yanagi mumbled, losing confidence. "So, don't get your hopes up, okay?"
Kotaro smiled, a soft, genuine expression that made Yanagi's heart skip a beat.
"I'm fine with that," he said. "I want to try the fried rice that you cook, Yanagi."
Her face lit up. "Then... I hope you look forward to it!"
"Okay!"
Chef Arai watched them from the kitchen pass. "Can you cook fried rice?" he asked the air, mimicking his son. Then he shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips. "He's doing the dishes, though."
As the dinner service roared to life around them, Kotaro and Yanagi stood in their own little bubble.
"Should I put lettuce in it?" Yanagi asked. "Or green onions?"
"Put whatever you want," Kotaro laughed. "I can't wait to try it."
It was the beginning of a new menu, and a new chapter, for both of them.
[The End]