Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
"This glaze," He held up the spoon. "It's perfect for the karaage. The heat builds through the sweetness."
Chef Bunzō tilted his head toward me. "Shall we try it, Nyomi?"
“Sounds good to me.”
We crossed the kitchen together, weaving between stations.
The orchestra tightened, sound pulling inward before its release. Strings trembled and built toward a high level of magnificence.
The young chef reached for two tasting spoons from the container by the stove. He dipped each one into the glaze, coated them evenly, and then handed one to me and the other to Chef Bunzō.
The young chef glanced between us. "Bourbon, honey, gochugaru, and a little cayenne. This turned out to be an excellent execution. How did you come up with that combination?"
“I was always taught—sweet to draw you in, spice to remind you who you’re dealing with.” I lifted my spoon and let the glaze coat my tongue.
Heat.
Not immediate—it crept in slow, building at the back of my throat. The bourbon smoothed everything out, and the honey gave it that sticky sweetness that would caramelize beautifully on fried chicken.
Hmmm. It’s good, but. . .there’s something missing.
Chef Bunzō lifted his spoon, tasted, and closed his eyes, letting the flavors settle. “Excellent balance. Clean. Focused.”
“Yeah, but. . .” I exhaled softly. “It needs one more note. Something to stretch the heat just a little longer.”
The young chef’s face lit up, like he’d been waiting for permission. “I was actually experimenting with something earlier. Blooming the cayenne first—warming it gently in neutral oil before adding it to the glaze. It could change how the heat lands. Less sharp. More. . .layered.”
“Very interesting.”
He reached for a small saucepan. “When you bloom it, the capsaicin disperses more evenly. It doesn’t spike. It rolls.”
I tilted my head. “Capsaicin?”
He nodded. “It’s the part of the pepper that makes it hot.”
“Aww. Okay.” I made note of that.
“When you warm the spice in oil first, it releases more evenly. The burn doesn’t spike—it spreads.”
Intrigued, I asked. “So, the heat behaves that way?”
“Exactly.”
“I love it.”
Chef Bunzō watched him with interest. “Let’s try it.”
“This could be great.” The young chef smiled, and was already grabbing a handful of peppers.
The Firebird swelled overhead—strings tightening, heat gathering, something on the edge of becoming.
We returned to our stations—Chef Bunzō to the massive cutting board where he was breaking down wagyu to test out some of my ideas for the main course, me to the notebook I'd spread across the stainless steel counter.
Pages of ideas covered the surface.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
Some with arrows connecting them to other concepts, other flavor profiles, other memories I wanted to capture in food.
This had been our rhythm since the chef found me in the kitchen.
All morning, I'd come up with fun ideas for the Claws’ cocktail party and the big dinner including the Fangs and Roar. I played with everything—a taste I remembered from my grandmother's kitchen, a combination that felt right in my gut, a dish that might tell a story about my short time with them so far—and Chef Bunzō's team was doing their best to bring it to life.
Test it.
Refine it.
Tell me honestly when a dish worked or didn't.
"The miso-maple situation," the older woman shook her head from her station. "I think we need to revisit.”
I looked up from my notebook. “Not working?”
“Too sweet for the pork belly, but you can try it."
“No. I trust your palate.” I flipped back three pages in my notebook. "What if we added more white miso and then cut the maple by half?"
She considered this and then nodded slowly. "That could work. Let me try."
“Thanks.”
She winked at me. “This is fun.”
And the kitchen kept moving.
Creating.
Transforming.
And then we continued testing.
Small batches of everything.
Miniature versions of dishes.
Sample cocktails mixed in quarter portions.
Tasting.
Adjusting.
Scribbling notes in margins.
Starting over when a dish or cocktail didn't work.
The collard green gyoza had taken three attempts before the filling was right. However, it had turned into an exquisite balance of smoked collards and bacon lardons. Plus, Chef Bunzō had created this dipping sauce that had me loudly groaning.
The mac and cheese croquettes were perfect on the first try.
Everyone had agreed.
Even the quiet man by the refrigerator had nodded approvingly, which Chef Bunzō told me later was the highest praise he ever gave to anyone.
Now we were working on mini oxtail bao buns—the dish I was most nervous about, the one that felt most personal.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the industrial range and the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.
Grandma would lose her mind over this kitchen.
I could already hear her voice: "Baby, you tell that man I need to come visit. I'll cook circles around all of y'all."
Several minutes later, Chef Bunzō got to my side and began working the bao dough.
Doing bao would be a new adventure for me. They were simple at their core.