In Japan's low-desire society, where minimalism and utilitarian fashion brands like Uniqlo define the aesthetic, few things still spark true passion. Among them: food.
Ramen shops, dessert cafés, late-night diners, and humble sushi counters still command long queues. In an economy that discourages indulgence, perhaps it's natural for people to channel their remaining desires into the pursuit of rich, unforgettable flavors.
Especially when the food is wild, untamed—like bear paw.
It's a dish not born from artificial cultivation but from nature itself, stirring something primal deep within. And to Rindō Kobayashi, that kind of ingredient sings like a siren's call.
As Eishi Tsukasa once put it, Rindō had three faces:
A globe-trotting gourmet,
An explorer of the unknown,
And a fearless savage unafraid to wrestle with the most bizarre ingredients.
Even Isshiki Satoshi, the ever-charming seventh seat, recalled her cooking with reverence. It wasn't just about flavor—it was about daring, knowledge, and instinct.
And tonight, inside a cozy tavern known only to the few, she found herself stunned speechless.
The orchid bear paw melted in her mouth like aged gelatin. The texture was firm yet tender, the seasoning robust yet refined. Zane had used honey and aromatic herbs to draw out the richness, transforming a potentially gamey cut into something sublime.
She shifted from cautious nibbles to devouring mouthfuls.
The sensation of cartilage and collagen dissolving on her tongue made her eyes gleam with greed. And by the end, not a speck remained. She even mixed the remaining sauce into a bowl of rice and savored it to the last grain.
"Owner," she said breathlessly, licking her lips, "you're a master."
"I pride myself on understanding bear paw," she continued, "but you… you've transcended technique. You cook with an instinct that makes me believe you could handle anything."
Her gaze softened. "If I could graduate right now and work under you, I would."
Zane just smiled, wiping down the counter.
"Food has its own texture and logic," he replied. "But too often, people see wild ingredients only as luxury—ignoring the damage caused to ecosystems. Sustainability is part of being a true gourmet."
Rindō blinked. That wasn't something she expected to hear—but it struck a chord.
The truth about bear meat was simple: its fat had an unusually low melting point. It really did melt in your mouth—but achieving the right texture required mastery, not luck. And she, the wild ingredient specialist, could not fault a single part of his execution.
Not long after, the tavern door creaked open.
"Hm? Drinking Alone Under the Moon?" a refined female voice mused aloud, reading the characters on the signboard. "Lovely calligraphy."
A tall woman stepped inside, dressed in a luxurious midnight-blue dress that clung delicately to her figure. Her silver-white hair was tied in a loose, elegant bun, and a glimmering necklace nestled in the hollow of her pale neck. Her every movement was filled with gentle grace.
Zane looked up—and froze.
Leonora Nakiri? Here?
That shouldn't have been possible.
According to the current timeline, the residential training camp was in full swing. She should still be in Northern Europe—or at the very least, not here. But he reminded himself: he was a butterfly flapping its wings in this world. Things were bound to change.
"Good evening," she greeted, her soft Northern European accent lacing each syllable. "Are you… Zane?"
"I am."
"Oh, just as the headmaster said—young and terribly handsome. No wonder my daughter Alice keeps mentioning you. Though I think 'praises' is the more accurate word."
Zane chuckled. "So… you're Alice's mother?"
"Indeed." She extended a delicate hand. "Leonora Nakiri. I've been summoned early to judge the Autumn Selection. But really, I wanted to check on Alice—and perhaps, unwind a little."
Rindō's ears perked up. "Autumn Selection? Already?"
"I suppose I've been slacking a bit," she admitted sheepishly. "I dumped everything on Eishi again…"
Leonora smiled, brushing back a lock of hair. "The headmaster told me about this tavern—where the chef accepts custom orders. Is it true?"
"Normally, yes," Zane replied, gesturing toward the plaque on the door. "But tonight, we're closed."
She pointed to Rindō's freshly wiped plate.
"Then what about her?"
"…Fine," Zane muttered with a sigh. "Just one dish. For Alice's sake."
"Wonderful!" Leonora beamed. "Alice recommended sweet and sour ribs—she said the molecular gastronomy aspect intrigued her. But… if you recommend something else, I'll trust your judgment."
Zane opened the fridge. "One salmon left. How about I smoke it Northern European-style?"
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Perfect."
Northern European cuisine didn't have the same international glamour as French or Italian food, but it was no less sophisticated. Especially in places like Denmark, Sweden, and Norway—where seafood reigned supreme.
King crab and salmon stood at the top.
Smoked salmon, in particular, was a staple—marinated with dill, peppercorn, and herbs, then smoked over fruitwood to create a sweet, earthy depth. It was a dish that could be eaten cold, with alcohol, or even at breakfast.
Zane's movements were smooth and practiced.
He skinned the salmon, patted it dry, and massaged in white wine.
Next came the herbs: dill, basil, parsley, bay leaf, thyme—each chopped and tossed with crushed black pepper and brown sugar. The fish was rubbed with the mixture, wrapped tightly in plastic, and set to cure.
When ready, he rinsed it, wrapped it in foil, and placed it in a smoking box filled with fruitwood chips, black tea leaves, and dried tangerine peel. The smoke curled lazily upward, fragrant and mellow. He repeated the smoking process three times to infuse maximum depth.
Finally, he sliced the salmon into diagonal ribbons—thin and elegant.
Leonora had watched the entire process, awestruck.
"Strange," she murmured, "I thought you were Chinese. But your technique… is so familiar. Like our own."
Zane smiled faintly. "Northern Europe and Japan have more in common than people think. Both respect purity—of flavor, of method."
He added, "But while Japanese smoked salmon is slow-smoked at low temperatures, keeping it moist and supple, Northern European style uses hotter smoke to intensify the aroma and firm up the texture. It's rustic, but honest."
He slid the plate toward her. "Go on. Try it."
Leonora hesitated, then picked up a slice.
It glistened like rose-gold in the light.
She placed it in her mouth.
The smoke hit first—gentle, then bold. The herb blend teased the palate, followed by the rich, tender flesh of the salmon itself. Sweet, salty, herbal, woodsy… it was like tasting a forest bathed in moonlight.
She closed her eyes.
One word escaped her lips.
"Wonderful…"