In the chilly winds of Ibaraki Prefecture, there's a time-honored tradition that locals eagerly await each year: the Monkfish Festival.
Known for its peculiar appearance—broad, flat head, grotesque mouth, and slippery skin—the monkfish is hardly a creature that inspires appetite at first glance. Yet, hidden beneath that monstrous façade lies one of Japan's most treasured ingredients. Large, fatty, and full of umami, monkfish is the pride of eastern Japan, rivaling the pufferfish of the west in both flavor and culinary prestige. There's even an old saying that encapsulates this rivalry: "Western pufferfish, Eastern monkfish."
Dissecting a monkfish isn't for the faint of heart. Due to its awkward shape and gelatinous texture, traditional butchery methods don't apply. In Ibaraki, chefs developed a unique solution—suspended cutting—where the fish is hung from a hook and filleted mid-air, allowing gravity to aid in the breakdown. The Monkfish Festival proudly showcases this technique, attracting curious tourists and dedicated food lovers every year.
Tonight, however, in a small yet extraordinary Tavern nestled quietly in the heart of the city, this elusive fish was being transformed into something even more magical—monkfish curry hot pot.
A Broth of Memories
The cooking began with reverence.
In a heavy-bottomed pot, monkfish liver—soft and orange, like sea-foie gras—was gently sautéed until it released its fragrant oils. The scent was rich, yet delicate. Then, with practiced hands, Zane mixed in a measured scoop of miso, letting it dissolve slowly into the shimmering oil, forming a golden, silky broth that danced with umami.
Once the base was ready, chunks of monkfish meat were added, their pale flesh beginning to blush in the simmering heat. Skin, fins, liver, stomach, and gills—what connoisseurs call the "seven treasures of monkfish"—followed suit. He added fresh tofu, slippery vermicelli, and an assortment of vegetables: napa cabbage, daikon, leeks, and lotus root.
No extra water was added. The flavors were meant to be intense, concentrated.
Finally, mushrooms—shiitake, enoki, and oyster—were thrown into the bubbling pot, soaking up the broth as they floated to the top like edible sponges.
With the final touch, Zane sprinkled a blend of mild curry spices across the surface. The spices bloomed instantly in the steam, their fragrance rising like incense in a sacred temple. That aroma—earthy, sweet, and subtly spicy—lingered in the air, weaving a spell that softened the heart and warmed the soul.
Perhaps this was what they meant when they spoke of the healing power of hot pot.
"Nabemono" vs. Hot Pot
Technically speaking, Japanese cuisine doesn't have "hot pot" in the traditional Chinese sense. Instead, such dishes fall under the umbrella of nabemono—a family of stews where ingredients are cooked together in a communal pot.
Still, semantics hardly mattered when faced with something this delicious.
Whether it was miso-based, soy milk-infused, or even curry-flavored, nabemono celebrated diversity. Land, sea, and sky—all edible life could find a place in the pot.
And today's centerpiece? Monkfish.
Megumi's Moment of Clarity
Megumi Tadokoro sat quietly across the table, her wide eyes fixed on the simmering pot in front of her. Tofu skin quivered in the steam. Mushrooms bobbed lazily. The fish meat shimmered under the incandescent glow above, inviting her to dive in.
She hesitated only a moment, then picked up the ladle and poured herself a small bowl of broth. Steam rose gently as she brought it to her lips.
A soft slurp.
Then, silence.
And then… a shudder.
Megumi blinked rapidly, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. The soup wasn't just tasty—it was transportive. The richness of the monkfish liver melded harmoniously with the miso, while the curry spices tickled the tongue without overpowering it.
She fished out a piece of the liver next. One bite—and her eyes widened.
Smooth, creamy, with a luxurious mouthfeel that rivaled foie gras. But it was cleaner, lighter. Unlike foie gras, monkfish liver wasn't force-fed into flavor. Its richness was natural—pure. Perhaps that's why it contained more unsaturated fats, giving it a fresh, oceanic nuance that melted on her tongue.
"Wow…" she whispered. "This doesn't taste fishy at all!"
She took another bite, this time with vegetables and mushrooms, allowing the textures and tastes to swirl together in her mouth.
It was… incredible.
A Dish That Listens
Zane said nothing as he cleaned behind the counter, simply watching her expression shift from curiosity to astonishment to quiet joy.
This dish didn't boast. It didn't try to impress with excessive technique. It relied on balance, on listening to the ingredients.
And that was the essence of true cooking.
Who Megumi Truly Was
Megumi wasn't flashy. She wasn't the kind to shout from rooftops or storm through competitions.
Her style was homey, heartfelt—the flavor of family dinners and warm memories. That's what she excelled at.
In the original Autumn Elections, she faced Ryo Kurokiba in the ramen battle. Her dish was excellent, but it lacked that decisive punch. That "wow" factor that judges remembered after the final bite.
Not because she wasn't skilled—but because that just wasn't who she was.
She had come to Totsuki not to dominate, but to survive. Not to stand on a global stage like Erina, but to go home—stronger, wiser, ready to inherit her family's inn.
Yet, in that moment, spoon in hand and cheeks flushed from steam, Megumi knew: she was growing. Slowly, steadily.
And that was because of Zane.
Because he'd believed in her when she couldn't believe in herself.
She smiled softly to herself.
Zane wasn't just a friend or mentor—he was the most important person in her journey.
The Peony in Red
Later that night, with Megumi gone, the Tavern grew even busier.
Erina moved gracefully between tables, assisting Zane with quiet efficiency. Despite the crowd, the atmosphere remained calm.
And then—
A new presence entered.
A curvaceous young woman stepped in, clad in a deep red silk cheongsam that hugged every curve like a second skin. Her beauty was elegant, not gaudy—like a peony in full bloom, regal and refined.
Her eyes swept over the décor, noting the warm lights, the meticulous table settings, the homely charm. Finally, she sat at a secluded table, admiring the ambiance.
Zane walked over with his usual calm smile. "Welcome to the Tavern. You can order anything—as long as I can make it and have the ingredients."
His voice was warm and smooth, effortlessly magnetic.
The woman blinked, slightly caught off guard. "You're the owner?"
"Yes. And also the head chef."
"Seriously?" Her lips curled into a smirk. "You look younger than I expected… and a lot more handsome."
Zane chuckled lightly, unsure if it was a compliment or a trap.
A Spark of Rivalry
The girl was Miyoko Hojo, a talented student from Totsuki, known for her mastery of Chinese cuisine.
Her family owned a renowned Chinese restaurant, and she'd trained under her father since childhood. But despite her passion and skill, her traditional father had told her the kitchen was no place for a woman.
That wound still lingered.
Spotting Erina, Miyoko narrowed her eyes.
Then she casually asked, "Megumi comes here often, doesn't she?"
Zane nodded. "She's a regular. And a good friend. Gentle, kind—hard not to like her."
Miyoko's gaze sharpened. "So… what do you think of her cooking? Can she rise to the top of Totsuki? Surpass all the boys?"
Zane tilted his head.
"You mean the Elite Ten? First Seat? That's… ambitious. I won't lie—Megumi has potential. But she's not Erina. Or Alice. Or Ikumi. And above them, you have monsters like Satoshi and Rindo."
He paused, then added, "That's not to put her down. Megumi's strength lies in something else. Something gentler."
Miyoko said nothing, but her eyes glittered with thought.
Perhaps what she needed wasn't to compete with Megumi… but to understand her.