"3D printing… for tofu?"
Alice Nakiri's voice trailed off as her fingers paused on the tablet screen. She had been flipping through various technologies for potential use at the School Festival, but the article in front of her genuinely surprised her.
"3D-printed black bean tofu," the title read.
The more she read, the more intrigued she became.
"Black bean tofu has been designated a traditional Chinese intangible cultural heritage… and now it's being mass-produced using 3D printing?"
Indeed, with its fully automated production system, it could print over 4,000 boxes per hour. The result wasn't just a leap in speed, but also in standardization and safety, eliminating the inconsistencies of traditional handcrafting methods.
More importantly, costs were down, and quality control was up.
As a scientist-chef who prided herself on pushing the boundaries of molecular gastronomy, Alice couldn't help but be intrigued.
What if… I used this at the School Festival?
Cute shapes. Instant production. Customizable nutrition. She could print chocolate, artistic cakes, even meats sculpted in ornate designs. The concept danced in her mind like a promising dream.
And yet…
She sighed, lowering the tablet.
Despite her creativity and technological genius, she had flopped.
Her booth was running a deficit.
From Failure to a Flick on the Nose
"Alice, it's hard to believe," came Zane's voice, amused but just the right amount of disappointed.
She looked up.
Zane stood there, arms folded, giving her a half-patient, half-wry expression. "Such a small problem stumped you? You even interned at my tavern for half a month!"
Before she could retort, he reached forward and flicked her nose.
"Ouch—Zane!"
Alice covered her face and pouted dramatically.
"How was I supposed to know?" she protested. "I did my homework! I prepped five molecular concept dishes! I ran taste tests! I even infused one with yuzu foam and seared salmon spheres—!"
Zane sighed and waved her rant aside.
"And that's your problem. You chased novelty over practicality."
He gestured toward the crowded Main Avenue booths outside, bustling with students and families.
"That area has the highest foot traffic, but the lowest tolerance for risk. It's filled with average customers. You can't throw caviar at them and expect them to swoon."
Alice fell silent.
Zane continued, voice calm but firm:
"No matter how good your food is, if the ingredients are too expensive and the concept too foreign, they'll hesitate. Then they'll walk to the next stall and buy grilled yakitori for 300 yen."
He had a point.
And Alice knew it.
She had wanted to wow the crowd. Instead, she'd alienated them.
The Warmth of a Plain Dish
Zane sighed, then gave her a comforting smile.
"No matter how stressful things get, food always heals."
He stepped back toward the kitchen station inside the training kitchen where they had retreated for a break.
"Since you're here, let me treat you to a dish: Boiled Water Cabbage."
Alice blinked, confused. "Boiled… water… cabbage?"
The name alone sounded like poverty on a plate.
"Just wait," Zane smirked. "You'll change your mind."
He rolled up his sleeves and began prepping the ingredients.
Boiled Simplicity, Boundless Complexity
The humble name belied the artistry to come.
Zane moved methodically:
First, he selected the cabbage heart—only the tightest, yellow-white core.
Then, the soup base: chicken bones, pork bones, ham hocks, and dried scallops. He blanched, rinsed, and simmered the mixture for hours, skimming every impurity.
Next, he made the soup crystal clear by emulsifying minced chicken breast into the broth to bind the last of the particles.
He repeated the clarification process three times.
Finally, the broth sparkled—a translucent golden elixir, light as air but rich with depth.
And that was just the base.
He blanched the cabbage's heart and outer leaves, peeled them back like a lotus flower, and pierced the stem with a silver needle to allow flavor penetration.
Then came the enhancement layer: an infusion of abalone, shiitake, and fresh chicken added to the broth for aroma.
When finished, Zane gently laid the prepared cabbage in a porcelain bowl and slowly poured in the broth.
It looked like…
Nothing.
Just water and cabbage.
But Alice stared.
And stared.
The cabbage floated like a lotus in a serene pond. The broth looked like water—but shimmered like gold under the kitchen lights.
Zane stepped back.
"This… is Boiled Water Cabbage."
The Thousand-Yen Water Bowl
Alice blinked in disbelief. "It really does look like boiled water…"
Zane didn't answer.
He simply handed her a spoon.
She took a sip.
And her whole world went quiet.
Flavor.
Depth.
Warmth.
Umami.
From the first sip, Alice felt like the broth sank into every corner of her mouth, stimulating every dormant taste bud, revealing layers of richness that no molecular foam could ever reproduce.
She stared at the spoon.
"This… this is…"
Words failed her.
Zane just stood there, arms crossed, watching.
"Boiled Water Cabbage is a Sichuan specialty," he finally said. "The 'boiled water' is actually an expression. It means the soup must be so clear, so pure, that it's indistinguishable from water."
He gestured toward the broth.
"But hidden inside it is the flavor of chicken, pork, ham, seafood, mushrooms—all layered carefully, cooked down, purified, and reassembled."
Alice took another sip. Her hand trembled slightly.
This taste… it's like fog on a mountain… calm and plain at first—but revealing breathtaking scenery with every step.
Beyond Appearance, Beyond Technique
"This broth uses the Chinese clarification method," Zane explained further.
"Slow simmer. No rolling boil. Stir in meat paste to extract impurities. Skim. Repeat."
He glanced at her.
"It's the art of revealing clarity from chaos."
Then, his voice softened.
"Much like life."
Alice's spoon paused mid-air.
That line struck deeper than she expected.
She looked down at the broth again, seeing it with new eyes.
This wasn't a simple dish.
It was philosophy made edible.
"The richest things look plain," she murmured.
"And the plainest things contain the most depth…"
Her voice trailed off.
Zane smiled faintly.
A Heart Softening
A long silence stretched between them.
The spoon clinked gently against the bowl.
Then Alice said, "Zane… I finally understand the significance of this dish."
He didn't respond immediately.
He was wiping down a knife under the soft kitchen lights, his movements calm and precise.
Finally, he set it down.
"It's good you understand."
Alice looked at him—truly looked.
This man who always teased her, who rarely complimented her, who seemed more at ease with a knife than with words—
He had seen through her frustrations, peeled away her pride, and reminded her why she loved food in the first place.
"Thank you, Zane."
Her voice trembled a little, but her smile was genuine.
She might not realize it, but Zane had become her anchor.
Not her mother.
Not even Rindou or Erina.
It was Zane she ran to first when she failed.
Zane, whose tavern she cried in.
Zane, whose broth now comforted her heart.
Her feelings were changing.
Becoming something more.
And deep down, even Alice sensed:
There might be no turning back now.