"Boss, close the café," Soma said, his voice now a low, focused hum. The air around him had changed.
"What?" Zero asked, taken aback.
"I'll pay for the inconvenience," Big Sal boomed, a wide, challenging grin on his face. He slapped a heavy pouch of coins on the counter that sounded like a thousand Sols. "Fifteen hundred. For the day."
Zero's eyes widened. He didn't hesitate. "That's it, folks! We are officially closed for a private event!"
The regulars, who had been watching the exchange with rapt attention, erupted in a chorus of boos. "Aww, come on! Let us watch!"
Zero turned to Sal. "How about it, Mr. Sal? Would you be willing to let our other customers bear witness to this culinary clash?"
"Of course!" Sal roared. "A meal is not complete without the lively conversation of a full house!"
The customers cheered. Zero, now playing the role of the ultimate hype man, raised a hand to the sky. "To celebrate this momentous occasion," he declared, "DRINKS ARE ON ME!"
The café exploded in a cacophony of cheers. The regulars weren't just patrons anymore; they were the audience in a Colosseum of Cuisine.
Soma ignored it all. The world had narrowed to him, the kitchen, and his opponent. He wasn't a café owner. He was a warrior stepping into his arena. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace, his entire being thrumming with a focused energy.
"First up," he announced, his voice a sharp crack in the electric atmosphere. "Amuse-bouche."
[Amuse-bouche: Seared Scallop with a Yuzu-Miso Kiss]
Soma's hands became a blur. He pulled a single, perfect, diver-caught scallop from a chilled container—it was huge, the size of a child's fist. His knife, a gleaming extension of his will, flashed as he scored the surface with a precise cross-hatch pattern.
He turned to the stove, a pan hitting the flame with a sharp clang. A knob of butter went in, sizzling and browning instantly, filling the air with a nutty, intoxicating aroma. The scallop hit the screaming-hot pan. A loud, aggressive TSSSSS echoed through the café, a sound that promised a perfect, Maillard-reaction crust.
While it seared, his other hand was a whirlwind, whisking together white miso paste, a drop of mirin, and the freshly grated zest of a yuzu. The salty, umami depth of the miso, the sweetness of the rice wine, and the bright, floral acidity of the yuzu created a symphony of smells.
He flipped the scallop once, the seared side a perfect, golden-brown. The other side he just kissed with the heat, leaving it a tender, translucent pearly white. He plated it on a single, elegant porcelain spoon, painting a delicate brushstroke of the yuzu-miso glaze beside it. The dish gave off a faint, almost imperceptible golden glow.
"Serve," he commanded.
Zero, acting as the server, carried the single spoon to Big Sal with the reverence of a priest carrying a holy relic.
Sal looked at the dish, a single, perfect jewel. He took it all in one bite.
His eyes widened. He didn't speak. A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The regulars watched, holding their breath. In Sal's mind, a universe of flavor exploded. The immediate, briny sweetness of the perfectly cooked scallop, the crunchy, caramelized crust giving way to a tender, almost raw interior. Then, the glaze hit—a wave of savory, salty umami from the miso, cut through by the sharp, electric-bright citrus of the yuzu. It was a perfect, harmonious chord of flavor that washed over his palate, leaving it clean, stimulated, and hungry for more. It wasn't just a bite; it was a declaration of intent.
[Appetizer: Crispy Duck Confit and Blood Orange Salad with a Warm Bacon Vinaigrette]
Before Sal could even fully process the first course, Soma was already moving on to the next. He pulled a perfectly preserved duck leg from a container of fat. He placed it skin-side down in a cold pan, then turned on the flame. The fat began to render slowly, the skin crackling and crisping, the sound like a gentle rain that promised a thunderous crunch.
While the duck rendered, he moved to his station. He didn't just plate the dish; he constructed it. A foundation of peppery arugula and thinly shaved fennel. A spiral of jewel-like, deep red blood orange segments. Toasted walnuts, scattered like rough-hewn gems.
The duck was ready. The skin was a deep, mahogany brown, impossibly crispy. He shredded the tender meat with two forks and artfully arranged it over the salad.
But he wasn't done. Into the pan with the rendered duck and bacon fat, he threw in finely diced shallots, sautéing them until they were soft and fragrant. He deglazed the pan with a splash of sherry vinegar, the acidic steam hitting the air with a sharp hiss. He scraped up all the browned bits from the bottom of the pan, whisking the hot, smoky, savory dressing together. He drizzled the warm vinaigrette over the entire salad. The heat slightly wilted the arugula, releasing its peppery perfume, and coated every ingredient in a shimmering, flavorful sheen.
"Serve," he commanded again.
This time, when the plate was placed in front of Sal, the regulars could see the dish glowing with a more confident, powerful aura. Sal took his first bite—a forkful of everything.
His eyes closed. He was no longer in the café. He was standing in a sun-drenched orchard in late autumn. He could feel a cool breeze on his face, the scent of ripe oranges and rich earth in the air. He tasted the crispy, salty perfection of the duck skin, followed by the rich, impossibly tender meat. Then, a burst of sweet, tart juice from the blood orange exploded in his mouth, cutting through the richness. The peppery bite of the arugula, the crunch of the walnut, the faint anise of the fennel—all of it was brought together by the warm, smoky, acidic embrace of the vinaigrette. It wasn't a salad; it was a story, a memory, a perfect, fleeting moment of culinary bliss.
Sal let out a low, involuntary groan of pleasure. The regulars leaned in, their eyes wide. Without him realizing it, the pendant around Sal's neck began to hum, a low, resonant frequency. It began to vibrate, and then, a dull red light pulsed from within the silver charm, straining against the overwhelming power of Soma's cooking.
Sal finished the last bite of the duck confit salad, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. The red glow from his pendant faded, and the vibrations ceased. The charm had managed to hold out, but it was strained.
Soma, however, was not done. His focus had only intensified. The regulars in the café watched in a hushed, reverent silence. This was no longer a simple meal; it was a performance.
"And now," Soma announced, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to fill the entire room, "the main course."
[Main Course: Yukihira Style Sous-Vide Beef with a Smoked Citrus and Miso Jus]
Soma moved with the deliberate, focused grace of a master craftsman. He produced a thick, perfectly marbled cut of beef that had been slow-cooking in a sous-vide bath for hours, ensuring it was a perfect medium-rare from edge to edge. The real artistry, however, was about to begin.
He slammed a cast-iron skillet onto the highest flame, the metal groaning in protest. While it heated to a volcanic temperature, he turned to a small, enclosed smoker box. He opened it, and a fragrant cloud of white smoke billowed out, carrying the intoxicating aroma of charred blood orange and yuzu peels—the very same fruits from his previous courses. He had captured their essence, transforming their bright acidity into a deep, complex smokiness.
He pulled a dark, viscous liquid from the smoker—the jus. This was the heart of the dish. He had built it on a rich beef stock, infused it with the smoked citrus, and deepened its umami with the same white miso from the amuse-bouche. It was a sauce that told the story of the entire meal.
The pan was ready, shimmering with heat. Soma patted the beef dry, seasoned it aggressively, and laid it in the skillet.
TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
The sound was a violent, explosive roar. He didn't just sear the meat; he forged a crust on it, a dark, crunchy bark that locked in all the juices. While it seared, he orchestrated the final plating. A swoosh of velvety sweet potato puree, a sprinkle of flaky sea salt.
He pulled the beef from the pan, letting it rest for only a moment before slicing it into thick, succulent medallions. The inside was a perfect, wall-to-wall rosy pink. He arranged the slices over the puree, the colors a vibrant contrast. Finally, he took a ladle of the dark, glistening jus and poured it over the meat. The dish gave off a powerful, almost divine, golden-white aura.
He didn't hand this one to Zero. He carried the plate himself, walking through the silent café and placing it reverently before his challenger. He looked Big Sal in the eye.
"Enjoy my magnum opus."
Sal stared at the plate. The aroma was intoxicating, a complex blend of rich beef, sweet earth, and a smoky, citrusy perfume he'd never encountered before. "What... what kind of dish is this?" he asked, his voice a hushed whisper. "I've never seen anything like it."
He took the first bite.
His eyes closed.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a silent, internal explosion. The Big Bang of flavor. First, the incredible crunch of the crust, a supernova of savory, salty, charred perfection. Then, the beef itself—so impossibly tender it dissolved on his tongue, a wave of rich, umami flavor that was the core of a new universe. And then, the sauce hit. The jus. It was not a single flavor, but a galaxy of them. The deep, smoky bitterness of the charred citrus, the salty, savory depth of the miso, the rich, meaty foundation of the stock—all of it swirled around the beef, enhancing it, elevating it, creating a taste experience that was primal and sophisticated, ancient and utterly new.
The regulars in the café saw a mysterious pressure emanate from Sal. A silent wind, born from nothing, swept through the room, fluttering napkins and causing Sal's own hair to ripple as if in a gale. The silver pendant on his chest began to float, hovering an inch above his skin, glowing a furious, pulsing red.
Sal's hand moved on its own. His body, his soul, his very being, demanded another bite. He was no longer in control. He took a second, larger forkful.
CRACK!
A spiderweb of fractures appeared on the silver pendant. Before the second bite even reached his mouth, the magical charm, unable to contain the sheer, overwhelming force of Soma's culinary power, shattered into a thousand pieces of glittering dust.
A pillar of pure, divine light erupted from Sal's body, engulfing him completely. It was as if a god had leaned down and said, "Let there be light," right in the middle of their café.
RIIIIIIIP!
The sound of tearing fabric was unmistakable. The light was so bright, they couldn't see exactly what happened, but they heard it. When the light finally faded, Sal was floating a foot off his chair, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss on his face, his expensive shirt and jacket torn to shreds, revealing his large, beaming torso to the world.
"What the fuck," Zero whispered from behind the bar.
The other customers, their mouths agape, their drinks forgotten, could only stare in speechless, reverent awe.
…
Inside a standard-issue patrol rune-car, Monet sat behind the wheel, her uniform crisp, a newfound confidence in her posture. Beside her, Wolfe sat silently in the passenger seat, wearing plain clothes.
"You know," Monet said, a cheerful energy back in her voice, "it's kind of great, this new thing the Chief did. 'Plain Clothes Day.' The day when rookies are in charge of the patrol." She glanced at Wolfe. "With you as my shadow, of course. But all the decisions are mine to make."
Just then, the crystal dispatch radio crackled to life. "All units, stand by for a 415, loud commotion reported behind Café LeBlanc, alley off Delancey. Caller reports yelling and bright lights coming from inside."
Monet's cheerful demeanor snapped into professional focus. She grabbed the responder. "Dispatch, 7-Adam-32. We're two blocks out, show us responding Code 2." Without waiting for a reply, she floored the rune-car, the engine whining as they sped towards the café.
She pulled up to the alley, the café's windows glowing with a warm, lively light. "Dispatch, 7-Adam-32, 10-97," she reported, assessing the scene. "Multiple parties inside the café, looks like it's verbal only for now." She muttered under her breath, "Hopefully Soma is okay."
She got out of the car, her hand resting on her sidearm, and pushed open the café door. "Alright folks, what's going on here?"
Zero looked up from behind the bar. "Oh, Officer Monet! And Officer Wolfe, too. Why aren't you in uniform?"
"Are you getting fired?" Soma called out from the kitchen doorway.
"I'm on Plain Clothes Day," Wolfe grunted from behind Monet. "Act like you don't see me. This is all Officer Monet's scene."
"That's right," Monet said, her confidence bolstered. She took in the scene: the entire group of regulars were gathered around a single table, all of them staring at something with wide, astonished eyes. "So, Mr. Zero, what happened?"
The crowd of regulars parted slightly, giving her a clear view. She saw a large, naked man, draped in a single, hastily thrown blanket, happily eating a plate of food.
"That," Zero said simply, "is what happened."
"Elaborate," Monet said, her mind struggling to process the bizarre scene.
Zero gave her the short, unbelievable version of the culinary battle. Monet listened, her expression shifting from confusion to disbelief, and finally, to a weary, professional resignation.
She keyed her crystal radio. "Dispatch, 7-Adam-32, Code 4." She paused, searching for the right words. "It's a false alarm. Just... some locals doing an eating contest."
She then walked back to her patrol car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a standard-issue emergency blanket. She walked over to Big Sal. "Sir," she said, handing him the second blanket. "Please don't go out naked. I don't want to have to file a 314 for Indecent Exposure."
Sal, a look of blissful contentment on his face, just beamed at her. "Okay, officer."
**A/N**
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~🧣KujoW
**A/N**