"Oh, finally! I want meat!" Luffy shouted, slamming his hands on the table like the wait had physically wounded him.
"Give me sake," Zoro added flatly, already half asleep again.
Jonny and Yosaku didn't say a word. They just sat straight, hands on their knees, like soldiers awaiting inspection.
"Meat… so, meat," Usopp echoed, nodding as if that somehow clarified things.
Nami pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled. "Honestly…"
She looked up at Zeff and spoke before the chaos could grow. "Mister, just give us the most delicious dishes on your menu. Whatever Baratie does best."
She clearly had no intention of dragging this conversation out with her overly excited crew.
Then Nami turned her head slightly. "What about you, Cry?" she asked gently.
At that moment, Zoro, Usopp, and Luffy all looked at Cry.
Not just them.
Even Zeff—who had been deliberately avoiding her—needed her answer. A kitchen lives and dies by orders, and this one… this one felt different. The room fell into silence again, thick and heavy, like the pause before a storm. No one breathed too loudly. No one moved.
They were all waiting.
Waiting to hear her voice.
Cry tilted her head slightly to the side, her ocean-like hair shifting with the motion. Then she spoke.
"Fish."
The word was simple. Soft. Barely more than a breath.
Yet it rang through the room like a decree.
To Zeff, it felt less like an order and more like a command a queen would give without raising her voice—one that must be obeyed, not out of fear, but inevitability. This wasn't just about cooking anymore. This was a challenge. And failing it was something no one in that kitchen wanted to even imagine.
A collective gulp passed through the chefs and waiters.
Baratie was famous for its fish dishes—refined, elegant, top-class seafood that nobles and pirates alike praised. But this was no ordinary customer asking for fish.
This was different.
This was not a human asking to eat.
This was a goddess choosing what she wished to taste.
Zeff stood there, dazed—no, frozen—and so did everyone in Baratie. It was as if time itself had stalled.
Nami cleared her throat, a sharp cough that echoed just enough to snap the room back into motion.
Zeff blinked, then nodded slowly. "P-please… leave it to us."
He paused, then added, his voice firm but respectful, "Consider this a gift from Baratie. No payment is needed."
With that, he turned and retreated—smooth, practiced, elegant—the bearing of a veteran chef who knew exactly when to withdraw.
Nami glanced sideways at Cry and gave her a subtle thumbs-up, half proud, half amused.
Cry didn't understand what had just happened, but she nodded back anyway.
..
..
..
Inside the kitchen, the atmosphere was completely different.
Every chef had heard it. Every chef had felt it.
A shaky voice broke the silence. "C-Chef Zeff… what now?"
Gulps echoed around the room as all eyes turned to the head chef.
Zeff exhaled heavily. "Huuu…"
Then his gaze hardened. "We prepare the greatest fish dish known to mankind."
Another collective gulp.
In the corner, the blond man who had collapsed earlier was being dragged inside by another chef. He stirred, eyes fluttering open, then shot upright.
"…Did I die?" he muttered, eyes wide with disbelief. "I just saw a goddess…"
Zeff's irritation finally snapped.
BAAAM!
His peg leg slammed straight into the blond's head, sending him flying into the wall.
The blond crashed, then jolted upright for real this time. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, YOU OLD MAN?!"
It was Sanji—tall, slim, blond hair falling over one eye, cigarette dangling from his lips—was finally awake.
"SANJI, SHUT UP!" Zeff roared. "We're facing a serious challenge right now. A fish dish… for a goddess."
Sanji froze.
"…So it was real," he whispered, gripping the wall. "How… how can such a being exist in this world…?"
Every chef knew Sanji well—his usual lecherous nature, his exaggerated reactions to beautiful women. But this time there were no heart eyes, no drooling, no nonsense.
Only awe.
Only disbelief.
Sanji swallowed hard. "It would be a great sin… even to think badly of her," he said quietly. "Even looking into her eyes felt like a crime."
The kitchen fell silent again.
This was no ordinary order.
This was a trial.
Zeff slammed his peg leg against the floor.
"NOW FOCUS, EVERYONE!"
The kitchen jolted back to life. These weren't amateurs—they were professionals. Spines straightened, shoulders squared, and voices rang out in unison.
"YES, CHEF!"
Steam hissed, knives were grabbed, cutting boards slammed into place. The chaos transformed into disciplined motion in an instant.
Zeff turned his sharp gaze to Sanji. "Don't mess this up."
Sanji's hands were still trembling. He clenched them tight, then slowly exhaled.
"Huuu…"
The cigarette between his lips burned forgotten as his eyes sharpened—not with lust, not with fantasy, but with resolve.
"…Leave it to me," Sanji said quietly, then louder, firmer, "Leave it to me."
Zeff watched him for a long second, then nodded. That was the look he knew well—the look Sanji wore when cooking stopped being a job and became a vow.
"Good," Zeff said. "You're in charge of the main dish."
Sanji stepped forward, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands with deliberate care. The tremble was gone now, replaced by precision.
"A dish worthy of a goddess…" he muttered under his breath.
"…Then I'll put my soul into it."
Around him, the chefs moved faster, sharper, as if the entire Baratie kitchen had entered a higher gear.
Outside, in the dining hall, the silence still lingered.
And unknowingly, the greatest fish dish Baratie would ever serve had begun.
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To be continued