Chapter Text
“Another chateaubriand béarnaise special at table four!”
As the waiter disappeared back through the swinging double doors, Erina clapped her hands briskly twice. “You heard the man. To your stations!”
She swept through the kitchen of La Dame Liberté like a tornado, inhaling deeply. Her God Tongue had made her famous in her youth, but her sharp nose was nothing to sneeze at either. After all, taste was mostly scent. It took some people far too long to appreciate that. Erina sniffed the air gingerly, teasing apart the interwoven aromas with the finesse of a top-breed hunting dog. “Don’t over-simmer that demi-glace,” she barked at the saucier, who flinched and hastily yanked his stockpot off the flame. She didn’t wait to hear his stammered apology, already turning to dispense warnings and wisdom to the line chefs. “Keep those flank meats for tomorrow’s stew. Remember not to adulterate the vinaigrette—just let it acidify. And make sure those pommes duchesse are evenly crisped!”
She paused in the center of the kitchen, savoring the sensual symphony surrounding her—the sizzling tenderloins emerging from the oven, her jabbering colleagues, the tantalizing fragrances of tonight’s sauces and seasonings melding together in the steaming air. Then she cupped her hands to her mouth and barked, “Tasting in two!”
As the din of the kitchen resounded with a chorus of “Yes, chef!”, Erina smiled to herself. I was born to do this.
La Dame Liberté was by far the most…American restaurant she’d ever experienced working in. Which was funny, given that the owner had built his brand on top-quality French cuisine. Rather, the kitchen was a hodgepodge of every language, skin tone, and demographic imaginable—filled with young, aspiring chefs sourced from all over the world, united under the common banner of cuisine française as they sought to make a name for themselves in the great Melting Pot. She’d been a bit chagrined when she’d first arrived in New York City and learned that the owner of La Dame had initially hired her merely as one of a dozen new station chefs, but she’d made short work of the competition (if she could even call it that) and risen to the rank of sous-chef within her first six months. Barely a year into this job now and she practically ran the kitchen herself—especially on nights when the head chef was taking time off, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently in recent weeks. Not that Erina minded at all; in fact, she fully intended to take over the position the instant the opportunity arose. It wasn’t that she had anything against the guy. Erina simply knew her worth, and she was nothing if not persistent.
Besides, you couldn’t expect to run a Michelin-starred restaurant in Midtown Manhattan without an arsenal of culinary expertise, and Erina’s was second to none. This hadn’t been lost on La Dame’s owner—a bearish Italian whose zeal for French cooking was matched only by his flamboyant sense of fashion—and it was refreshing to finally be given the license to exercise her skills without restraint or judgement. She’d spent far too long enslaved by her father’s exacting demands to endure any more, and her new boss seemed to understand this without her ever having to voice it aloud. That almost made up for his habit of mispronouncing her name as “Er-REE-na.” She supposed it sounded more Italian that way, but had given up trying to correct him after a half-dozen tries. Part of her chafed a little at that—after all, she’d had to work hard to master English, French, and Italian during her whirlwind childhood touring the world with the Nakiri family juggernaut—but the pay and the chance to experience such refined cooking made moving to New York City the best decision she’d ever made.
Not that it had come without a price. Erina realized her fingers had strayed unconsciously to the necklace tucked carefully beneath her chef’s whites, feeling for the comforting smoothness of the crescent moon and pearl. At this point the pendant was an extension of herself—a piece of him nestled cool against her chest, invisible to everyone. But she knew it was there, and that was all that mattered. One day.
“Er, Chef Nakiri?”
Erina suddenly realized the station chefs were all staring at her—each of them standing at mute attention with a spoonful of their respective concoctions extended, like a row of toy soldiers. She’d trained them well. “Yes!” she said quickly, dislodging the cobwebs of memory with a decisive twirl of her heel. “Who’s up first?”
Dinner was a success, as always. Her army of station chefs, operating at peak efficiency under her watchful eye, had fielded a record number of orders for the chateaubriand béarnaise, which was on track to unseat the head chef’s bouillabaisse as La Dame’s most popular entrée. Erina smiled with satisfaction. There was simply nothing like watching her carefully-crafted special flying off the shelves into the eager mouths of a full dining room—even three years and an ocean away from her days as a student at Totsuki, she felt the same adrenaline rush of a shokugeki fueling her on nights like this. Not just any shokugeki, of course—only a few of her opponents over the years had ever been able to ignite a real spark inside her, forcing her to innovate and elevate her craft on the fly. Her match against Akanegakubo Momo during the Régiment de Cuisine, for one. And every match against Yukihira Soma.
Somehow her thoughts always seemed to drift back to him. This was usually a sign that she wasn’t paying enough attention to her work. Erina glanced at the time—only an hour til closing—and decided to check on tonight’s star dessert. Crème brûlée was virtually impossible to mess up, but you could never be too careful. She was about to flag down the pâtissière when the dining room doors swung open.
“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Sous-Chef?”
The voice was timid, as they always were. Erina turned to see a young waiter poking his head nervously through the double doors and gave him an encouraging smile. “Yes? Orders for dessert?”
The waiter cleared his throat. “Um, actually—there’s a guest who’d like to speak with you. He asked for you by name.”
Erina’s mind raced. Most of her friends back home knew she’d moved to New York City last year, but few ever had occasion or opportunity to visit. Alice was the most likely candidate, with her penchant for globe-trotting and showing up when Erina least expected it…but the waiter had said he.
She felt her fingers twitch instinctually toward the pendant at her neck and stilled the impulse with some effort. Her heart had begun to thud in her ears, waves crashing with increasing frequency as she stared at the waiter. Could he—?
No. He would have called first—or more likely, shown up at her apartment with no warning to surprise her (another trait he shared with her cousin that seemed to delight both of them to no end). It’s probably just a food critic, she told herself, quenching the brief spasm of foolish hope that had dared to spring to life in her breast.
In her peripheral vision, she could tell the station chefs were discreetly watching the conversation unfold—or at least, trying to be discreet about eavesdropping. She sighed. Best to get it over with, then.
“Very well. You—” she pointed to the pâtissière, a young woman who colored instantly upon realizing she hadn’t been as subtle as she’d thought, “—are in charge until I get back.”
The station chef nodded vigorously, nearly shaking her toque loose. “Yes, Chef Nakiri!”
Erina hung her toque on a hook, then followed the waiter through the double doors. “Which table?”
“Number four, Mademoiselle Sous-Chef. Right this way.” The waiter led her around the perimeter of the dining room, inclining his head slightly to each patron as they passed. As usual, every table was filled. Tasteful lighting from the dozen chandeliers high overhead played over the faces of the diners, casting a scintillating glow over the restaurant. The dining room was alive with sparkling conversation and moans of satisfaction as guests approached the conclusion of their meals. Erina nodded politely to the few who made eye contact with her, basking in their ecstasy even as her mind continued to race. Maybe it’s just another satisfied patron. But how would he know to ask for me specifically?
“Here we are, Mademoiselle.” The waiter bowed quickly and scurried away into the crowd before Erina could even bid him farewell. She watched him disappear, then turned back to table four, bracing herself.
Sitting alone at a table for two was—
“Chef Saiba?!”
Yukihira Joichiro’s face broke into a wide smile as she approached, and for a split second Erina saw the image of his son superimposed over him—the same devilish grin, the hair ruddier and more spiky, the same casual ease with which both Yukihiras seemed to inhabit every space they occupied. Then she blinked the illusion away as the tendrils of hope shriveled in her chest. Stop distracting yourself.
“Chef Nakiri!” Joichiro’s voice was jovial as he gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Please, sit.”
Erina lowered herself into the chair, still uncertain. “What a welcome surprise, Chef Saiba,” she said, proud of how smooth her words sounded despite her internal turmoil. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Ah, there’s no need to be so formal,” Joichiro chuckled. “I was just in town for the week on business. Every time I come to the Melting Pot I make sure to drop in on all my old friends’ restaurants. Can’t let the competition get ahead of you, right?” He winked. “When I heard you’d been promoted to sous-chef here, I knew I had to stop by. I assume you’re the reason for that shiny new Michelin star outside?”
Erina felt her face warm at the praise. La Dame had obtained its second star just a few weeks ago. She couldn’t claim sole credit, of course, but she had done her part to whip the line chefs into shape and mold the station chefs in the rigorous style of Totsuki. She’d been hired to elevate the restaurant’s reputation, after all. It was as much a testament to her colleagues’ tenacity and dedication that she hardly needed to fine-tune their dishes at all anymore.
“You’re too kind,” she demurred, embarrassed. To keep her hands from fluttering, she gestured to his empty plate. “I hope you enjoyed tonight’s special?”
“C’était magnifique, merci,” Joichiro proclaimed, patting his stomach appreciatively. “I’ve had chateaubriand béarnaise at many restaurants, but none have succeeded in bringing out the sweetness of the tarragon quite like this.” He cocked his head slyly. “What’s your secret, Chef Nakiri?”
Erina was suddenly transported back to the sunny day when she’d first seen Chef Saiba having lunch with her grandfather, awestruck. How unattainable his craft had seemed then. It would be over a decade before she tasted the distinctive Yukihira Style once again, and years after that before she would acknowledge that Soma had indeed inherited his father’s skills in the kitchen—and then some. Not that she had ever let him know that…at least, not with her words.
You’re a professional, not a blushing schoolgirl. Act like it!
“I may have tweaked the ratio of spices a bit,” she admitted. “But my colleagues are quite skilled themselves. I’ve been fortunate to have found a place here.” Surely he didn’t come here just to shower me with praise. “You’re lucky to have gotten a table here tonight,” she remarked. “La Dame is usually booked out months in advance.”
“Oh, I know.” Joichiro smiled conspiratorially. “The owner and I go way back.”
Of course they did. Erina supposed it made sense, given what Soma had said about his often-absentee father’s travels. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, she thought bitterly.
She had to know. Trying her best to keep her tone neutral, she asked, “How’s Soma?”
Joichiro’s handsome features creased into a frown. “I…was actually going to ask you the same thing. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, myself.”
Erina felt herself flush yet again—though she wasn’t sure if it was from showing her hand, or from the unspoken insinuation that she would know exactly how Soma was doing. Had Soma ever mentioned her—their touch-and-go relationship, that is—to his father? She imagined he must have at some point. And I left him—I left us—to come here.
She bristled inwardly. I deserved to be free to make my own choices. Besides, I’ve allowed him to do the same ever since we graduated. We’re both adults, and we’ve made our own decisions about the future.
“Chef Nakiri?” Joichiro’s concern brought her back to earth.
Erina realized her expression had soured and quickly jettisoned those thoughts from her mind. Smoothing out her apron to clear her head, she replied, “I actually haven’t heard from him in about a year, either. We…lost touch when I moved to New York City.”
She recalled how beautiful Soma had looked in the early-morning light the day she’d left, the desperate taste of their final kiss. A moment she’d tried to encase in amber, to preserve in her heart forever. But memory was fickle, and the ecstasy of their final month together now felt fleeting—a short-lived high that cruelly left her craving more every time she allowed him back into her thoughts. He hadn’t called once since she’d left, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to either. What good would it do to reopen the fault lines of her heart when they’d barely started to heal?
“Ah.” A rueful grin crossed Joichiro’s face. “I suppose we both know how Soma is. He’s probably out gallivanting somewhere on the other side of the world. Chip off the old block, eh?”
“Yes, probably,” Erina said, her face a mask of composure. Do either of us truly know him, or are we just deluding ourselves?
“Can I ask you a question, Chef Saiba?” When Joichiro inclined his head, she said, “Did you ever regret…settling down? At Restaurant Yukihira, I mean.”
Immediately she wished she hadn’t spoken. What a silly thing to ask—how much more obvious could she be?
But Joichiro seemed oblivious to her consternation. “I wouldn’t call it settling down, to be honest,” he said thoughtfully after a moment. “I traveled a lot after I left Totsuki, but I think I was always searching for something—someone to dedicate my all to. Cooking, time, love…everything.” A wistful smile curled his lips. “I don’t regret anything about my decision to start a family with Tamako. If anything, I wish I’d done it sooner. If I’d known how little time we’d have together…” His voice trailed off.
Erina recalled the night she and Hisako had listened to Joichiro’s stories on the porch of the Nakiri family mansion, the unabashed tenderness with which Soma’s father had described his late wife. She’d debriefed the conversation with Hisako later that night, equally moved by Joichiro’s sincerity and irritated at his son’s apparent inability to manifest the same when it came to anything actually important in his life. He wants to surpass his father in every way except for one, she’d railed at Hisako—who had simply given Erina a knowing wink. I didn’t even realize at the time.
God, she missed Hisako. Her best friend had promised to visit, but the medicinal spices business she and Akira had started together reportedly consumed all her time like a black hole. That, plus the trials and tribulations of managing a toddler and the wedding preparations. It had killed Erina to have to miss Hisako and Akira’s wedding last summer, but she’d had no choice—she’d barely started at La Dame at the time, and had made the heartbreaking decision to focus on her new job instead. Hisako had promised she’d understood when Erina had called to break the news, but she still felt terrible about it. How could anyone bear to give so much of herself to someone for so long, only for it not to be reciprocated when it matters most?
Every so often she’d see life updates online—Mimi’s second birthday; Alice and Ryo’s engagement; Megumi and Takumi’s first anniversary together. She gushed over each joyful announcement in the comments section, even called to congratulate each happy couple when she couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night. Afterward, she’d lie awake in her queen-sized bed and reminisce about the life she and Soma had briefly had together. Could have had together. Sometimes she woke with tear streaks on her cheeks. She never remembered her dreams, though.
One more thing I’ve given up.
“Does that answer your question?”
Erina started, realizing she’d been lost in thought again. Pull yourself together. You can’t go spiraling in front of Chef Saiba!
“I think so,” she nodded. At a loss for what to say, she studied the man across from her, marveling at the family resemblance. How strange it was to be conversing like this—as colleagues, no longer separated by the gulf of experience. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories.”
“No, it’s alright.” She thought she saw a trace of sorrow lingering in Joichiro’s eyes, but when he blinked there was only kindness. “A few moments' introspection is a small price to pay for the delicious meal I had tonight.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “My compliments to the chef.”
This time Erina accepted the praise with a gracious smile. “I’m so glad you liked it,” she said, trying to project the ironclad confidence that would be expected from a chef of her stature. She had an image to maintain, after all.
Joichiro flashed her his trademarked grin, and for an instant she was again catapulted fifteen years back into the past. “Soma’s rubbed off on you too, I see.”
Erina let out a light laugh, even as his words conjured up a hundred memories of his son that she’d kept under lock and key in her heart. More than you could ever know. Part of her wished she could spend the rest of the evening at this table—reconnecting with her old mentor, swapping stories of the redheaded idiot they both knew and loved—but duty called.
She rose to her feet with a magnanimous smile. “It’s nice to see you, Chef Saiba,” she murmured, her mind already on the dessert rush. She hoped the kitchen hadn’t gone up in flames in her brief absence.
But she needn’t have worried—this wasn’t Totsuki. She caught the station chefs huddled around the small portholes in the double doors, furtively trying to sneak a glance at her mysterious interlocutor. The pâtissière she’d left in charge actually squeaked at being caught, scurrying back to her station as Erina struggled to suppress a snort. When the cat’s away, indeed.
“Chef Nakiri?” the pâtissière asked meekly. When Erina raised a questioning brow, the young woman stammered, “Er, was that guest…a food critic?”
It was a reasonable question; everyone in the kitchen understood the importance of the columnists and commentators who occasionally frequented La Dame. As one of the youngest restaurants in the city already on track to receive three coveted Michelin stars, Erina knew their meteoric rise and burgeoning fame had been polarizing. She couldn’t blame the station chefs for their apprehension.
But how to explain? Just my childhood idol who happens to know the owner and is also the quasi-estranged father of my—
“No,” she said crisply, securing her toque back on her head and relishing the sense of security it afforded. She was back in her domain. “Just a friend passing through town.” Then, since this clearly wasn’t enough to dispel her colleagues’ curiosity, she narrowed her eyes and barked, “Back to work!”
Erina had grown accustomed to taking the subway home after the kitchen closed for the night—a far cry from the chauffeured limousines and private jets that had been fixtures of her pampered childhood and adolescence. To her own chagrin, she’d even come to occasionally relish the glimpses of everyday mundanity afforded by stepping outside her culinary fortress. New York City seemed to teem with so much life that it had forced her to reevaluate her carefully-constructed model of the world. No longer was the Melting Pot simply the sprawling land of dreams she’d first seen from the plane—now she was intimately acquainted with both its thrilling energy and its gritty realities, equally enthralling. She supposed Soma would have laughed at this epiphany. Finally stepped outside your castle, eh, princess? Never thought I’d see you catching a taxi like one of us commoners!
Tonight, though, Erina opted to walk home after bidding her colleagues goodnight. It would take her the better part of an hour to get back to her place in Greenwich Village, but that was no matter. She needed the fresh air to clear her mind.
She’d known when she first accepted the job offer that everything would be different here, and initially she’d welcomed the dramatic change in routine. Every time she and Soma parted ways, it seemed to take her weeks to readjust to being alone, to recover from the bitter loss of his taste and his scent and his touch. New York City was the perfect antidote to her withdrawal—a microcosm of humanity, brimming with infinite possibilities and distractions and responsibilities to occupy her mind.
At the beginning, the city’s charms had enraptured her, and she’d embraced them willingly. She’d spent her rare days off playing tourist—oohing and aahing at the brilliance of the cherry blossoms at the city’s famed botanic garden; riding the garishly orange passenger ferry across the harbor to catch a glimpse of the original La Dame Liberté in the copper flesh; even attending the odd Broadway show. She didn’t particularly care for the theatrics, but she unexpectedly loved the musical numbers. It was something she’d never dreamed existed as a child, back when her world was confined to a never-ending purgatory of forced tastings and punitive torments.
One night, walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with a gyro from one of the ubiquitous halal carts that never seemed to sleep, she’d caught herself laughing at the sheer exhilaration of it all—the glittering skyline, the wind whipping through her hair, the surprisingly delicious taste of the late-night sandwich she’d purchased on a whim. She’d never felt so carefree, unmoored from the demands of her family and Totsuki, liberated like the namesake of her new restaurant to remake herself in whatever vision she chose. After that revelation, she had dived even deeper into her craft, galvanized by that spark of freedom and promising herself she’d never relinquish it for anything—or anyone.
On New Year’s Eve, she’d watched the iconic ball drop in Times Square from the window of La Dame’s luxurious dining room, soaking in her colleagues’ revelry and the sheer joy that seemed to rise from the packed streets as confetti drifted down like a multicolored snowfall. She’d felt a surge of nostalgia for the first-year exam trials in Hokkaido, that austere wintry landscape where—ironically—the ice crystals she’d hardly realized were packed around her heart had finally begun to melt. Looking back, she blamed a certain irreverent redhead for that first thaw. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if you hadn’t let him in in the first place, she chided herself. But she had, that night on the train beneath a starry sky—spiderwebbed cracks in her armor, widening imperceptibly over time until they splintered all at once under the influence of Polar Star rice wine and chocolate. A moment of weakness that she’d never regretted, bringing her to dizzying heights of pleasure and pain alike.
For nearly a year, she’d managed to numb that pain. But tonight…
Seeing Joichiro had unearthed memories of all she’d left behind when she’d made the decision to uproot herself from Japan a year ago—the friends she’d come to love through their shared struggles at Totsuki; her comfortable position at the apex of the school’s hierarchy; even her tenuously-reconciled family. And, of course, Yukihira Soma.
As the bustling downtown district gave way to residential neighborhoods, the nighttime buzz of the city faded away, inviting the vacuum of isolation in. These were the nights when she missed Totsuki the most—missed its comfortable familiarity and security, the knowledge that she was at the top of the pecking order. But even a frog had to hop out of its well at some point to explore the wider world. Or was it to keep from being boiled alive? Something like that. The few ‘bedtime’ stories she could recall her father reading to her as a child—before her mother had abandoned them and his ‘stories’ devolved into lectures and eventually sermons—had blurred together in her memory.
You have the dream job that other chefs would kill for, she tried to remind herself whenever the sixteen-hour days started to wear her down. For all its academic rigor and near-constant shokugekis, Totsuki had done little to prepare its students for the day-to-day reality of life in a commercial kitchen, with its less-than-glamorous work-life balance (or lack thereof, to be more accurate). Perhaps she’d have a word with the new headmaster the next time she was back in Japan.
If I ever make it back.
By the time Erina finally reached her studio apartment, it was nearly midnight. Exhaustion overtook her as she shut the door behind her, and she stripped out of her chef’s whites on autopilot, muscle memory taking over. As she pulled her nightgown around her, the weight of everything she’d given up for this life suddenly settled on her like an avalanche, threatening to crush her. It took her several deep breaths to regain her composure, to fight back the moisture pricking at the corners of her eyes. I chose this life. I wanted this.
Through the window she watched the crescent moon rising, the mirror image of the charm still fastened around her neck. She cradled it delicately between her thumb and forefinger, caressing the tiny pearl. The sensation always brought back Soma’s half-teasing, half-serious words as they’d prepared for their last night out together: Would you have said yes? Words that had made her stomach flip, but which now felt like a memory belonging to someone else entirely. Someone who’d made different choices.
I said yes to the moon…at the expense of the pearl.
With a sigh, Erina pulled the curtains closed on the moon, placed her necklace gently on her nightstand, and collapsed into bed. She needed to put these thoughts aside before sleep.
Tomorrow was going to be another long day.