A/N: The patience of a saint, I crown thee, Beans!!! ;v; Thank you for waiting. This chapter is about 6k words long and does feature two perspective shifts (Vanilla, Leroy) because I decided to shift a scene forward into this chapter instead of writing it into the next. I've been taking longer to write my skeletons because they now span four-five chapters at a go instead of just one due to my wannnderinggg imagination. Thus! I apologize ;-; 

You may also have noticed the new book cover and hehe, that is because I'm in the midst of preparing the manuscript of publishing Wax's first book (third book of the Taste series since Vanilla was split into two). I'm hoping to make it before Christmas comes around so that I could do a giveaway that's in time for the festive season <3 

Again, thank you for waiting. Enjoy the fire and ice. 

____________________ 

[Vanilla]

To crave chicken at a time like this was to commit a crime.

Leroy and I had slept in our respective, separate rooms on separate floors the night before and I'd woken up after eight perfect hours of sleep to a colder, roomier bed with just Leo by my side. We'd spent about an hour at Shin's family home before heading back to the hotel for some proper rest. Needless to say, the state of my back had seen little improvement and I'd experienced quite enough embarrassment when little Kanna noticed me wincing in pain while we were heading upstairs to her room for a tour. Her very next instinct had been to support my elbow like I was an old man crossing the street with groceries and a bad back.

Not far. Not far from the truth at all.

And thus, eight hours of sleep on a spacious comfy bed was very much welcome and though the very cause of my grievances had so kindly offered his self-proclaimed, professional hands up for service (a back massage), I had no other choice but to refuse.

"Why not?" He looked like a lion who'd been refused his favorite toy. If lions had favorite toys. "I won't do anything. Promise."

"That... it's not..." I attempted to piece words together for an explanation. In all truth and honesty, it wasn't Leroy I was worried about, per se. As a human being myself—albeit warped with a body temperature that resembled some cold-blooded creature—I wouldn't necessarily rule out all possibilities of e-excitement under the fingers of a criminal I fancied. Having his hands on my bare back was bound to... incite traces of heat.

He laughed, so I assumed he understood perfectly well what I meant and therefore retreated to his room on the floor below without another complaint, but not before kissing me goodnight.

This phase of ours was awful. Terrifying.

A heart so hopelessly charmed felt like it could only belong to species of the past; teenaged years of youth, vigor and passion I'd otherwise happily dismissed over the years. At the very least, I was wholly aware of the rosy tint my glasses seemed to adopt in his presence, except taking them off did nothing to the shade of the world and by god, pink was not the color I wished to view everything else in.

The spell was similar to the feeling of nostalgia. Partly because Leroy had been a constant throughout my childhood and teenaged years alike and while the taste of nostalgia would no doubt vary across individuals, what else could it taste like to me but spice and warmth—crisp, fried exterior peppered in cayenne, golden brown with a touch of red, chicken so disarmingly tender on the inside bursting with flavor. Just like his mother used to make them.

To Leroy, however, I suppose nostalgia tasted of something sweet. I'd have to ask.

This was enough to will me away from the comfort of my covers and start my day with a pill for hangovers, making plans to stop by his room downstairs to hand him a pack just in case. I filled Leo's food and water bowl before glanced out of the window for a quick weather check, only to realize it had been drizzling all night and the sky was less than optimal for shooting outdoors. Giving the notifications on my phone a quick swipe confirmed cancelled plans, replaced by impromptu Japanese lessons our fixers would be conducting in one of the conference rooms of the hotel.

The rain was forecasted to last the entire morning till three in the afternoon; this proved to be true. Unfortunately, such weather conditions made waking a sleeping lion in his cozy den of a hotel bed the most arduous task. I'd brought Leo over to keep Chicken company (and vice versa) along with the pack of hangover pills with the intention of getting the idiot out of bed and ready for the day in ten minutes flat but ended up missing the entire two-hour-long breakfast buffet duration for a box of Japanese snacks Chef Yamazaki and his wife had given us the night before. In bed.

This was all Leroy's fault. The weather played a minor role in the uncharacteristic act of breakfast in bed (snacks, moreover) but it was largely due to his influence that I'd been reduced to a mere... mere semblance of a potato.

Between very informative sessions of useful Japanese phrases and culinary terms, the new schedule was introduced. The introduction stage of the team challenge was to be held in the evening in front of Shinjuku's Omoide Yokocho, and the morning after would be spent preparing for their stall takeover that night—including ingredient-sourcing and mise en place. Basically, the rain had shifted the production schedule backwards by a couple of hours and thankfully, arrangements had been made to accommodate this wet-weather plan.

Pao's nose was not having it. We stood out in the open with umbrellas over our heads, braving the rain that had over the past hour or so gradually reduced to a drizzle deemed safe enough for cameras and boom microphones to operate in. My personal discomfort was nothing compared to the crew's; assistants were running around without an umbrella from shelter to shelter in front of the shooting location, fixing our sound boxes, taping up our lavelier mics, supplying Pao with boxes of tissue.

I caught a certain criminal's eye before Stan called for our first take, watching him muse from under his translucent umbrella and return my gaze with a spark of his own. The toque blanche brooch pinned to the lapel of his chef's jacket peaked out underneath the fur lining his parka. Come to think of it, this was going to be the first challenge he'd actually get to enjoy an advantage in.

"For this team challenge—'tchoo—! We are in Shinjuku's Omoide Yokocho, Memory Lane," Pao opened with an earth-quaking sneeze. "One of Tokyo's most famous streets lined with izakaya's and the best of bar food. Pairs will... tchoo... take over... an izakaya stall of their choice, learn the menu, and come up with three alleyway-inspired dishes for local regulars."

I turned to my fellow counterpart with a look of concern. He pressed on.

"But here is... the catch. No, it's okay Banilla I can do this thank you," he paused midway to say, swiping at the tissue box Amelia held out to him and blowing his nose. "You can cut that out. So here is the catch: the number of chefs, as you can see, is now an odd number. So one person... must cook alone."

Cooking alone—without an assistant on stand-by or in the same grill space—was perhaps the closest one could get to experiencing the Japanese yokocho scene as a chef. Customers were mostly capped at six to eight at a time in the dense, compact space, depending on the size of the grill and the number of counter seats that could surround it. Often leading to a rather unique relationship between chef and guest; one that felt a whole lot more private and personal. After all, it wasn't every day that one could see the face of the person preparing their meal in a restaurant.

It was not uncommon for a single person to own a store down the lane and also be its only manager, chef, and server all at the same time, prepping every single ingredient in their mise en place in the afternoon for a busy evening.

This however, did not come naturally to chefs based in production kitchens throughout their entire culinary journey. Even for the lone wolves, manning a stall on their own on a busy night in one of Tokyo's most well-known izakaya lanes was no walk in the park.

"As the chef behind the winning dish of the previous challenge, Chef Cox will be granted the privilege of choosing the one partner he wishes to cook with first." I watched my words turn the corners of his lips upward and knew, at once, the single response running around inside his head. "Pick wisely, Mr. Cox. Every stall will receive an overall rating derived from a proportion of customer ratings and that of the judging panel. The chefs who receive the highest rating will attend a private masterclass about Japanese cuisine unlike the other teams."

And so everyone exchanged a look.

It was apparent that Leroy was going to be a hot pick among the contestants. He'd proved himself on the yacht in Bali and delivered unexpected results in every individual component, lying in wait until the very moment sparks could turn into flames; a moment he could call his.

Amelia had to hazard a guess under her breath. "Saito with his knowledge of Japanese cuisine would put them both in a good spot. Pierson might be another decent pick; he's been glancing over at Cox the entire time."

"I'll go alone." The idiot proceeded to meet every expectation of mine with the very words I'd foreseen. Admittedly not as brusque, but then again it had slipped my mind the kind of jungle species we were dealing with.

"Ay, that's my boy," Pao all but giggled, rubbing his hands together in glee. "You should have heard Amelia. 'This chef has the knowledge of this, that chef would that, something something good spot.' I knew you—'atchoo—like challenge. Everyone else, spend the next five minutes, think carefully. Get into your pairs. Go!"

No one moved.

It was the all-too-familiar, brief moment of waiting for anyone else down the row to make the first move. Alas, Layla Tenner headed straight for Chef Du Bellay to extend her hand, which the latter accepted. The others picked up the pace right after, crossing the room and turning to the contestants beside them, making beeline for anyone who wasn't Andre which had myself feeling... slightly sympathetic, frankly.

In fact, he ended up turning to the only chef beside him who seemed far too distraught to turn down his offer—Maple Pierson, an unexpected victim. Truth to be told, it had been equally obvious to Amelia as it had been to myself; the pastry chef had been giving Leroy hopeful glances all evening. His disappointment did not come as a surprise.

"Alright then, now that we're in pairs," Amelia produced six colored sashes of three shades: red, yellow, and blue. "Each team will now pick their very own advisor—each can only be picked twice—who will assist in the planning, ideation, and preparation stage of the challenge up till execution. Your options? Us three."

"Pao's teams are red. Vanilla's are blue. And mine, yellow." She held them out, beckoning to Leroy. "And of course, our winner... gets another advantage."

The first thing he did was look me in the eye.

Of course he would. Not long till he goes up to Amelia all whilst holding my gaze and reaching for blue to have that tied around his bicep because why not? Leroy Cox was so predictable in this very instance that I could practically map out his future influenced by poor decision-making, compounded by the sheer tomfoolery of his mind and actions, there was simply no—

"Red! Pao it is."

"Oo my god, almost had a heart attack my boy."

I blinked.

A smirk singed the corners of his lips and I was aghast. "That's not blue."

"I know," he had the audacity to confirm, criminally electric. The look in his eyes was a flame I was all of a sudden, dying to challenge. There was no describing the disbelief and betrayal that stirred in my chest, the rumble of an avalanche, due.

It took every cell in my body not to smile.

"Aw Banilla," Pao reached over, resting his hand on my shoulder in a humorous attempt to tease. "I steal your man. I know. I think I'm too handsome sometimes. But it's okay, there's always next time."

"I'm afraid I can't disagree, Pao. You are incredibly dashing," I gave my glasses a quick fix, adrenaline pounding in my ears. "And one cannot possibly feel anything but thrilled going up against a team of charming young gentlemen."

Five sashes remained; one red, two blue, two yellow. The other chefs watched while Leroy stood by and knotted the sash around his upper arm, responding in a manner that was pretty much anticipated by the production team. No doubts, Pao and Amelia's colors were going to be the hot pick. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if two blues ended up being the only remaining sashes for the unlucky two teams picking last.

"Your advantage doesn't end here, chef," Amelia smiled wryly, almost cruel at the rate she was going. "You get to pick which team chooses next."

There was a resounding echo of disbelief on the street and passersby turned to look, albeit already curious about the cameras and makeshift set. Leroy did not seem to have expected more than the cards he'd already had in his hand. He dealt the next move rather swiftly, playing like the criminal I knew.

"Tenner."

Layla's gaze shot straight up on instinct, head shaking with an exasperated smile on her face. Pao was shaking in his boots. Fashionably so.

"Ay but why? Chef Tenner is strong competition. You will regret if you look down on her my boy."

"That's not it, Pao," Layla headed straight for Amelia who had the colored sashes splayed out, laughing as she did. "Save your breath. I've known Cox for years and he's never changed; loves singling out a challenge... the bigger the better. If anything, it's a compliment. He sees me and Antoinette as the strongest duo so... I'll have to pick blue."

She reached for my color in the boldest, most brazen move any chef could make against Leroy, daring a smile his way before joining Chef Du Bellay on the side. "After all, Mr. White would know best."

Alas, Layla was right. Leroy was in for the cold and I pitied those who'd end up as collateral damage among us three living in a time of the pleasant past, where all that mattered were praise and grades. And here I was, thinking I'd remain the last pick in a draft. Everyone else after Layla's team had been gracious in their decisions, hesitating between us three and some of them appearing rather apologetic. Chef Garland's team—the one other pair I was to advise—had picked up my color as soon as she was given the opportunity.

"Five minutes!"

There was an unexpected call for cut from the production team followed by the immediate announcement of a break before Stan came right up to the judges with Siegfried in tow, papers in hand.

"Will Carter's here. The guest judge. There's been some miscommunication going around and he ended up with the old schedule instead so he's a day early. The plan is to double back on script three and shoot his intro now." "Now?" "Carter's literally five minutes away. He's got his whole team with him." "... well, alright then. Pao? Vanilla?" "These things happen." "Ay okay fine but make it quick, my nose is not good."

"Places!"

I'd all but wiped my memory clean of the previous script to store the new version this very morning, and needless to say, the sudden change of plans had me slightly anxious. The identity of said guest did not matter very much, per se. I simply did not do well with scripted words.

When Amelia announced the arrival of Will Carter, we were expecting him to appear from the sheltered area where half the production crew were seated, away from the main road situated some fifty feet behind the cast looking up at us expectantly but lo and behold, just like the star he was, Chef Carter pulled up in a grand limousine for an entrance like no other.

"Good evening, ladies and gentleman."

Heads turned. It seemed almost impossible to register his presence in a single glance. People like Will Carter needed double, triple takes. After all, he was, first and foremost, a Hollywood star.

"Will Carter?" Even Andre could not contain his surprise and confusion from being graced by the very face on blockbuster posters and billboards alike. Understandably so. In fact, I'd shared this very sentiment of surprise myself upon reading the list of guest judges invited onto the show some weeks prior to our first flight to Italy.

The man had starred in box office hits Janes Pond, Fast and Foolish, Mansion Impossible, War and Revolution, Transfirmers and the like. Movies I'd never seen and wasn't even sure I'd gotten the names right.

Not to be a part of the human species with the tendency to judge one by their roots (after all, Leroy himself never quite accepted or even received the title of 'chef' in his lifetime of cooking apart from, well, being a mystery chef), but Carter was neither Japanese nor a longtime chef. The man was more widely known as the 'billionaire restaurant owner' of a Japanese omakase place in New York more than a year old.

Little was known about Carter's role in the restaurant. Was he the head chef? Did he cook, personally? Did he speak any Japanese at all? Such questions were never answered in his interviews with culinary journals on his PR list. Clearly, GLACE was not one of them.

"Welcome to Japan, folks. How do you like my second home?" Chef Carter flashed a charming smile across the row of chefs up front, joining us three on the elevated platform after giving Pao a good-natured hug. Amelia and I received handshakes. "You're in for a treat today. Izakayas are my favorite part of Japanese cuisine and taking over one for the night is a perfect way to get you guys started on a huge part of our night life."

Hm. I'd paused. Our?

"Tonight, each pair will be tasked to come up with three izakaya dishes to be served at their stall. Tonight's guests are regulars of Memory Lane—salarymen stopping by after work for a drink; friends hanging out after a day of classes at the university nearby; couples out on a date. They will be expecting: one chicken dish, one tempura agemono, and a dish incorporating seafood."

I figured he might've misspoken. That, or half his family was Japanese and I, living under a rock, had missed this information entirely.

"Basic ingredients like flour, eggs, and rice are available to each and every stall. You will be given some time to think about your menu for the evening and consult your... knowledgeable advisors," he gestured our way with a charismatic wave, "before setting out to local markets where head chefs themselves shop at for the freshest ingredients. How's that sound?"

Or perhaps Carter had spent his childhood or teenaged years here before moving across the world to Los Angeles. A common narrative. Must've been the case.

Either way, his presence had an undeniable ability to liven up the set and the combination of Pao and him altogether made for prime TV personality. In a way, I could see how every host could find the addition of natural charisma relieving, an aura honed from years of professional training and PR stunts.

No further introduction of Carter was needed, or so the script had determined beforehand, (perhaps left up to the guest judge's personal interview instead) and the teams were directed to their respective stalls after a brief show of excitement. Director Stan called for cut and the camera crew proceeded to review takes while sound continued rolling at Siegfried's request.

Curious what Du Bellay and Layla might have come up with, I decided to pay them a visit at their allotted stall.

___________________

[Leroy]

The space had the spirit of a root. The kind that's been in the ground for ages and braved every wave of rain and erosion, knowing it was here to stay. That was what the small, compact space felt like.

Like it had been here for years and years to serve its sole master and purpose; magic late into the night, skewers on the grill, smoke in the air. Seven seats around the counter. Conversations, back and forth.

I stood behind the grill, leaning against the counter and letting the space work its way into my head. Ideas began to form.

"Leroy! I come to advise. Haha—'tchoo—bless me. So, have you thought of a menu?" Pao blew his nose, heading over from the stall across mine and shaking off every sneeze like a true middle-aged uncle. "I hear you make good chicken."

"I do," I wasn't afraid to admit, laughing. "You tasted some back in London."

"Ay yes. The braised chicken that remind me of adobo. You thinking of that again?" "Not really. Doesn't seem like it'd work here. At an izakaya." "You are correct my boy. So what about fried chicken? You are the mystery chef. I heard many things about your fried chicken special." "I could. But it'd be safe." "Oo... and safe is not what we want to be ay." "You know me." "Ob course." "Any suggestions?" "We go for balance. Order is important. Grilled. Fried. Fresh. What do you think of sashimi?" "Hamachi. Japanese amberjack." "A challenge. But yes, sweet, delicate, firm texture... I can see it at izakaya. Good. What's the story?" "Story?"

"Ay my boy. To stand out, you need a story," Pao laughed, making himself comfortable at the left-most counter seat. "One of the dishes, at least. One nice story. Can be funny. Can be sweet. Can be sad."

I fed the thought that bloomed before our conversation. Giving it some meat. "I like a calamari. Came up with this on the fly a couple of years back, over a phone call."

"Oo. Special call?" Pao shot a devious look and I snorted.

"Maybe."

"Ay! Youth."

"So it's a tempura-batter calamari," I told him. "Fried squid. Paired with a creamed shishito pepper dip. Some lime for acidity. Aonori in the batter. Great with a drink."

"I love it. Shishito with the kick—perfect after the chicken dish. But if you still thinking about the sashimi, then we go with sashimi first, chicken next, then calamari. End it with the story. Ay but Leroy, I want to hear more than just 'phone call, cute cute' later, okay? Where is the juice? The meat? Details please."

I laughed. Pao patted the counter and got up, ready to head elsewhere but a couple of cameras showed up, tailing the new guest judge as though on cue. Carter spared no effort on the greeting, going straight up to Pao with the classic clap on the back, smiles and all, topped with a nickname I assumed he'd given him sometime during their friendship. Big P.

No judgement. At least I tried.

"And you." He got chummy real quick, grabbing my head which had me pulling back on instinct and nearly giving him an uppercut. "Leroy Cox. The real thing, eh."

"... yeah." I forced his arm downward and got his hand into a shake, locking it in place under the guise of standard social protocol. Dude had a ton of cameras following him around for some reason. And a boom mic. "Nice meeting you."

"Likewise. Now! Let's hear what you've got. My money's on you guys, by the way. Don't disappoint me." He seemed to have expected a response to the humor he dropped, which Pao gave in a heartbeat thanks to his high emotional intelligence.

"Ay Will, you're too kind. I'll let Leroy tell you what he's got on his mind for the night."

I laid out the menu in my head as simply as I could. Nothing too elaborate. Zero intention to impress.

Gotta admit, I was never really one for the movies but I did catch the guy's face on billboards around the city while the crew was out running calls and putting out fires on the daily. He seemed okay.

"That menu is music to my ears. Haven't even tasted it and already, I love it. Sold. Great ideas," he emphasized, then lowered his voice and leaned over the counter. "Way better than whatever the stall across yours has got going on."

Huh. I didn't think much of what he said, mostly because I knew he was neck-deep in showbiz and entertainment ran in his veins but something sounded off. Even Pao needed some rebooting.

"Oo woah woah... haha, ay Will... this is the ideation stage you know. A lot can change."

"Yeah but this one's got it," Carter's arm was on my shoulder the next second and I straight up ducked out of frame. "Has this in the bag."

"Guess you haven't seen the other menus." I stared, zero idea what he had going on in his head. "And I'd give Pao some credit."

"Not saying he doesn't deserve any credit, Chef Cox." Carter backed off, squaring his shoulders and smiling like he hadn't just pissed over a menu without tasting it. "Sometimes, you just know a winner when you see one."

? Dude got me confused.

"Anyway, love the sashimi. You guys should head on over to Tsukiji's Inner Market. Best tuna. Premium seafood. If you stop by Sawada's, say hi to him for me. While you're there, grab a bite over at the Outer Market. World's best tamagoyaki. You're gonna love it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist and turned over his shoulder to give the camera crew a cue. "Alright folks, I'll leave you two to it. Got places to go, people to see. Good chat."

Pao nodded, flashing the guest judge a smile. We stared after his receding back till he and his crew turned the corner. No words. My advisor gave me a look that might have meant 'well fuck'. It was hard to believe someone like Pao would have names in a black book.

"Tsukiji's still around?" I asked.

"No, not the inner market, no," Pao confirmed my suspicions, shrugging with a smile. "That one long time ago. Now they move somewhere else. The tuna auctions and stuff? Gone."

"... sounds like news to Carter."

"HA! He's... a character." Pao pursed his lips and nodded toward the entrance, in the direction his crew had left. "Easy to get along with on the surface. And then you actually listen to what he's saying and you realize—ay, this guy not so nice."

Recalling the words he'd thrown around earlier about the stall across mine, I stared past the entrance less than twenty feet away and directly into the person standing behind the countertop grill, expecting to see Andre.

No. It was Du Bellay with her back facing me and Pao, hunched over the grill before Layla joined her to check on something. Their voices were faint, but you could tell they were chatting. Neither were in a bad mood. No sign of their advisor.

Knowing Carter was referring to Du Bellay and Layla—the only duo I saw as real competition, not gonna lie—all along made me pause. This included the one other genius they'd recruited on their team. If anything, these were the people set on winning it all. Pao would agree.

__________________________

[Vanilla]

I was in the middle of witnessing what one would call fangirling.

"I used to have a poster of every movie he starred in. Framed. The money I spent on collecting Blu-rays that came with behind-the-scenes footage and interviews too. My mother always had something to say about my posters, by the way. That it wasn't good having 'eyes staring at me while I was asleep' which was dumb, of course. You think he'd sign my card?"

Layla had her business card and pen at ready, having fawned over Chef Carter since arriving at her assigned stall without the scrutiny of cameras. Chef Du Bellay played along, nodding every now and then whilst giving the cooking equipment a quick survey.

"He looks even better in person! A ten, I think. Nillie, what would you rate him?"

"Me?" I blinked, caught slightly off guard—pen hovering over the notebook which I intended to fill with notes for the teams I were to advise. "Well um. I don't know. Frankly, I've only ever given dishes and ingredients a rating."

"There's always a first," Chef Du Bellay turned my way with a rare smile. "That menu of ours came together within five minutes flat thanks to your advice. You know our strengths and weaknesses like the back of your hand. I'd be curious about your opinion on humans as much as your thoughts on food."

Well then, Chef Du Bellay, I'd like to declare your fiancé a two! Was what I would have liked to express but without a moment's notice, some three, four cameras and a sound crew came into view headed by the one and only man of the hour. Will Carter.

In seconds, he'd greeted the room with a charming smile and extended a hand toward a shell-shocked Layla standing several feet away from the entrance by complete coincidence. "How is everyone doing this fine evening? Are we ready for a challenge?"

"Y—of course, Chef Carter. We were just talking about you! I watch all your movies."

"Looks like we have a fan." The guest judge appeared pleased by Layla's enthusiasm, giving her hand a firm shake before reaching into his back pocket for a pen. "Would you like an autograph?"

"Yes! Yes please, I was going to ask." She handed him the business card she'd pulled out earlier, pointing at the blank spot. "I'm Layla Tenner."

"Layla. I heard about your restaurant in Portugal... three Michelin stars at your age is incredible," he lauded with another charming smile of his before turning his attention to Chef Du Bellay next. "Then you must be Siegfried's sous chef. I remember dining at Arpège's some six, seven years ago... you look different."

The chef he addressed stepped away from the counter, holding out her hand in the very same fashion she had done the night we were introduced. "Antoinette Du Bellay. I've been hearing about your achievements, Chef Carter."

Carter appeared to pause at the hand presented to him, the back of it facing upwards in a gentle, elegant manner. The charismatic ego in his eyes vanished briefly before its return. "Yes. Antoinette... how could I forget?" He kissed her hand. "I see we have a team of two unbeatable ladies."

"You're forgetting our unbeatable genius," Chef Du Bellay directed Carter's attention my way, stepping back behind the counter and removing herself from the spotlight. "Mr. White. Head critic of the best and only culinary journal I enjoy nowadays. We came up with a perfect menu under five minutes all thanks to him."

His response to this was not something I'd anticipated, having witnessed the mountains of charisma and lengths Carter had gone to appease and win the hearts of those around him.

"...A critic, eh?" He snorted, smirking a little. "Let's see the menu then."

His words confused Layla and I. A look of bewildered amusement was exchanged.

"Here," Layla picked up a slip of paper torn out of my notebook that had the menu and necessary ingredients listed out, accompanied by unsightly sketches of each dish. "Antoinette and I laid out some rough boundaries of what we'd like to cook and Vanilla narrowed that down to a couple of unique dishes with a twist after factoring in things like our strengths and his knowledge of the cuisine. Which was very impressive."

Not untrue.

It was very kind of Layla to put all credit on display instead of opting for something more ambiguous; she and Du Bellay would not doubt benefit from demonstrating greater control over something as important as menu design (or even be penalized for relying on the advice of a third party but, well, last I checked, there weren't any rules about that). Still, the look in Carter's eyes did not show a hint of understanding.

"I see..." he hummed, scanning the handwritten words in the blink of an eye before handing it back to Layla. "Listen, I'm getting some huge issues here—a lot of this doesn't make any sense. Sorry to say, but none of this... excites me. Sure, it works for any other restaurant down the street anywhere else in the world but this is Tokyo, folks. I expected more from top-tier chefs in the heart of Asian culture and cuisine. Now I'm not saying you have to take my word for it but as the owner of a big omakase restaurant in New York... I'm saying you have to take my word for it. Haha!"

The three of us stood stock still before this man, staring at him in complete and utter disbelief. Layla glanced back down at the menu in her hands, gaze fixed on the words as though convinced they hadn't actually read the same thing. Her mouth opened and closed twice.

"You're saying 'shiso butter grilled scallop shells garnished with yuzu pepper crisps', 'curry-spiced negima yakitori in lemon-roasted sea salt' and 'Okinawan salted mozuku seaweed and sweet potato tempura kakiage' is... boring." She had to confirm.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a sigh. "Yes, unfortunately. I've heard of these flavors—they're overdone, Chef Tenner. I suggest doing more research and looking at what locals actually consider special. At this rate, we're going to be wasting the potential of two great chefs."

I did not speak. In fact I wasn't even sure Chef Carter was worth any words or a single breath of common sense after dropping the most vague and confusing criticism I'd ever heard anyone say in a professional setting. To think one of the world's most beloved Hollywood stars was nothing more than an uninformed git... and, well, to witness that would no doubt cause some shock to anyone.

Carter announced his departure as abruptly as his entrance, leaving no opportunity for any hope of an elaborate account of his critique. One could almost hear the number of blinks shared between Du Bellay, Layla, and myself—three frozen ice cubes staring after his receding figure.

"On second thought," Layla held up the autographed business card, tearing it right down the middle without batting an eyelash. "He's a two."

The silence broke into comforting laughter and I was at once relieved from the tension weighing upon my shoulders. We sat around the counter, running through the menu once more.

"We could go a step further and turn the kakiage into an agedashi tofu for a more technical recipe," I raised alternatives as soon as we began the discussion, wishing to remain rational and objective. "But of course, we'd have to be giving up the mozuku which is a very special ingredient you don't see very often in—"

"I don't think Carter really knows what he's talking about." Layla looked up from the notes I'd been writing, furrowing her brows and presenting the screen of her phone. "None of these recipes are done up online. Even if you search them in Japanese."

"Professionally speaking, the dishes go well together, conceptually and flavor-wise." Antoinette said quietly, turning to the izakaya's grill top. "In terms of technique, it strikes a balance between the precision required in prep and over the flame. Speaking from twenty-odd-years of experience as a chef, I don't see why this isn't a winning menu. This is as objective as it gets."

Layla snorted a laugh. "...you know what, forget it. Let's stick to the original plan. Carter must've been high on showbiz... he's going to hate us for pulling this off. We win this, he's never getting invited to another culinary show."

"I must admit, all that faith you place in the menu is incredibly flattering but alas," I adjusted the frames of my glasses with a smile that chilled. "I'm just dying to put Leroy in his place."