Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
The waitress bowed deeply, then stepped aside to reveal a sleek black cart that glided soundlessly behind her—six covered trays, each shaped like a shallow bowl of obsidian.
Beneath their lids, I knew without a doubt that something magical awaited.
The chef lifted the first lid.
A fine mist of cold fog curled into the night air.
Wow.
Inside were paper-thin slices of fish, glistening over a bed of crushed ice. The cuts were so delicate I could see light pass through the edges.
They were arranged like glittering silver scales, draped across a frozen koi fish, sculpted entirely from ice.
The chef gestured. “This is madai, Japanese sea bream.”
I peered closer.
“This is a traditional fish for celebration. It is symbolic of joy and transformation.” The chef held up two fingers. “It is also aged for two days to deepen its flavor and served with yuzu kosho, a spicy citrus paste, and freshly grated hon-wasabi, which comes from a farm in Shizuoka.”
I blinked, completely speechless.
He continued, “the sculpture beneath is yuzu ice, shaped as a koi. In legend, koi swim upstream and if they succeed, they become dragons. Therefore, this dish is a symbol of perseverance and ascension.”
For a second, I could see it.
A small koi, golden and red, shimmering like a flame in water fighting its way up a rushing stream. Pebbles rattled beneath the surface. White spray blurred its vision. But the koi didn’t stop. It climbed the water like a force of nature, breaking through the crest of the current and then suddenly rising in the air.
It shifted.
Scales lengthened into armor. Gills flared and vanished. Wings burst from its sides. The koi roared, no longer fish but flame, and took to the sky.
A dragon.
I smiled so hard my cheeks ached. “I love this. I have never heard the legend about koi either.”
The chef appeared quite pleased with himself.
Kenji grabbed his chopsticks, broke off a piece first, and dipped it lightly into the sauce before lifting it to his mouth.
“Mmm,” he groaned. Then, without looking at the chef, he reached for another slice, carefully cradled it between his chopsticks and leaned across the table toward me. “Try this.”
I froze.
He was feeding me.
Not playfully.
Not teasingly.
But with this utter smoothness that made my heart catch. Like he was offering a secret. Or sealing a vow.
I opened my mouth.
He placed the fish on my tongue.
It was cold at first. Silky. Then, citrus heat bloomed on the edges. The umami hit next—deep and rich, whispering of ocean, flame, and legends older than language.
I let out a quiet moan.
Kenji’s eyes darkened and his lips curved, just slightly.
God.
Even more I knew for sure that this man didn’t do anything without intention. Not one gesture or glance. Which meant. . . feeding me like that wasn’t just about taste. It was about claiming me. About testing how close he could get to my mouth, how soon I’d let myself become his.
And I had.
I was melting faster than the ice under that sashimi.
Or is this all in my mind?
“I am glad that you both are pleased,” the chef bowed again, then lifted the lid on the next tray.
I grabbed my chopsticks.
A sudden wisp of smoke rose into the air—earthy, warm, and aromatic. The dish sat on a square cedar board, over which hovered a delicate glass dome. Inside were glistening pieces of sushi.
“This is binchō-tan smoked toro,” he said. “That’s fatty tuna belly—very prized in Japan. It’s lightly torched, then enclosed in this dome to capture the smoke from binchō-tan, a type of white charcoal made from Japanese oak. The rice is seasoned with red vinegar and the garnish is pickled daikon radish and cherry blossom petals.”
Oh wow.
The aroma hit—wood, salt, and fat.
I picked the sushi up with my chopsticks, took a bite, and had to close my eyes.
Fire and flesh.
Melted fat coating the tongue.
The rice gave just enough resistance.
The seaweed snapped softly at the finish.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t need to.
Holy fuck. I may ditch Kenji and run off with the chef.
I chuckled at the thought.
The third course came covered in golden lacquered ceramic, which the chef removed with a gentle nod. Inside was a rich arrangement of deep pink duck breast slices, fanned across a plate streaked with amber.
“This is matcha-smoked duck, paired with roasted satsumaimo—a Japanese sweet potato—and finished with kuroshio black sea salt and fresh truffle shavings,” he opened a small silver tin and used a blade to curl thin slices of truffle right at the table, the earthy scent curling into the night.
Now this is the fucking life.
The chef dropped way more slices of truffle onto the duck than I was ever accustomed to with my meager budget, “the bitterness of the green tea smoke against the sweetness of the potato is meant to reflect the balance of strength and softness. Masculine and feminine in harmony.”
Seconds later, I grabbed a truffle-covered slice of duck and took a bite. It was just that harmonious balance he talked about—smoky, sweet, a little bitter, salty. Somehow rich and clean all at once.