It is said that after the once-invincible Spanish Armada was defeated by England, King Philip III issued a decree to control the increasingly excessive drinking of soldiers and sailors. The law required taverns to serve snacks with alcohol. In response, Spanish tavern owners invented tapas—small dishes served with drinks, typically involving bread drizzled with olive oil and topped with Spanish ham.
In translation, it means: Tapas!
The moment Momo laid eyes on Zane's tapas, she was stunned by the sheer artistry behind them. Every piece looked like a miniature sculpture—carefully shaped, brilliantly colored, and so delicate they felt more like art than food. With just a single bite, flavors bloomed across her tongue: savory, nutty, slightly acidic, then mellowed out by the rich umami of the jamón ibérico.
And when paired with the tavern's house-brewed chrysanthemum soju, the layers of taste multiplied tenfold. The floral bitterness of the drink mellowed the saltiness of the ham, while the olive oil provided a silky finish. It was, in a word, perfect.
Tapas are the model guests of a restaurant's menu—always prepared, always dazzling. Because they are served immediately with alcohol, they must be made from fresh, reliable, and easy-to-handle ingredients. Anything fragile, overly wet, or structurally unstable simply won't do. The highest-quality tapas, like those Zane served, adhered strictly to tradition: bite-sized, easily held between two fingers, elegant in form yet rich in depth.
"Finished already?"
Momo blinked, suddenly aware that her plate was empty. Her chopsticks hovered in the air, hesitating as if hoping one more bite might magically appear.
"It's a bit small…"
Swallowing, she muttered under her breath, "If only I could've made dishes like this back then… I wouldn't have lost so badly."
Her words were quiet, but tinged with both bitterness and awe. The taste had jolted her memory—those painful days of defeat still etched into her pride.
In the original storyline, the elite students at Totsuki Academy, even without realizing it, catered to the demands of the upper class. Their cooking styles reflected not just talent, but the privilege and resources that allowed them to perfect such art.
Why did Erina insist on high-class cuisine from the start?
Because the world she belonged to—wealthy, refined, elitist—had the luxury of enjoying it. Her sense of taste was shaped by the finest ingredients and the most exacting standards. It wasn't arrogance—it was inheritance. And the same pattern echoed throughout the academy.
First Seat Eishi Tsukasa's French cuisine required premium ingredients and intense precision, elevating the cost of every dish. Second Seat Rindō focused on rare, even dangerous, ingredients—expensive by nature. Fourth Seat Momo's desserts were adorned with imported chocolates and edible gold. Fifth Seat Satoshi's sushi was molded by centuries of tradition and top-tier seafood. Even Sixth Seat Nene's conservative soba, while simple in presentation, was rooted in noble heritage.
And then there was Eighth Seat Eizan Etsuya—driven by profit, wielding cuisine like a corporate weapon.
In contrast, those who resisted Azami Nakiri's reforms—Kuga, Isshiki, and Tosuke—all stood for food of the common people. Their cooking philosophies, though grounded in skill, rejected the elitist mentality.
In truth, the conflict at Totsuki was never just about food. It was about class. About whose voice would define the culinary world. A conflict never explicitly named in the manga—but always there.
From Mana's perspective, none of it mattered.
High-class or commoner cuisine—if it couldn't please her God Tongue, it was meaningless.
She had grown weary of the endless Shokugekis, the self-serving ambitions of the Elite Ten, the hollow pursuit of status. What she wanted was something greater: a spark. A sign that cuisine could transcend all of that.
And that spark… was Zane.
His dishes awakened her palate. They weren't confined by class, culture, or tradition. They were alive.
She had once planned to support underground chefs in secret—chefs who rejected mainstream culinary norms—but now, Zane gave her hope that true change could come from the surface. That a new culinary era could emerge not from rebellion, but from evolution.
So she accelerated the timeline.
The late-night chef incident, originally meant to unfold later, was brought forward under her orchestration. A strategic gamble to shake the culinary world awake.
"Looking back… it's ridiculous."
Momo lowered her eyes, her voice soft.
"I used to fight for every scrap of recognition at Totsuki. I believed hard work would always pay off. But now… I see how naïve I was. Against those underground chefs, everything I stood for crumbled like sugar in rain."
Her eyes moved toward Zane.
"A new era… A new leader… Is it about to come?"
"In the future, chefs won't argue about high-class or commoner cuisine, nor about traditional vs. molecular gastronomy. Instead, the world will split in two. Those who still cling to old rules… and those who redefine them."
Her fingers curled into fists.
"Is it you, Zane?"
"The one who will defeat the underground chefs, unite the culinary world, and lead us forward?"
The tavern bustled with warmth and laughter. Sonoka, apron tied tightly, moved through the crowd with practiced ease—carrying trays, greeting guests, pouring drinks. But Momo couldn't help feeling annoyed every time she saw her.
She had once graduated from Totsuki. Her restaurant, Shunkatei, was even certified with a WGO star. And yet, here she was—wiping tables, fetching bowls, working like a common waitress.
Then it happened.
Carrying a steaming bowl of char siu rice, Sonoka lost her footing on a slick tile.
"Agh!"
In a flash, Momo darted forward and caught her arm, pulling her upright just before the bowl could fly from her hands.
"Tch. Can someone as clumsy as you even handle this?" Momo snapped.
"Thank you, Momo… if not for you, this would've spilled everywhere."
"You're still worried about the rice? Ugh, just give it to me."
Fuming, Momo grabbed the bowl and stomped off toward the customer.
"Momo, wait—that's my job, you don't have to—"
"What do you mean?" Momo interrupted, her voice sharp. "From now on, I'll handle serving dishes at the tavern."
Sonoka froze, eyes wide. "Huh?"
By midnight, the tavern had finally quieted down.
Zane, as usual, cooked a simple midnight snack with leftover ingredients. Just a light thank-you for Sonoka, Erina, and the surprisingly helpful Momo.
[Ding!]
[The host has successfully signed in.]
[Ding! Congratulations! You've received:
– Recipe for Kung Pao Chicken
– Special Recipe: Treasure Mountain Dragon Pot
– 5000g Bamboo Fungus
– 20 Porcini Mushrooms.]
Kung Pao Chicken.
A dish with countless versions across China—Sichuan, Guizhou, Shandong, Huaiyang—all with their own interpretations. What unified them were the core ingredients: diced chicken breast, roasted peanuts, chilies, and scallions. The contrast between tender meat, crunchy nuts, and searing heat defined the dish.
Some say its roots trace back to Ding Baozhen, Governor of Sichuan, during the Qing Dynasty. Wherever the truth lies, one thing is certain—it's a dish that represents both technique and adaptability.
Then there was the Treasure Mountain Dragon Pot—a rare paper-pot soup dish from Cooking Master Boy. It used physics to its advantage. Boiling water in paper? A trick of heat transfer and boiling points.
And inside the pot: lobster balls, bamboo fungus, porcini, and mountain delicacies simmered to perfection. The paper filtered out impurities while preserving the soul of the broth. A marvel of culinary science and showmanship.
Zane's eyes gleamed. "So when the system gives a recipe… it often includes the main ingredients too?"
That could be useful—very useful.
The night deepened, painting the city in ink and gold.
Zane stepped into the bathroom on the third floor, exhausted. Steam filled the air as he sank into the bath, hot water soothing his sore muscles.
His mind drifted.
Two months in this world… not too long, but long enough. He had built a new life here—one with freedom, food, and fascinating women who lit up the tavern each night.
Rindō with her wild grin.
Megumi with her quiet loyalty.
Erina with her thorned pride.
Mana with her fading hunger.
Sonoka with her ditzy charm.
And now even Momo, cold as ice, had shown warmth.
He had changed them.
And the world.
But the underground chef incident had reminded him: the story was diverging. He wasn't just living in the world of Shokugeki no Soma—he was rewriting it.
Was he ready?
Creak—
The bathroom door opened.
Zane sat up sharply, water dripping from his chest.
A figure stepped in, her silhouette glowing in the misty light. A thin bathrobe clung to her body, her eyes wide with hesitation.
"…Erina?"
She froze. "…You…"
Their eyes locked.
Steam rose between them, thick with tension.