Finding a favorite tavern in a bustling modern city isn't easy.
In the age of viral trends and short videos, once a small tavern becomes the talk of the town—thanks to a few well-filtered pictures and a 30-second food clip—it's quickly overrun. Locals vanish, replaced by waves of "check-in" influencers looking for the next hotspot. Quiet comfort is lost in the click of a camera shutter.
So for many, the idea of a steady, warm neighborhood tavern—where the scent of cooking mingles with familiar chatter, and regulars leave their worries at the door—feels like a relic of food movies, not reality.
But Zane's tavern is different.
Tucked away in a quieter part of the city, it resists the transience of trends. The menu is humble but hearty—designed not for photo ops, but for the soul. Dishes range from a perfect egg fried rice, cold tofu that melts like snow, to sake-steamed clams fragrant with umami. More elaborate fare like shumai, yakitori, and even fresh sashimi appears without fanfare, delivered within an hour with warmth and precision.
It's not fancy.
It's home.
…
Zane had just finished cleaning the full set of Sparrow's Rhythm utensils—a job he didn't rush. These tools had seen decades of stories, and he treated them with reverence. With the kitchen quiet, he leaned against the counter and glanced at two familiar figures still chatting at the far end of the tavern.
Erina Nakiri and her mother, Mana.
In the original story, their relationship had been anything but peaceful. Decades of wounds, misunderstandings, and pride had kept them apart. Arguments were their only common language.
But here, in this unassuming tavern, something had changed.
They talked. Really talked. About food, childhood memories, even trivial things like what kind of tea they preferred. While waves of customers came and went, the two of them remained seated, sharing quiet laughter under the soft glow of the hanging lantern.
"Heh," Zane muttered under his breath, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Didn't expect that… but good for them."
His moment of peace didn't last long.
The door jingled open, ushering in a new customer—a young man with a vibrant swagger. He was on the shorter side, hair dyed golden and styled like a rebellious firework, and walked with his hands behind his head as if he owned the street.
There was no mistaking him: Kuga Terunori, the fiery 8th seat of Totsuki's Elite Ten.
The moment he stepped in, his gaze zeroed in on Zane.
"You the owner?" he asked, eyebrows raised with a spark of challenge.
Zane nodded, raising an eyebrow. "That's me."
"Just as Miyoko said," Kuga mused, sizing Zane up. "You really do look like Eishi. Lucky bastard."
Then, without skipping a beat, he puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow. "Allow me to introduce myself: Kuga Terunori! Leader of Totsuki's Chinese Cuisine Research Society. Master of all things fiery and flavorful!"
"…Just the name is fine," Zane replied with a dry chuckle. This guy is even more theatrical than Soma ever was…
Still, Kuga wasn't all talk. Zane knew the young man had once challenged Eishi in front of the entire academy. Even though he was defeated 5-0, Kuga's boldness made waves. He wasn't just loud—he was gutsy.
Kuga cleared his throat. "So, I heard there's a rule here. Anything I want, you can make it?"
Zane gave a nod. "That's the tavern promise."
"And Miyoko… she said you were the real master of Chinese cuisine."
Zane blinked. "She said that?"
"I didn't buy it either," Kuga admitted. "But I came to see for myself. Make me… Kung Pao Chicken. Let's see what you've got."
Zane nodded once, then disappeared into the kitchen without another word.
…
A sharp, loud crow echoed from the underground storage room.
Kuga's eyes widened as Zane emerged with a live chicken tucked under his arm, its wings flapping in protest.
There was no hesitation in Zane's movements. With a red string, he tied the bird's legs, placed it gently—but firmly—on the chopping board, and ended its struggle with a swift motion of his knife. The entire process, from slaughter to cleaning, was carried out with the efficiency of a true professional.
Kuga was silent.
The butchering was done with surgical precision. Wings deboned, skin removed, thigh meat diced into perfectly uniform 1cm cubes in the blink of an eye. Zane's knife didn't just slice—it danced.
"…Damn. I didn't even see his hand move," Kuga muttered, stunned.
Next came the prep.
In a bowl, Zane marinated the chicken with oil, Shaoxing wine, pepper, and a dash of cornstarch, leaving it to rest as he diced cucumbers and measured out soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, ginger, and green onion. The black wok was already heated as he tossed in Sichuan peppercorns, letting their aroma bloom before adding the marinated chicken.
The sound of sizzling echoed like applause.
As the chicken turned golden, roasted peanuts were added, and the sauce thickened into a glossy coat of magic.
Zane plated the dish, garnishing it with red chili strips, green onions, and just a touch of fresh sesame oil.
The Kung Pao Chicken was ready.
…
Visually, it was stunning.
Golden-brown chicken gleamed under the lights. Plump peanuts glistened like rubies among the vibrant chili and green onion. The sauce, thickened thrice, shimmered with layers of richness.
Kuga leaned in. The aroma punched him—spicy, sweet, savory, and somehow… nostalgic?
He grabbed a peanut.
Crunch.
It shattered between his teeth, releasing an explosion of flavor—salted, spicy, and roasted to perfection.
His eyes widened.
"How…?"
Then he picked up a piece of chicken.
As he bit into it, the layers unfolded—first the light spice, then a fragrant sweetness, almost like lychee, followed by deep umami and the tiniest hit of vinegar at the end. It was an orchestra of flavors. A journey.
"…This isn't the Kung Pao Chicken I know," Kuga murmured.
"The ones I make are fiery first, everything else second. But this…"
He looked up, eyes gleaming. "This… is genius."
He asked for a bowl of rice.
The moment it touched his tongue, he froze again.
Every grain was distinct, soft yet with a subtle bite. It wasn't machine-cooked mush—it was real, handmade rice, steamed the old-fashioned way. Combined with the sauce, it was heaven.
Zane said nothing as Kuga devoured every last bite. Sauce, green onions, even the crisped chilies—nothing was left.
At last, Kuga sat back, exhaling deeply.
"The sauce… that burnt lychee flavor…" he whispered. "It transforms the dish. First sweet, then savory, finishing with a kiss of heat… I've never tasted Kung Pao Chicken like this."
He looked at Zane, expression serious.
"I've made this dish a hundred times. But now… I feel like I never really understood it."
Zane finally spoke.
"The soul of the sauce lies in a 1:1 ratio of vinegar to sugar. Only then do you get that balance—sour before sweet. Heat and knife skills you can train. But seasoning? That's art."
Kuga nodded slowly, humbled.
"…You win. I came to test you, but I've been taught instead."
He looked at the empty plate, then at Zane.
"You don't just cook food—you cook revelations."