Life always has a way of throwing surprises your way. And tonight's surprise? It walked straight through the Tavern's door in the form of the Elite Ten's fourth seat: Momo Akanegakubo.
She didn't arrive with fanfare, nor did she carry the usual commanding presence of a high-ranking Totsuki student. No, her appearance was quiet, almost ethereal—soft steps, green eyes scanning the new surroundings of the recently upgraded Tavern.
And then she said, with that childlike voice of hers:
"I want… a macaron."
Zane blinked. That was it? A single macaron?
But he didn't question it. After all, for someone like Momo, desserts were never just food—they were pieces of art, windows into the soul.
The Art of the Macaron
Authentic macarons were notoriously difficult to master, not just because of the delicate chemistry involved, but also the quality of ingredients demanded. Every step—every fold, every degree of oven heat, every second of rest—mattered.
Ingredients for the shells:
Egg whites (aged)
Finely ground almond flour
Powdered sugar
Granulated sugar
Food coloring (natural rose hue)
For the filling:
Dark chocolate (high cacao content)
Fresh cream
Whole vanilla beans
Crushed rose petals
A pinch of mineral sea salt
Zane moved like clockwork, heating the cream just enough to melt the chocolate into a glossy ganache, letting it cool before funneling it into a piping bag. The egg whites, already at room temperature, were beaten into a soft meringue with the sugar before being folded with almond flour and powdered sugar.
Precision. That was the name of the game.
After coloring and piping the batter into even circles on a non-stick mat, he let them sit—drying until their surfaces formed a thin skin. Then came the baking: 160°C for the top, 140°C for the bottom, 15 minutes. The aroma of almonds, chocolate, and rose slowly began to fill the room.
When the shells cooled, he paired them, sandwiched the ganache inside, and slid the batch into the fridge to set.
A Bite of Happiness
Momo's eyes sparkled as she looked at the shimmering tray of macarons placed before her. Their pearlescent shells shimmered under the tavern lights. Each had a ruffled foot at the bottom—a hallmark of the perfect bake.
"You really made these?" she asked, voice full of restrained delight.
Zane smiled and handed her a cup of coffee on the house. "You're tonight's first customer after the Tavern upgrade. It's a lucky day."
Momo giggled, a rare burst of genuine happiness. She didn't talk much when she came here, unlike the more vocal Rindo or curious Alice. But when she was here… she always seemed peaceful.
She picked up a macaron and took a bite.
Crunch.
The outer shell gave way to a chewy, fragrant interior with the floral sweetness of rose petals dancing over her tongue. The filling, rich and bittersweet, melted slowly with the heat of her mouth, blending with the coffee's sharp bitterness.
Her heart warmed. The taste was divine—elegant, complex, and soft as a whisper. For someone who lived for cute desserts, this was the peak of happiness.
The Ruffles of a Heart
"A perfect macaron," she muttered, eyes lingering on the delicate ruffled edge.
"The bottom edge should have a beautiful skirt… like a girl's frilly dress," she added with a sigh. "Zane, how did you get it so perfect?"
"The secret's in the crust," he replied, gently polishing a coffee cup. "Once a shell forms on top, the batter expands beneath it. But it's all about oven mastery. Most recipes won't work unless you adjust based on your own oven."
He leaned closer. "Too hot and it cracks. Too cold and it flattens. My method? Start with 175°C top heat for 8 minutes, then finish with 175°C bottom heat for 10."
Momo's eyes widened. "A 95% success rate?"
"That's right."
She slumped in mock defeat. "All those cracked macarons I made… I thought it was my meringue technique…"
Zane chuckled.
The Loneliness of Cute Things
Macarons weren't always this way. Zane recounted how they had originated from Carmelite nuns who made them as meat substitutes. Later, the legendary Pierre Hermé modernized them into the elegant sandwich form loved today.
But as Momo listened, her gaze softened. Zane could sense it wasn't just the history that moved her—it was the warmth, the connection, the simple human act of sharing stories over food.
Despite her status as an Elite Ten, Momo had always been… solitary.
Not cold or distant—but invisible in plain sight.
At Totsuki, everyone admired her skill, her doll-like appearance, her flawless desserts. But few tried to understand her. She loved "cute" things—ribbons, plushies, tiny pastries—but found herself increasingly isolated as her fame grew.
When she came to the Tavern, it wasn't just for the food.
It was to be seen.
And Zane always saw her.
She thought he was "cute," too—though she'd never say it aloud.
The Question That Lingered
"Zane," she murmured suddenly, cheeks turning pink, "Are we… friends?"
He paused.
"Of course," he said warmly. "I remember when you gave me those heat-resistant gloves from your doll. That kindness? It made me want to be your friend right away."
"Close friends?"
She asked it so softly, as if scared the moment would vanish like sugar on her tongue.
But before Zane could answer, the Tavern door opened again.
Anne Enters
Anne, the cold-eyed WGO officer and food judge, stepped inside. Her sharp gaze scanned the upgraded layout, pausing at the new automatic doors and the subtle improvements to the lighting and decor.
"The Tavern's been renovated?" she muttered, surprised.
"Welcome back," Zane said, already moving to greet her.
"Is Mana with you?"
"No," Anne replied, flipping open a heavy book. "She's busy with WGO affairs."
Zane smiled. "What can I get you?"
"Coffee," she said absently—then realized, startled, that this Tavern shouldn't have coffee.
Yet moments later, she watched Zane pull an expertly brewed cup from a polished machine in the newly added coffee lounge.
"Interesting," Anne said with a small smile.
A Brewing Storm Called BLUE
Anne took a long sip of the coffee. The bitterness was clean, sharp. It matched her.
Then she looked up.
"You declined Mana's offer, didn't you?"
Zane tilted his head. "What offer?"
"To join WGO as a judge for THE BLUE."
"Oh, that. Yes. I'm not interested in the spotlight."
Anne narrowed her eyes. "But THE BLUE is next year. You're eligible. Mana wanted you involved for a reason."
"I know," Zane replied, polishing his chef's knife. "But I don't want to be a cog in someone else's machine."
The truth? He hated the politics. The fake smiles. The masks people wore when cuisine should be about honesty and flavor.
The Dish of Simplicity
Anne's stomach rumbled.
"…Can I trouble you for a dish?"
Zane grinned. "I love when customers say that."
He began preparing something deceptively simple: a modified version of "Twenty-Four Bridge Moonlit Night."
He sculpted tofu cylinders, hollowed their centers, and placed quail eggs inside. Then he wrapped them in lean ham, tied them delicately, and steamed them to perfection.
"What dish is this?" Anne gasped.
"I've never seen this even in WGO records!"
Zane placed the plate gently before her. "Something I made just for you."