Unlike sushi or soba noodles, tempura belongs to the realm of deep-fried dishes. Despite contradicting the traditionally light and refined nature of Japanese cuisine, it remains immensely popular. The secret lies in the unique cooking method—both the batter and the ingredients contain water, and through the principle that oil and water do not mix, the high temperature "steams" the food within the crispy outer shell, preserving its natural sweetness and freshness.
Though it appears fried, tempura is, in essence, a form of steamed food. Properly made, it can be placed on paper without leaving an oily stain, which is why so many people appreciate it.
In tempura-making, oil is the soul of the dish. Achieving the perfect tempura depends 70% on oil temperature, 20% on batter consistency, and only 10% on the freshness of the ingredients. And Zane, with his meticulous approach, had mastered this craft to perfection.
For him, the ideal oil must be aromatic yet subtle, enhancing rather than overpowering the natural flavors of the ingredients. It must also provide enough heat while maintaining the right smoke point, allowing the batter to crisp quickly without absorbing excess oil. After numerous trials, he determined that rice bran oil was the best choice. Light, fragrant, and capable of achieving a beautiful golden crisp without being greasy, it was far superior to more common options like sesame or peanut oil.
The lively atmosphere in the tavern carried an undeniable energy.
There was something almost otherworldly about Zane—the way he carried himself, the effortless mastery he displayed in his craft. He had the presence of someone who could remain unnoticed in a crowd yet leave an unforgettable impression on anyone who tasted his food.
"Chef, your knowledge is really impressive!"
"If I had even half your understanding, I wouldn't keep getting E grades in my assessments," Megumi admitted with an awkward laugh, her wide eyes gleaming with admiration.
Among the Polaris dorm residents, she had the most experience with rustic dishes like tempura. Yet tonight, she realized her own skills were nowhere near the level of the man standing before her.
She felt a mix of awe and disappointment in herself.
"Ha, this knowledge just comes from practice," Zane replied with a casual shrug.
"The culinary world is evolving constantly—new ingredients, techniques, marketing trends, and dining experiences emerge every day. The real challenge isn't just perfecting a dish but understanding how to preserve tradition while adapting to modern tastes. That's something every chef must consider."
With that, he turned and returned to the kitchen, leaving the dorm students to digest both his words and his food.
Many chefs experience a gradual decline in the impact of their dishes over time—not because they become lazy or use inferior ingredients, but because people's palates adjust.
No matter how delicious a dish is, eating it repeatedly dulls its impact. This phenomenon—where excitement turns into monotony—is the difference between being full and being fed up.
In a way, it was a lesser version of the "God Tongue" curse, where heightened sensitivity to taste eventually led to complete dissatisfaction with food.
But Zane's dishes were different.
They had a kind of magic—the more you ate, the more addictive they became.
Even seasoned chefs like Satoshi and Shun were beginning to see it.
"What do you think, Shun?" Satoshi asked, glancing at his usually quiet friend.
Shun was silent for a moment before exhaling.
"He's a monster," he said simply.
He was not one to speak his thoughts openly, but deep down, he had suspected from the moment they stepped into this tavern that it was not an ordinary establishment.
A place like this—so close to Totsuki, the academy that produced Japan's finest chefs—wouldn't survive without true skill behind it.
The floral tea had unsettled him.
The tempura had shattered his expectations.
And now, as he watched Zane effortlessly prepare dish after dish, he realized something that sent a chill down his spine:
The gap between them was greater than he had ever imagined.
To create such a delicate, perfectly executed tempura from humble ingredients—how many chefs in all of Japan could do this?
"How long do you think it would take to surpass him?" Shun finally asked.
"You? Or me?" Satoshi hesitated.
"Do you think I even stand a chance?" Shun replied with a wry smile.
"Well…" Satoshi trailed off, his expression unusually serious. "My family specializes in traditional Japanese cuisine, but even with my background, tempura isn't my strong suit. That said… I don't think tempura is his specialty either."
Shun's eyes widened slightly.
"You're saying… he could be even better at something else?"
Satoshi nodded.
"The scary thing is, I have a feeling we haven't even seen his true skills yet. If he ever got serious… I wouldn't just lose. Even Eishi might not stand a chance."
The weight of those words sank in.
Joichiro Saiba had once defeated the entire Elite Ten in their prime, proving that there were monsters in the culinary world far beyond Totsuki's best.
Was Zane one of them?
If so, then they had truly stumbled upon something incredible tonight.
Shun glanced back toward the kitchen, where Zane continued working as if none of this mattered to him.
"Then his identity… there's no way he's just a simple tavern owner," Shun murmured.
Satoshi chuckled.
"Maybe. Or maybe he really is just a tavern owner."
There was a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"Either way… I think we chose the perfect place for this celebration party."