Blade-Cut Wagyu Tataki was my redemption round.
I heated the iron plate until it screamed, seared the beef in seconds, then drew the yanagiba through it in one clean motion. Perfect marbling, perfect edge. I almost kissed the damn thing.
And lastly, Smoked Volcano Roll.
Nori, rice, and spicy scallops wrapped and crowned with a mound of masago and a quail’s egg yolk, the colors glowing together like molten lava. I capped it with a glass dome filled with cherrywood smoke, and when I lifted the dome away, the smoke poured out slowly—an eruption in miniature. The kitchen smelled like victory.
By the time I plated the last dish, I wasn’t thinking about Jiro’s lies, Keiko’s games, or the debt choking me. I was thinking about knives, flames, and how to make them dance for me. This was my comeback menu—dangerous, theatrical, impossible to ignore.
Miki had spent the day visiting all our suppliers in person. I’d secured commitments last week, but she knew face time mattered to ensure they followed through on their word. They needed to hear—directly, in person—that we valued their partnership. That was her thing; she was great at it. And she wasn’t coming back empty handed. Her mission was to fully stock the place today.
When Miki returned, I was already halfway to the front door, grinning like an idiot. I couldn’t wait to spring my news on her. She’d been eating my cooking since we were in university. If anyone could judge this menu, it was her.
“Miki! I have good news!” I blurted.
“Chef! I have good news!” she fired back.
We froze mid-step, both pointing at each other like it was some over-the-top Western standoff.
“You first,” she said.
“No, you first,” I said.
We ended up blurting, “At the same time!” and cracking up in the middle of the dining room.
“Fine,” I said, waving her toward the kitchen. “Mine comes with free food.”
She grinned and followed me in. I’d already laid out the four dishes like they were contestants in a beauty pageant.
“Welcome to my latest omakase—Knives & Flames,” I announced.
She arched an eyebrow. “Sounds violent.”
“Exactly.”
One by one, I plated, flamed, smoked, and sliced—walking her through each dish as if I were presenting evidence in my defense. The Dragon’s Breath Sashimi nearly singed my wrist again, earning me an “Easy there, pyro” from Miki.
The Inferno Miso Black Cod made her close her eyes and hum, which I took as the highest praise.
When we hit the Smoked Volcano Roll, the kitchen filled with thick cherrywood smoke. Miki sat back, fanning away the cloud.
“Damn, Chef. This isn’t a menu, it’s a middle finger on a plate.”
I grinned. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
Miki leaned forward, tapping the table with her chopsticks. “Then don’t change a single thing. This is exactly what we need right now. Not just a new menu, but a statement. Something that slaps people in the face and dares them to come back for more. We’ve been playing defense for weeks, Akiko. This? This puts us back on offense.”
Her words landed like a shot of adrenaline. I felt it in my bones: She was right.
She pushed her chair back. “Well, your turn to hear my news.”
“Go on.”
“I just came from Nishiki Market.”
“That’s not news. That’s a place.”
“It is when our favorite vendor tells you, quote, ‘only because of you, Miki-san,’ he’s giving us everything on our wish list.” She struck a sassy pose like she’d just closed a billion-yen deal.
