“Judged?” The word caught in my throat. “Votes for what?”
Before she could answer, a man approached.
“May I introduce Flame Aji,” Keiko said.
He walked with ease, all his limbs intact, but as for his skin, what wasn’t hidden under loose clothing was a map of burns: shiny and tight in some places, puckered in others. Miki’s face tightened, and she looked away, as if staring too long would feel like cruelty.
Her reaction made him smile. He lifted a small device to his throat, and when he spoke, the voice that came out was mechanical, grating. “Chef Ono. Welcome.”
“Flame Aji,” I said. “You have a nice place here. Wish I could say the same for myself.”
He smiled politely, unsure of how to answer.
“Are you cooking for me?”
“I don’t cook for Half-Plated.”
Miki crossed her arms. “That’s a shame. I was curious if your food could even come close to Akiko’s.”
Flame Aji ignored the jab. “I followed your little career in Kyoto. Your restaurant was off to a good start.”
“Yeah, until it burned down,” I said.
Flame Aji began to walk. I kept pace beside him.
“Do you believe you could have turned it into a Michelin-starred restaurant?” he asked.
“Of course. I didn’t need to train under Chef Sakamoto to do that. If you’re such a great Flame here, why not leave Japan like the others? Why let your scars hold you back?”
His head tilted, a ghost of a smile twisting across his burned face. “Join the Silver Spoons? Never. Those chefs who completed Sakamoto’s training are entitled. They did not earn success. It was manufactured for them, bought with connections and money.”
“So what are you saying? You lost on purpose, to avoid becoming a Silver Spoon?”
His laugh was low, mechanical. “Hardly. Like you, I knew none of this when I entered the program. If I had, I would never have accepted the apprenticeship. Would you?”
“Earlier I met Flame Toro. You don’t seem as bitter as he is.”
“Bitter?” His scarred face twisted again, almost into a smile. “Why would I be bitter?”
“Because of… this.” I gestured around us. “The underground world. Your situation.”
“This is success.” The mechanical rasp of his voice made the words cut. “I have a restaurant. Clients who pay well. Respect.”
“So you’re saying you prefer this?”
“I’m saying I’m not some rich boy’s dog on a leash, cooking what suits pompous foodies. At least here”—his gaze dropped to the thick scars across his hands—“I decide my own menu. I’m in charge.”
“But if someone were to take all this from you in a snap, would you carry on with a smile?”
Flame Aji flagged down the young woman who had greeted us earlier and whispered in her ear.
“Your friend wanted to grade my cooking. A sampling will be prepared for her, if she’s still interested.” His eyes locked on Miki.
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Miki said quickly.
“Keiko, you and your Chopman will join her. I’ll continue my tour with Chef Akiko.”
Miki was led away by the woman. Keiko and the Chopman followed.
