Stravinsky'sThe Firebirdplayed through the kitchen's hidden speakers—violins climbing in golden spirals, horns blazing beneath them like embers refusing to die.
Chef Bunzo had chosen this full orchestral ballet for our soundtrack today.
It ran nearly forty-five minutes, and had been composed in 1910, when Stravinsky was still young, hungry, and trying to prove himself.
I knew the story well.
A prince wanders into an enchanted garden and captures a magical firebird. She gives him one of her feathers in exchange for her freedom—a single burning plume that later saves his lifewhen he faces the immortal sorcerer holding thirteen princesses captive.
In the end, the firebird's magic destroys the sorcerer and transforms everyone he'd imprisoned, turning stone back into flesh, death back into life.
"We can play this for inspiration," Chef Bunzo had said with that easy smile of his. He was younger than I'd expected when I first met him—late thirties, maybe close to my age—with sharp cheekbones and clever eyes that probably missed nothing. "The Firebird is about transformation. Death and rebirth. I thought it fit what we're creating today."
He wasn't wrong.
The kitchen was alive with heat and limitless ideas. Steam curled from pots. Knives flashed under fluorescent light. The massive industrial range glowed with blue flames, and above it all, the smell of slow-braising oxtail wrapped around me.
This is what I needed.
After everything—the spy hunt, the betrayals, the pyre I'd witnessed burning outside our window—I needed to create something.
To transform raw ingredients into nourishment.
To remind myself that my hands could build, not just destroy.
Around us, the kitchen hummed with activity.
Five of Chef Bunzo's staff moved through the space like dancers in a choreographed performance.
Right from the beginning, the music shifted the whole kitchen. The dark, prowling introduction gave way to quick rhythm.
In the ballet, this was the moment the prince first glimpsed the firebird darting through the sorcerer's garden.
Near the prep station, a young woman with her hair pinned back, sliced scallions. And as the music rose, her knife matched the tempo.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash of scallions falling into perfect thin ribbons right along with the pizzicato strings—quick plucked notes that danced off her blade.
Beside her, another woman—older, with laugh lines around her eyes—carefully arranged small plates for tasting. Her movements were precise and unhurried.
A third woman stood at the pastry station, piping delicate swirls of matcha cream onto miniature tarts, testing the ratio of bitter to sweet. She'd look up every few minutes to catch my eye and smile, genuinely curious about what we were creating together.
The two men worked closer to the industrial refrigerators. One was tall and quiet as he prepared mise en place—tiny bowls of chopped ginger, minced garlic, measured spices—while the other, younger and more animated, was taste-testing a honey-bourbon glaze, and his expression shifted from thoughtful to delighted as the flavors hit his tongue.
"This glaze," He held up the spoon. "It's perfect for the karaage. The heat builds through the sweetness."
Chef Bunzo tilted his head toward me. "Shall we try it, Nyomi?"
“Sounds good to me.”
We crossed the kitchen together, weaving between stations.
The orchestra tightened, sound pulling inward before its release. Strings trembled and built toward a high level of magnificence.
The young chef reached for two tasting spoons from the container by the stove. He dipped each one into the glaze, coated them evenly, and then handed one to me and the other to Chef Bunzo.
