The young chef glanced between us. "Bourbon, honey, gochugaru, and a little cayenne. This turned out to bean excellent execution. How did you come up with that combination?"
“I was always taught—sweet to draw you in, spice to remind you who you’re dealing with.” I lifted my spoon and let the glaze coat my tongue.
Heat.
Not immediate—it crept in slow, building at the back of my throat. The bourbon smoothed everything out, and the honey gave it that sticky sweetness that would caramelize beautifully on fried chicken.
Hmmm. It’s good, but. . .there’s something missing.
Chef Bunzo lifted his spoon, tasted, and closed his eyes, letting the flavors settle. “Excellent balance. Clean. Focused.”
“Yeah, but. . .” I exhaled softly. “It needs one more note. Something to stretch the heat just a little longer.”
The young chef’s face lit up, like he’d been waiting for permission. “I was actually experimenting with something earlier. Blooming the cayenne first—warming it gently in neutral oil before adding it to the glaze. It could change how the heat lands. Less sharp. More. . .layered.”
“Very interesting.”
He reached for a small saucepan. “When you bloom it, the capsaicin disperses more evenly. It doesn’t spike. It rolls.”
I tilted my head. “Capsaicin?”
He nodded. “It’s the part of the pepper that makes it hot.”
“Aww. Okay.” I made note of that.
“When you warm the spice in oil first, it releases more evenly. The burn doesn’t spike—it spreads.”
Intrigued, I asked. “So, the heat behaves that way?”
“Exactly.”
“I love it.”
Chef Bunzo watched him with interest. “Let’s try it.”
“This could be great.” The young chef smiled, and was already grabbing a handful of peppers.
The Firebird swelled overhead—strings tightening, heat gathering, something on the edge of becoming.
We returned to our stations—Chef Bunzo to the massive cutting board where he was breaking down wagyu to test out some of my ideas for the main course, me to the notebook I'd spread across the stainless steel counter.
Pages of ideas covered the surface.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
Some with arrows connecting them to other concepts, other flavor profiles, other memories I wanted to capture in food.
This had been our rhythm since the chef found me in the kitchen.
All morning, I'd come up with fun ideas for the Claws’ cocktail party and the big dinner including the Fangs and Roar. I played with everything—a taste I remembered from my grandmother's kitchen, a combination that felt right in my gut, a dish that might tell a story about my short time with them so far—and Chef Bunzo's team was doing their best to bring it to life.
Test it.
Refine it.
Tell me honestly when a dish worked or didn't.
