“In Vietnam, it becomesbánh bao,” he continued. “A little sweeter. Bigger. Usually stuffed with pork, egg, mushrooms. A treat meant to be shared.”
“That tracks. Vietnamese food always feels generous.”
He nodded. “In Japan, it’snikuman. Heavier seasoning. Soy, sugar, mirin. Comfort food. You buy them hot in winter from convenience stores.”
“Oh, that’s perfect for the cold.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at me. “In the Philippines,siopao. Malaysia and Singapore—pau. Indonesia—bakpao. Same idea. Different voices.”
I reached out and picked up one of the shaped buns, relishing in how light it felt in my palm. The surface was smooth and faintly warm, the dough yielding slightly when I pressed my thumb into it.
“Your pairing it with the oxtails may be genius.” Chef Bunzo’s eyes blazed with approval. “Oxtail is rich. Fatty. Deep. It needs something that absorbs without fighting back.”
I imagined this dish fully assembled—the shredded meat folded into those clouds of dough, the sauce soaking in, the sweetness of the bun tempering the salt and umami.
Pickled onions for brightness.
Chili oil for heat.
A perfect balance.
I set the bun back on the tray and looked at the pot of oxtails simmering nearby. “I want the Claws to take a bite and the meat fall apart on their tongues."
He grinned.
“In fact. . .I want them to bite into it and taste my grandmother's kitchen and their favorite Tokyo street food at the same time."
"Oh. Then you'll succeed." He nodded firmly. "I can already smell the memory you're creating."
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I feel like I’ve already met your grandmother.”
My heart warmed.
The music turned savage.
I felt it before I fully registered the shift—the violins no longer climbing but slashing, brass snarling beneath frantic strings. The tempo had shifted into something darker. More urgent.
Ah. The Infernal Dance.
The score abandoned grace entirely.
I recognized this moment of the ballet immediately. This was when Kashchei the immortal sorcerer finally awakened. When his demons poured into the enchanted garden, and chaos erupted through what had been beautiful and safe.
The monster revealing himself.
The danger that had been lurking beneath all that beauty finally showing its teeth.
The kitchen responded.
Near the prep station, the young woman's knife picked up speed—no longer the delicate pizzicato rhythm from before, but something fiercer.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
