The market was a living, breathing organism—a assault on the senses that made even Ryu's previous life's experience seem tame. Takeshi moved through the crowded aisles with the confidence of someone who'd walked these paths for decades, greeting vendors by name, switching between Japanese, Malay, Thai, and even Tagalog with fluid ease.
"The market is your first teacher," Takeshi said as they wove between stalls. "Before technique, before recipes, before fire—you must understand ingredients. Not intellectually. Intimately."
He stopped at a produce stall run by a tiny Filipino grandmother who barely reached Takeshi's chest. They exchanged rapid Tagalog, and she laughed, swatting his arm before disappearing into the back of her stall.
"Mrs. Santos," Takeshi explained. "Her family imports produce from Mindanao. She's been here since before you were born. Your mother used to buy all our kaffir lime leaves from her."
The old woman returned with several bags, and Ryu caught the scent—bright, citrusy, unmistakably kaffir lime. But as he looked closer, he noticed other items: calamansi, fresh turmeric root still covered in soil, and something that looked like extremely thin asparagus.
"Ah, perfect!" Takeshi lifted the thin vegetables. "Sitaw—yard-long beans. These, you can't find just anywhere." He handed them to Ryu. "Feel them. What do they tell you?"
Ryu took the beans, his adult consciousness analyzing while his teenage hands explored. Firm but with slight give. Fresh—the snap when he bent one slightly was crisp, not rubbery. The smell was subtly grassy, clean.
"They're fresh," Ryu said. "Probably picked this morning. Still have that raw, vegetal quality that cooking will transform."
"Good. But you're still thinking like a buyer checking quality." Takeshi shook his head. "Think deeper. Where did these come from? Who grew them? What dishes are they meant for?"
Mrs. Santos said something in Tagalog, and Takeshi translated. "She says her cousin grows these in his home garden outside Manila. He uses traditional methods—no pesticides, companion planting with tomatoes and peppers. These specific beans are meant for adobong sitaw, a Filipino dish where the beans absorb the vinegar and soy sauce until they're tangy and savory."
Ryu looked at the beans again with new eyes. They weren't just ingredients—they were a story. A cousin's labor. A specific dish's tradition. A connection between Tokyo and Mindanao.
"Every ingredient has a story," Takeshi continued as they moved on. "Respect the story, and you'll never cook carelessly."
They stopped at a spice vendor next—a small stall bursting with colors and aromas. The vendor, a young Thai man, broke into a huge grin when he saw Takeshi.
"Ajarn!" he exclaimed, pressing his hands together in a respectful wai. "I heard your son got into Totsuki! Congratulations!"
"Thank you, Niran," Takeshi replied, returning the wai. "We're here for serious ingredients today. Training begins."
Niran's expression turned businesslike. "Ah. Then you need the good stuff, not the tourist stuff." He disappeared into the back.
"Niran's father taught me half of what I know about Thai cuisine," Takeshi explained. "When I was traveling through Thailand, I spent three months in their family restaurant in Chiang Mai. Learned to make curry pastes properly—red, green, yellow, massaman, panang. His father, Khun Somchai, was a master. He'd wake up at 4 AM every day to pound curry paste by hand for the lunch service."
Ryu's memories of this life surfaced—visiting Thailand when he was eight, watching a old man with calloused hands pound spices with rhythmic precision. The memory felt warm, safe.
Niran returned with a wooden box. "For the young master's training, only the best." Inside were small bags of spices that made Ryu's eyes water just from proximity.
"Prik kee noo," Takeshi said, holding up a bag of tiny chilies that looked deceptively innocent. "Mouse shit chili. Terrible name, devastating heat. But—" he opened the bag and took a deep whiff, "—notice the aroma. It's not just heat. There's fruitiness, almost floral notes. A good Thai chef uses these for heat, yes, but also for that complexity."
He handed the bag to Ryu. "Smell. Tell me what you detect."
Ryu inhaled carefully. The heat hit his sinuses immediately, making his eyes water, but beneath it—yes, there was something almost sweet. A bright, fruity note that reminded him of cherry tomatoes.
"Fruit," Ryu said, his voice strained. "Almost like... citrus mixed with berries?"
"Exactly." Takeshi nodded approvingly. "Most amateur cooks taste capsaicin and stop there. They think 'hot' is a single note. But heat has dimensions—where it hits your palate, how fast it builds, what flavors accompany it. Bird's eye chili heat is different from jalapeño heat, which is different from habanero heat."
Niran added, "My father used to say, 'A chef who only knows 'spicy' is like a musician who only knows 'loud.' You must understand the melody within the volume.'"
They purchased bags of dried chilies, galangal root, fresh lemongrass stalks, and makrut lime leaves. With each ingredient, Takeshi had Ryu smell, touch, and sometimes taste tiny amounts, teaching him to recognize quality by sensation rather than sight alone.
"In Totsuki," Takeshi said as they moved through the market, "you'll have access to the finest ingredients money can buy. Wagyu beef, bluefin tuna, white truffles. But luxury ingredients are easy—they carry their quality naturally. The real test of a chef is taking humble ingredients and making them sing."
He stopped at a small stall selling various dried goods. The vendor, an elderly Indonesian woman, smiled toothlessly at them. Takeshi and she exchanged words in what Ryu's memories identified as Indonesian.
She produced several items wrapped in banana leaves. When Takeshi unwrapped one, the smell of fermented shrimp paste hit like a physical force.
"Terasi," Takeshi announced. "Shrimp paste. Fermented, dried, compressed. To most people, it smells like death. To us—" he inhaled deeply, "—it smells like umami. The foundation of Indonesian cooking."
Ryu's previous life had encountered shrimp paste in fusion restaurants, always used sparingly, almost apologetically. But here, Takeshi held it like treasure.
"This—" Takeshi continued, "—this is what separates us from European fine dining. They have anchovy paste, fish sauce in some modern kitchens. But they approach umami cautiously, afraid of 'fishiness.' We embrace it. A good rempah has terasi providing depth that makes everything else shine."
The old woman said something, and Takeshi laughed. He translated for Ryu: "She says her grandmother's secret was toasting the terasi until it smoked, then pounding it with chilies still hot from the pan. The heat would intensify the fermentation flavors."
They purchased three different types of terasi, each with subtle variations in fermentation and intensity. The old woman wrapped them carefully, then surprised Ryu by taking his hand and speaking directly to him in Indonesian.
Takeshi translated, his voice soft: "She says your mother used to come here when you were a baby, carrying you on her back while she shopped. She says you have your mother's eyes, and she knows you'll make her proud at Totsuki."
The words hit Ryu unexpectedly hard. This woman remembered his mother—this body's mother—with such warmth. In his previous life, no one had known his mother beyond "that chef's mom." But here, in this market, she'd been real. Known. Remembered.
"Tell her thank you," Ryu managed. "Tell her I'll do my best."
As they continued through the market, Ryu noticed something he'd missed in his previous life. These weren't just transactions—they were relationships. Takeshi knew every vendor, their families, their stories. Mrs. Santos asked about the restaurant. Niran's younger sister attended Totsuki's middle school program. The Indonesian grandmother had attended his mother's funeral.
"In high-end restaurants," Takeshi said, reading Ryu's thoughts, "chefs order from suppliers. Clean, efficient, professional. But here, we're part of a community. These people take pride in providing us quality because they know we'll honor their products. They trust us to transform their cousin's beans, their father's spices, their grandmother's fermented paste into something beautiful."
They stopped at a final stall—this one larger, run by a Japanese man in his sixties with the weathered look of someone who'd spent decades around produce.
"Takeshi!" the man called out warmly. "And this must be young Ryu! Heard you got into Totsuki. Following your old man's footsteps, eh?"
"Trying to surpass him, actually," Takeshi said with a grin. "Yamamoto-san, we need young jackfruit. The real stuff, not the canned garbage."
Yamamoto laughed. "Surpass the Third Seat? That's ambitious!" He gestured to the back. "Got a shipment from Okinawa this morning. Small farmer, grows them specifically for Southeast Asian cuisine. Not many Japanese eat young jackfruit, so he sells mostly to specialists."
He returned with what looked like a massive, spiky green fruit—easily the size of a watermelon. "This one's perfect for gudeg or curry. Still firm, not too ripe. You'll get that meaty texture proper gudeg needs."
Takeshi examined it carefully, pressing spots, smelling the stem. "Perfect. Yamamoto-san, you never disappoint."
As Yamamoto wrapped the jackfruit, he turned to Ryu. "Your father and I went to culinary school together, you know. Different paths—I went into produce, he went into cooking. But I watched him fight his way up at Totsuki. Those were brutal years."
His expression grew serious. "The Elite Ten back then was dominated by European cuisine traditionalists. French, Italian, some Spanish. Your father showing up with fish sauce and shrimp paste? They tried to humiliate him. Called him 'the exotic food comedian.' Said Southeast Asian cuisine was peasant food, street food, not worthy of Totsuki's prestige."
Takeshi's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"But your old man," Yamamoto continued with fierce pride, "he didn't just prove them wrong. He dominated. Made it to Third Seat by the end of second year—nearly unheard of. And every shokugeki, he used it as a teaching moment. Showing judges that complexity isn't about technique for technique's sake, it's about flavor. About soul."
He leaned in close to Ryu. "You've got big shoes to fill, kid. But from what I hear, you're every bit as talented as he was at your age. Just remember—Totsuki will try to change you, mold you, make you fit their idea of what a 'proper' chef should be. Don't let them. Your father didn't, and look what he became."
Ryu nodded, feeling the weight of expectation but also something else—pride. His father had been a revolutionary. Not just a good chef, but someone who'd changed minds and challenged an entire institution's biases.
I can do this. I WILL do this.
After two hours in the market, they returned home laden with bags. Ryu's arms ached from carrying them, but his mind buzzed with information. Every ingredient had a story, a source, a purpose. This wasn't just shopping—it was education.
Back in the restaurant kitchen, Takeshi began unpacking, arranging ingredients with the precision of a surgeon laying out tools. "Now comes your first real test," he said. "Indonesian cuisine. You've eaten it, you've watched me make it, you have your mother's recipes. But understanding and executing are different."
He gestured to the ingredients. "Make me rendang. From scratch. You have four hours. I'll be in my office doing paperwork. When time's up, I'll taste it. If it doesn't make me sweat from the spice and cry from the memory of your mother's cooking, you fail and start again."
Ryu swallowed hard. This wasn't a request—it was a challenge.
"And Ryu," Takeshi added, his voice softer. "Don't think about Totsuki. Don't think about impressing me. Think about why you want to cook this dish. Think about what rendang means. It's a celebration dish—served at weddings, festivals, important ceremonies. It takes hours because important things take time. It's a dish of patience, of love, of community. Remember that."
With that, Takeshi left, leaving Ryu alone in the kitchen with ingredients and expectations.
Ryu stared at the materials before him: beef chuck, shallots, garlic, ginger, galangal, lemongrass, chilies, coconut milk, and two dozen spices. In his previous life, he'd made countless complicated dishes. Molecular gastronomy with liquid nitrogen. Sous vide preparations with precise temperatures. Micro-plating with tweezers and pipettes.
But standing here, faced with creating rendang—truly understanding rendang—felt more daunting than any Michelin inspection.
Why do I want to make this?
In his previous life, the answer would have been: to prove I can, to earn stars, to gain recognition.
But now? Now, he thought about his mother—both mothers, actually. The one from his previous life who'd taught him to fold gyoza with patience and love. The one from this life who'd carried generations of Malaysian tradition and passed it to his father.
I want to make this because food connects us across time. Because rendang is more than beef and spices—it's memory, it's heritage, it's love made edible.
With trembling hands but clear purpose, Ryu began to cook.
To be continued...