Ryu stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the ingredients spread before him like pieces of a puzzle he was meant to solve. The afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the prep station. Somewhere upstairs, he could hear his father moving around in his office—close enough to call for help, but Ryu knew that wasn't an option.
This was his test. His alone.
He opened his mother's recipe journal, handling it like the sacred text it was. The pages fell open to a section written in both English and Malay, with hand-drawn diagrams showing how to cut the beef, how to arrange the spices for pounding. In the margins, there were notes—some in his mother's handwriting, others in his father's rougher script.
"The secret isn't the spices—it's the patience. Let the beef tell you when it's ready." - Mei Lin
"She was right. I rushed my first rendang and it was garbage. Take your time. Listen to the pot. - Takeshi"
Ryu felt a lump form in his throat. This journal was a conversation between his parents, carried across time. His mother teaching, his father learning, both of them leaving wisdom for a son who would one day follow their path.
I won't let you down.
He began with the beef—two kilograms of chuck, marbled with fat that would break down during the long cooking process. In his previous life, he would have trimmed away excess fat for a cleaner presentation. But rendang needed that fat. It would render slowly, enriching the sauce, creating that signature glossy coating.
Ryu cut the beef into large chunks—about two inches each. Not the precise cubes his previous life's training demanded, but rough, uneven pieces that would cook at slightly different rates, creating textural variety. His mother's notes said: "Uniform cuts make uniform food. Life isn't uniform. Let the beef be itself."
Next came the rempah—the soul paste that would define everything. This was where rendang lived or died.
Ryu laid out his aromatics: shallots, garlic, ginger, galangal, lemongrass, and chilies. Ten large shallots, twelve cloves of garlic, a thumb-sized knob of ginger, an even larger piece of galangal, three stalks of lemongrass (only the tender white parts), and fifteen bird's eye chilies.
In his previous life, this would all go into a food processor. Thirty seconds, done, efficient.
But his mother's journal showed a mortar and pestle. The traditional way. The right way.
Ryu pulled out the large granite mortar—heavy, worn smooth by decades of use. His father had mentioned it was a wedding gift from his mother's grandmother, brought all the way from Penang. The pestle felt warm in his hands, as if it retained heat from countless curry pastes before.
He started with the hardest ingredients first—the galangal and lemongrass, which needed the most breaking down. He began to pound, and immediately his arms protested. This body wasn't used to this kind of sustained physical labor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythm was meditative but exhausting. Each strike compressed the fibers, released aromatic oils, broke down cellular walls. The fragrance began to build—sharp, citrusy, with that distinctive galangal bite that was almost medicinal.
His arms burned. Sweat dripped down his forehead. In a food processor, this would take seconds. Here, it was taking minutes that stretched toward a quarter hour.
Why am I doing this the hard way?
But even as the thought formed, Ryu knew the answer. Because this was what his mother had done. What his grandmother had done. What countless Southeast Asian cooks had done for generations. This pain, this effort—it was investment. Every drop of sweat was proof that he cared enough to do it right.
The galangal and lemongrass began to break down into a rough paste. Ryu added the ginger next, then the garlic, then the shallots. Each addition changed the aroma profile, building layers. The sharp bite of galangal mellowed slightly with the sweetness of shallots. The pungent garlic added depth. The ginger provided warmth.
Finally, he added the chilies—those deceptively small bird's eye devils. As he pounded them, capsaicin oils misted into the air, making his eyes water and his nose run. But beneath the heat, he could smell that fruity complexity his father had taught him to recognize.
Twenty minutes of pounding. His arms felt like they might fall off. But when he looked down at the mortar, he saw—and smelled—something profound.
This wasn't just crushed aromatics. This was a transformation. The individual ingredients had surrendered their boundaries, becoming something unified yet complex. The paste was rough-textured, vibrant, alive with essential oils that would never survive a food processor's violent blades.
Ryu transferred the paste to a bowl and moved to the dried spices. He had candlenuts, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, and cardamom pods. His mother's recipe called for toasting them first.
He heated a dry pan and added the whole spices, swirling them constantly. The kitchen filled with new aromas—nutty, warm, almost sweet. The candlenuts turned golden. The coriander seeds crackled softly. The cumin released that earthy, almost curry-like scent.
When the spices were perfectly toasted—fragrant but not burnt—he transferred them back to the mortar and pestle. More pounding, his arms screaming in protest, until the toasted spices became a coarse powder.
This powder went into the rempah paste, along with turmeric and chili powder, mixing until the color deepened to that characteristic rendang orange-red.
Ryu looked at what he'd created. In his previous life, this would have been "spice paste" or "curry base"—a component, nothing more. But now he understood: this was the dish. Everything else was just supporting this fundamental expression of flavor.
He heated oil in a large, heavy pot—the kind designed for long, slow cooking. When the oil shimmered, he added the rempah.
The sizzle was immediate and aggressive. The paste hit the hot oil and sang—a violent, aromatic explosion that filled the entire kitchen. Ryu stirred constantly, preventing burning, watching as the paste transformed from raw and bright to cooked and deep.
This was the crucial step his father had emphasized: cooking the rempah until it split—until the oils separated from the solids, creating that glossy, intensely flavored base.
It took fifteen minutes of constant stirring. Ryu's arm, already exhausted from pounding, trembled with effort. But he watched the paste carefully, seeing it darken from orange-red to deep rust, watching oil begin to pool at the edges.
The aroma changed too—from sharp and raw to mellow and complex. The harshness of raw shallots and garlic mellowed into sweetness. The chilies' heat became deeper, more rounded.
When the rempah finally split, Ryu added the beef chunks. They sizzled as they hit the paste, each piece getting coated in that intensely flavored mixture. He seared them, developing color, letting the Maillard reaction add another layer of complexity.
Next came the coconut milk—two cans of full-fat, the kind that separated into thick cream and thinner liquid. Ryu didn't shake the cans first. He wanted that separation, that textural variety.
The coconut milk hit the hot paste and immediately began bubbling. Ryu added crushed lemongrass stalks, makrut lime leaves torn to release their oils, a cinnamon stick, star anise, and a few cardamom pods.
He brought it to a boil, then reduced to a gentle simmer.
And now came the hardest part: waiting.
Rendang couldn't be rushed. The coconut milk needed to reduce slowly, concentrating its flavors. The beef needed to break down gradually, its collagen transforming into gelatin, its fibers becoming tender. The spices needed time to penetrate every cell of the meat.
Ryu set a timer for thirty minutes—time for the first stir. Then he cleaned his workspace, washing the mortar and pestle, organizing his station the way his previous life's training had ingrained in him.
But as he cleaned, he found himself constantly drawn back to the pot. The smell was hypnotic—spicy, sweet, savory, complex. The surface bubbled gently, coconut milk slowly evaporating, the sauce beginning its long transformation.
After thirty minutes, Ryu stirred carefully. The beef had already begun to tenderize, the edges softening. The sauce was still very liquid, pale, far from the dark, thick coating rendang was known for.
Patience.
He set another timer. Cleaned some more. Found himself reading his mother's journal, looking at her notes about rendang.
"Rendang is meditation. You can't think about the end—only the now. Check too often and you'll go mad. Trust the process. Trust the heat. Trust time itself." - Mei Lin
Below that, his father had written: "She was right. My first rendang, I stirred every five minutes, trying to speed it up. It never came together properly. Second time, I let it go, stirred every 30 minutes, trusted the pot. Magic."
Ryu smiled despite his nervousness. Even his father, the Third Seat, had screwed up rendang the first time. There was comfort in that.
Another thirty minutes. Another stir. The sauce had thickened noticeably now, going from thin and watery to something with body. The color was deepening too—from pale tan to a richer brown. The beef was more tender, but still had a way to go.
The kitchen was thick with aroma now—so intense Ryu's mouth watered constantly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his previous life's chef-brain was analyzing: the lemongrass top notes, the galangal's medicinal brightness, the deep umami from the beef, the sweetness from coconut and spices, the building heat from the chilies.
But his present-life heart felt something else: connection. This dish was linking him to his mother, to his father, to generations of cooks who'd made this same dish for celebrations and gatherings. Every stir of the spoon was a conversation across time.
Two hours in, the transformation was obvious. The sauce had reduced by more than half, clinging to the beef like a glaze. The color was now that characteristic dark mahogany. When Ryu stirred, he could feel the resistance—this wasn't liquid anymore, it was almost a paste.
He tasted a small piece of beef, blowing on it to cool it down.
The flavor hit him like a punch. Complex didn't even begin to describe it—there were layers upon layers. The initial hit of heat from the chilies, then the aromatic complexity of the lemongrass and galangal, then the deep, savory richness of the beef and reduced coconut milk, then the sweetness from the caramelization, then the warming spices like cinnamon and star anise, then underneath it all, that funky depth from the—
Wait. I forgot something.
Panic seized Ryu's chest. He frantically checked his mother's recipe. There, in the ingredient list: terasi (shrimp paste), toasted and pounded into the rempah.
He'd forgotten the terasi. The fundamental umami foundation. Without it, his rendang was incomplete.
No. No, no, no.
Three hours of work. Perfect technique. But missing one crucial ingredient that would provide depth and complexity his dish desperately needed.
Ryu stared at the pot, his previous life's perfectionism screaming at him to throw it out and start over. This was failure. Unacceptable. In a Michelin kitchen, this would get you fired.
But then he remembered his father's words: "Don't think about impressing me. Think about what rendang means."
And his mother's note: "Life isn't uniform. Let the beef be itself."
Rendang was about patience, about adaptation, about process. So he'd made a mistake. He was fifteen years old (sort of) making one of Southeast Asia's most complex dishes for the first time truly understanding what it meant.
Ryu made a decision. He pulled out the terasi, toasted it quickly until it smoked, then pounded it rapidly with a bit of the rendang sauce to make a paste. He stirred this into the pot, knowing it wasn't ideal—the terasi should have been there from the start, building with the other flavors—but at least it would add that missing dimension.
He reduced the heat to the lowest setting and let it cook for another hour, stirring every fifteen minutes, letting the terasi incorporate as much as possible.
By hour four, his timer beeped. Time was up.
Ryu looked at his rendang. The sauce had reduced to a thick, dark coating on the beef. The meat had transformed from tough chunks to tender, almost dry pieces that were still moist inside. The color was deep mahogany-black in places where the sauce had caramelized against the meat. The aroma was incredible—complex, layered, intense without being overwhelming.
But was it enough? Had his late addition of terasi worked? Would his father taste the mistake?
Only one way to find out.
"Dad!" Ryu called out, his voice cracking slightly. "It's ready!"
He heard footsteps on the stairs—measured, unhurried. Takeshi appeared in the kitchen doorway, his expression neutral, unreadable. He'd changed into a clean chef's coat, and Ryu realized this wasn't just father tasting son's cooking—this was a former Elite Ten member evaluating a dish.
The pressure suddenly felt immense.
Takeshi walked to the stove, looking at the pot without saying anything. He leaned in, inhaling deeply. His expression didn't change, but Ryu saw his father's nostrils flare slightly, processing the aroma.
Then Takeshi picked up a clean spoon, took a small portion of rendang, and tasted it.
Ryu held his breath.
Takeshi chewed slowly, his eyes closing. Seconds stretched into eternity. The kitchen was completely silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Finally, Takeshi opened his eyes. They were wet.
"Tell me about your process," he said quietly.
Ryu explained everything—the careful selection of beef, the painstaking pounding of the rempah, the toasting of spices, the cooking of the paste until it split, the patient reduction over four hours. And then, voice small, he admitted: "I forgot the terasi at first. I added it in the last hour, but I know it should have been in the rempah from the start. I'm sorry. I failed."
Takeshi was quiet for a long moment. Then he took another bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"You're right," he finally said. "The terasi integration isn't perfect. If I focus, I can taste where it was added late—there's a slight separation in the flavor profile. A judge at Totsuki would notice. They'd mark you down for execution."
Ryu's heart sank.
"But," Takeshi continued, his voice growing softer, "you also made me cry. And I haven't cried from food since your mother died."
He looked directly at Ryu, and tears were streaming freely down his face now.
"This rendang—it's not perfect. But it has soul. I can taste the effort in every bite. I can taste your respect for the process. I can taste that you were thinking about what this dish means, not just what it is. The terasi mistake? That's technique. That's fixable. But this—" he gestured to the pot, "—this heart, this intention, this connection to tradition—that's what separates good cooks from great ones."
Takeshi set down his spoon and pulled Ryu into a tight hug.
"Your mother would be so proud," he whispered. "Not because it's perfect—because you tried. Because you understood. Because you made rendang the right way, even though it hurt, even though it was hard, even though you could have cut corners."
Ryu found himself crying too—great, heaving sobs that he couldn't control. All the pressure, all the fear, all the desperation to prove himself worthy of this second chance—it all came pouring out.
"I wanted it to be perfect," Ryu choked out. "I wanted to show you I could do it."
"It doesn't have to be perfect," Takeshi said firmly, pulling back to look at Ryu. "It has to be honest. And this—this is the most honest cooking I've seen from you."
He wiped his eyes, then smiled. "Now. Sit. We're going to eat this together, and I'm going to tell you exactly what worked and what needs improvement. Then tomorrow, you're making it again. And the day after. And the day after that. You're going to make rendang until you can do it perfectly in your sleep, until you can feel when the rempah splits without looking, until you can judge the reduction by sound alone."
Takeshi pulled out two bowls and rice from the cooker. He plated the rendang carefully, the way one would plate at a fine restaurant, treating Ryu's imperfect first attempt with the same respect as a master's work.
They sat at the small kitchen table—the same table where Ryu had eaten breakfast just hours ago, though it felt like days.
Takeshi raised his spoon. "To your mother. To tradition. To the journey ahead."
Ryu raised his spoon in return, and they ate together in comfortable silence, the rendang creating a bridge between past and present, between memory and possibility, between a father's legacy and a son's future.
To be continue