A/N: ( *v*) You're here? you clicked on it? You make me so happy!
This story is for Kanra-chan. After her story The Bachelor (hilarious by the way, check it out), featuring none other than Gordon Ramsey himself, I was feeling inspired.
So my thoughts went something like, 'What if Gordon Ramsey... But Shizuo.' You know, tall, blond, and really fricken angry all the time but really just a sweet cinnamon roll on the inside.
And thus this monstrosity was born.
Buckle up darlings because I'm the one driving this train wreck in motion!
ENJOY!
Four cups of stock, added to the two/thirds cup of rice. It's a stock that he'd thrown together but even by itself, it smells divine. Each piece of it had been carefully chosen and simmered to perfection. The aroma alone would make your mouth water. Ginger root, large chunks to add to the flavor. He adds several other things as well. It's a personal blend of his. Most of these things are at this point.
Into the large bottomed pan the components go and a second later flames leap up under them. With smooth movements, he stirs, evenly distributing the ginger, then the lid goes on. It needs to simmer for an hour, though he's discovered just five minutes more gives it a better, more pleasing consistency.
Moving onto the garnish, he grabs for what he needs. Bok choy, steamed until soft and pliant. The chopping knife he handles is clearly cared for, sharpened to a fine edge and kept safe at all times. He lowers it to the chopping block and the way he carves the fresh greens is like watching an intricate dance. His hands and the knife are the dancers, partners in a graceful waltz that only someone like him knows.
These he puts on a bamboo strainer that sits inside a pot, over boiling water. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, cover until tender. Another pot is added to the stove. As the lid is lifted from the cooking rice, a heavenly scent fills the room. It brings to mind a spring day, just after a rain, cherry blossoms mixing with the rich smell of turned earth. With quick precise movements, the cooking rice is stirred, bringing forth yet more delectable smells.
Then it's capped again as he moves on.
Fried garlic, fresh and thinly sliced, browned in a bit of oil. Again his hands return to the chopping block. The knife is rinsed before it begins slicing through the peeled garlic. Its scent is a sharp overlay to the sweet, heady scent of the other cooking foods. Once he's finished cutting them into perfectly uniform slices, he tosses them into the oil he's already got warming on the stove. It spits at him but he pays it no heed.
The oil is a new kind, one he picked up in a downtown market. It adds to the scene he's painting with the cooking food. You can almost see someone walking down a winding path through the cherry blossom trees, cloak billowing out behind them. As it seeps into the garlic, the resulting reaction gives you a clear picture of the face. Sharp, refined, with high cheekbones and pale ivory skin.
Turning the heat off the moment the garlic is properly fried, his fingers find the scallions. Trimmed and thinly sliced, put together with shredded ginger steeped in rice wine and chopped green chillies. First he turns however and checks the bok choy. The gentle smell is like a soft breeze that ripples through the scene he's already created.
Moving again to his chopping block, he makes quick work of the scallions and chilies, turning them into perfectly sized pieces in seconds. Leaving these two ingredients in a bowl, he moves to the ginger, still steeping in rice wine. Draining the rice wine into another container to be used later, he takes the ginger and stirs it in.
There's a river in the garden, the spice in the chilies giving you the idea of fast moving water while the ginger is a solid bridge across it. The figure conjured up moves as he adds it to the fried garlic. In your mind, you can see the figure turn as the scents change again. The expression on the figure's face is still unclear, but only for a moment.
The bok choy come off the stove a moment later and are added to the garnish. It smells divine and looks almost as good. If you inhaled, you'd see the slight beginnings of a half smile and raven hair in how the tang of the garlic meets the breath of air that's the steamed bok choy. He doesn't see these images though, he instead is focused on the dish itself.
Everything in the empty kitchen is still save for what he's bringing to life. That being said, it's like watching a single violin player on a stage. So elegant and beautiful, the rest of the instruments need not intervene.
Stirring the rice that's been reduced to the consistency of porridge, he gives it another few vigorous stirs before turning off the stove and fishing out the roots he'd used to help flavor the rice. Everything about it is beauty in motion, each component coming together so perfectly as this masterpiece draws to a close.
Rice wine, poured in after taking it off heat. Uncorking the rice wine, he dashes it in and suddenly, the face in your mind's eye becomes clear. Bright, red eyes stare straight ahead as a tear slips down that ivory cheek. As the garnish is added carefully to each of the four bowls that has been laid out and the soy sauce he'd been experimenting with last week is added right along with some of the oil he used to fry the garlic in.
Finally, it's done. The curtain draws to a close on the performance. Most importantly, the food is finished and finally, his hands still.
Suddenly, a bright light invades the kitchen as the switch is flipped. Instantly, Shizuo Heiwajima is almost blinded.
"Fucking hell, get out of my fucking kitchen!"
"It's not your kitchen if you gave it to me," comes the clipped voice of none other than Namie Yagiri. Shizuo groans as the woman walks into the restaurant kitchen, her heels clicking on the tile floor.
"It's my name on the deed," Shizuo growls, rubbing his eyes before going about cleaning his chopping knife and putting it away carefully.
"Yeah and it's me who runs it while you're off visiting your other dozen successful restaurants," Namie points out, glaring at him. "Any reason why the great Shizuo Heiwajima is up at one in the morning making Congee?"
"Ah," he rubs the back of his neck, looking away sullenly. "There were some homeless people outside. They kept digging shit out of the fucking trash, I can't fucking sleep listening to that racket so I made them something." Shizuo shrugs. "And I can do what I want."
Namie rolls her eyes. "You're ten years my junior, how the hell did I end up following orders from a twenty-eight year old?"
"It's because I'm a better and more successful fucking cook than you are," Shizuo grumbles, his words coming out naturally volatile. Namie, he had to admit, was one of his best head chefs he'd ever hired, but her food lacked something, something that was inside her and couldn't be fixed with mere practice. Which is why she isn't him at this point and is instead simply running one of the most well known restaurants in Hong Kong
Details, you know?
Taking a deep breath, drawing in the perfect aroma of the dishes he's setting on a tray to take outside, Namie's brows furrow. "You're still upset?"
"Of course I'm fucking upset," Shizuo huffed. "He was a total bastard and he was lucky I didn't kill him."
"I was there Shizuo, I saw it, I tasted what he made," Namie looks at Shizuo levely, her eyes betraying nothing. "He belongs somewhere he can thrive, after graduating from-"
"Do I look like I give a fuck where he went to school?" Shizuo demanded, his eyes narrowed. Even talking about the man from earlier was setting him on edge, actually on edge and not just this fairly typical of him sharpness. "I'm never going to let a piece of shit like him step foot in any of my kitchen. Ever."
As he walked towards the side door and props it open, Namie sighs. "I'm telling you Shizuo, he's different. You aren't giving him a chance." Then she leaves, abandoning Shizuo to his task of feeding the homeless outside his restaurant.
The family looks up as he walks out, the little girl's mouth falling open in awe as the smell hits her first. Her brother cheers as he sees what Shizuo has and their mother is practically in tears, as is the father. They all reach for the food before withdrawing their hands nervously as if unsure what they're supposed to do.
"There's more where this came from if you want it," Shizuo grunts, though his tone has softened considerably. "Knock if you want it, I'll be in there smoking." Handing the family the tray, Shizuo watches them for a moment as they all distribute the bowls before leaving. He almost wants to stay to watch their faces as they eat, but he knows that he's too upset to truly take pleasure in causing these people joy.
So instead he gets inside and shuts the door.
The moment he's alone, Shizuo lights up and takes a comforting drag of nicotine. His mind wanders back to two days ago and the man who had left him in such a foul state. Raven hair, fine face, chapped lips and a tongue that almost put his own to shame. He'd been stubborn and obstinate and Shizuo had wanted nothing to do with him.
And yet the food he'd made for Shizuo, Namie, and the owner of the restaurant Shizuo had in Tokyo, Shiki, had been beyond good. Hell, even Shizuo who was more accustomed to picking out every single little problem with a dish and ranting about it had been impressed. But it was the personality behind that food, the smug snide conniving bastard that had served him that made Shizuo's blood boil.
Why am I still conflicted over this… digging into his pocket, Shizuo finds the card at once, the spiky, slanted scrawl of the man's phone number almost glows under the light. I should fucking burn it. But he doesn't do any of that. Instead, he pulls out his phone and dials the number then and there.
The man on the other end picks up on the first ring.
A/N: ARE YOU STILL WITH ME?
No?
...okay... *sighs sadly*