Foody Wars

"Ahh… I'm so satisfied."

With a dreamy sigh, Leonora Nakiri leaned back in her seat, one hand gently pressing her stomach while the other dabbed at the corners of her lips—though not before she licked off a glimmer of spicy red oil with a pleased hum.

The lingering heat of the Giant Panda Magical Mapo Tofu still clung to her taste buds. A slight flush bloomed across her porcelain cheeks, the spice warming her fair skin into a soft, radiant pink. Under the tavern's amber lighting, the glow gave her an almost ethereal allure—fierce beauty mellowed by full satisfaction.

"Here," Zane offered, already placing a cup of water before her. "Something to take the edge off."

"Thank you," Leonora murmured, her voice husky with heat.

She accepted the water without ceremony and drank deeply. The coolness slid down her throat, cutting the spice's blaze. Yet even the water felt fragrant—the Sichuan magic clung so tenaciously to her palate that everything, even hydration, tasted seasoned.

She set down the cup and leaned forward with renewed focus. "Zane… Your Giant Panda Magical Mapo Tofu—like the Six Flavors Magical Mapo Tofu—clearly centers on flavor and texture. But one thing puzzles me."

She paused thoughtfully, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"One of the Six Flavors is 'hot'—and Mapo Tofu, by nature, must be scalding. Sealed inside a wooden mold, though… How did it retain that essential searing temperature?"

The question hung in the air, laced with curiosity. Even as the head of the Nakiri International Research Society, Leonora couldn't unravel this particular culinary riddle.

Zane chuckled softly. "Didn't you check the bottom of the mold?"

Leonora blinked. "…No?"

"I lined the base with tinfoil," he explained. "Not just for insulation, but for even heat distribution. It also traps steam—preserving both heat and moisture."

Leonora froze. Then her eyes widened in realization.

"Tinfoil… Of course!" she gasped, slapping her own forehead. "I can't believe I missed such a fundamental element. Ugh… I, of all people!"

She let out a self-deprecating laugh. "What kind of research head overlooks foil of all things?"

Nearby, Taki, who was prepping ingredients at the kitchen counter, chuckled. "His ideas never follow the conventional path."

She glanced at Zane. "But the results are always worth it."

"Indeed," Taki agreed with a sigh. "His cooking always brings a surprise."

There's a certain kind of beauty in first encounters—the unexpected thrill of discovery.

Between people, it's rare. Between food and memory, it's magical.

That was the spirit of Zane's tavern.

It wasn't just a place to eat—it was a place to relive nostalgia, chase delight, and fall in love with flavors all over again.

As word spread, the tavern swelled with regulars and newcomers alike. Orders poured in.

"Chef Zane! One Dragon Beard Noodles, extra spicy!"

"Coming right up!"

Dragon Beard Noodles.

Their allure lay in a single trait—fineness.

Historically traced to the Qing Dynasty and documented by Shaanxi scholar Xue Baozhan, these noodles, known once as Shen Noodles, dazzled with their hair-like thinness and resilience to boiling.

Today, their evolved form—Dragon Beard Noodles—carried centuries of tradition with every strand.

And Zane was about to perform that tradition live.

He dusted the counter with high-gluten flour, kneading a smooth dough while incorporating just the right amount of water to achieve elasticity.

Then, with practiced motion, he rolled the dough into even strips about three centimeters wide, flouring them again.

Grasping the ends, he began the pulling motion—a rhythmic, hypnotic dance.

One pull—one fold. One fold—double the strands.

With each fold, the single thick rope of dough became two, then four, then eight.

By the time Zane reached eight folds, the crowd had stopped eating. All eyes were on the glittering strands—256 silvery noodles dancing in the air like silk ribbons.

Leonora, still seated, stared in awe, eyes tracking the noodles like a mesmerized spectator at a ballet.

And Zane?

He wasn't done.

Nine folds.

Ten folds.

Leonora gasped. "Is he… going for eleven?"

He didn't respond. His breath grew heavier, his brow damp.

A hush fell.

Zane closed his eyes.

Ten seconds passed.

He exhaled.

And then—one last pull.

Twelve folds.

4096 noodles.

The air seemed to vibrate.

Dragon Beard Noodles: Legendary in Name and Technique.

Their origin? Shandong, over three centuries ago. Pulled thin like dragon whiskers, they became an imperial delicacy, earning the majestic title from a delighted emperor.

Though overshadowed today by the fame of Lanzhou Beef Noodles, the delicacy of Dragon Beard Noodles was quietly rising in esteem.

The modern industry defined mastery as 14 folds—an astronomical 16,384 noodles from a single piece of dough.

But here in this humble tavern, Zane's twelve-fold display was already a culinary spectacle.

He worked quickly now.

Fresh squid, shrimp, eggs, clams, mushrooms, fish slices, and peas were gently lowered into the bubbling fish broth.

He covered the pot and let the flavors marry.

Five minutes later, he uncovered it—the air thick with the scent of seafood and umami.

Leonora, still seated nearby, couldn't help but salivate. "What on earth is that broth…?"

Zane added the noodles. A final garnish of chopped green onions.

Done.

A bowl fit for royalty—simple in appearance, yet layered with centuries of history and modern precision.

The first slurps echoed like music in the tavern.

The noodles shimmered on the surface of the broth—finer than silk, softer than snow. They melted on the tongue.

"Like swallowing snowflakes," the customer whispered. "Thin as hair, smooth as glass, warm and gentle as silk…"

Fragrance.

An overwhelming, intoxicating fragrance.

If one could bottle the aroma, they would treasure it like perfume.

Bite by bite.

Sip by sip.

The broth, infused with the essence of the sea and vegetables, was the real soul.

Even the most delicate noodle would be meaningless without this deep, masterfully seasoned base.

The customer smiled. "The broth… it's like hugging someone you miss. You can't describe it—only feel it."

Meanwhile, in another corner of the culinary battlefield…

Pepper Buns.

Taiwan's famous street snack—crispy, juicy, bursting with pepper and history.

In Soma Yukihira's hands, dough was rolled and shaped with confident flair.

Inside: minced pork, green onions, black pepper, fragrant oils, and a special spice blend.

Each bun was carefully coated with sesame seeds and pressed to stick on the red-hot iron drum oven wall—a method passed down from Taiwanese street vendors.

Once baked, they emerged golden and blistered, steam hissing from the surface.

Soma grabbed one, its crust hot to the touch.

Bite.

Explosion.

Meat juice surged, coating the tongue.

Pepper hit first—sharp, commanding—followed by sweetness from the pork and the fresh kick of green onions.

Crunchy exterior.

Juicy core.

Heavenly aroma.

Originally known as Fuzhou buns, their name had evolved due to the overwhelming use of pepper. A happy accident that became legacy.

And Soma?

He wasn't satisfied.

"For the school festival… it still doesn't feel right."

He frowned, reviewing the process again.

"I even replicated the oven—dug a pit, used a flipped water jar, an iron plate, real charcoal…"

"Baked them for 15 minutes."

He scratched his head, frustrated.

"Still missing something."

Food is like memory.

And perfection… takes patience.

But both Zane's Dragon Beard Noodles and Soma's Pepper Buns proved one thing:

Even centuries-old recipes could still bloom with new life—

in the right hands.