Chapter Text
The kitchen of Oshu buzzed with activity and good cheer. It was nearing 11 pm, and the only station still working was the desserts, where Magoichi was artistically arranging several plates of wagashi . The dessert chef hummed absently to himself as he worked, oblivious to any scrutiny. The rest of the staff were wiping counters and sweeping up, preparing to close. The dishwasher sat ajar, waiting for the last diners’ plates.
Date Masamune leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. It had been a good, busy night, and his cooks had performed admirably, as they always did. He nodded approvingly as Magoichi’s plates went past him to the dining room and moved to the centre of the kitchen. He’d never approved of the kind of plating and presentation that went on in haute cuisine , partly because of his own lack of patience, and partly because he felt sub-par chefs used it to distract from the mediocrity of their food. Wagashi was different; each tiny pastry was like a delicious gem, displayed to perfection to nourish the spirit as well as the palate. Magoichi’s wagashi were always beautiful. Oshu was lucky to have him.
“All right, lads!” He clapped his hands and smiled broadly. “The battle is well fought and won. Help Magoichi clean up and get set up for last call. Tonight’s special is curry udon and pork cutlets.” A cheer went up and everyone not already occupied with cleaning went to the open area at the back of the kitchen and started setting up a long folding table. Masamune adjusted the dark blue bandana keeping his shock of chestnut hair tucked inside his toque before striding out to the hostess’s station. Sumire, the senior hostess, was preparing receipts for the table currently tucking into Magoichi’s creations.
“Hey, Chef. No last-minute surprises. These guys look like they’ll be ready to leave in ten minutes. They’ve already told Kita they don’t want any tea.”
“Great.” Masamune rested his forearms on the riser of the hostess station. “We’re just finishing clean up in the kitchen, desserts was the only thing left.”
Sumire grinned. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Curry udon and pork cutlets. Your favourite.”
Her groan was both delighted and despairing. “If you keep feeding us like this, Chef, you’re going to have to roll me out of this restaurant some day.”
Masamune winked at Sumire. For all he fed her and the rest of the staff, the woman was a twig. “Maybe it’s my way of keeping my staff loyal. You can’t quit if you’re too fat to leave!”
Sumire giggled, then waved him away as one of the diners at the final table caught her eye and waved. Masamune chuckled to himself and wandered back into the kitchen.
“Kojuro, help me get the beer.” Katakura Kojuro, his sous chef, followed Masamune towards the walk-in fridge, where they grabbed two cases of Sapporo.
“Good night, eh?” The older man looked satisfied. Masamune grinned broadly at him.
“Good enough, and no dawdlers delaying our after-party!” As the men stepped out of the fridge, Masamune saw the table and chairs were set up and Magoichi had already started serving the curry. As Masamune set the case in the middle of the table, he could hear Sumire answering the phone at her station. “Oi, Sumire, tell them we’re closed and come get your dinner!”
When Sumire entered the kitchen a few minutes later, all the staff but Masamune had a beer in hand and a bowl of curry. Masamune had a cup of tea, which he raised in her direction. “Come on, lass, you’re keeping us waiting!”
“Sorry, Chef, that last call had a message for you.” She handed him a slip of paper with a name and phone number scribbled on it before accepting the beer Kojuro was holding out for her. She popped it open with practised ease. “He said it was vital you call him tonight, if at all possible.” Sumire slid into the seat left vacant for her and raised the bottle. “Kanpai!”
“Kanpai!” the rest of the table cheered back at her. Masamune took a swig of his tea and scanned the note as everyone dug into their dinner.
(011-271-6677) Oda Nobunaga
Oda? He hadn’t heard from Oda Nobunga since the man had retired from cooking two years ago. Now he was merely the owner of the Sixth Heaven, a step down in the opinion of any chef. By all accounts, his former sous-chef Hideyoshi Toyotomi was doing an excellent job with the kitchen there; Masamune had no idea why Oda might need to speak with him urgently.
He stepped away from the table, taking his bowl with him. “Carry on, lads! I’m going to see what this is about.” A few shouts of commiseration trailed behind him as he went to his tiny office and shut the door. He contemplated the number for a minute before shaking his head and opening a line on his desk phone while shoveling curry into his mouth. The speaker blared for a few seconds, then clicked.
“Oda.”
Masamune swallowed hurriedly. “Oda-san, Date. My hostess said it was urgent. Did Toyotomi forget to bleach a counter and give himself psychosomatic food poisoning?”
“Date!” Nobunaga chuckled. “Nothing so dire as that. This isn’t about the Sixth Heaven at all, actually.”
Masamune leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand under his eyepatch. “Then what, Oda-san? Surely you didn’t call at closing time on a Tuesday night to reminisce?”
“Actually, my friend, I have a business proposition for you. Are you free tomorrow morning?”
Masamune sat up straight again. “You know I stay out of other people’s business propositions. Paying you back for Oshu was enough.”
“No, this is nothing like that. I’m not asking you for any money. In fact, if this goes well, you’ll probably get a nice bump out of it.” Nobunaga’s voice was replete with confidence. Masamune eyed the phone doubtfully, letting the pause lengthen. Finally, Nobunaga continued. “At least give me the opportunity to make my case in person, Date.”
A sigh escaped Masamune. “We open at 11 for lunch service. How long do you think you’ll need?”
Nobunaga hummed contemplatively on the other end of the line. “Can you come by my office at the Sixth Heaven at 8 am? Two hours should be more than enough and give you time to get back to Oshu.”
Masamune winced. Early rising was not his favourite activity, but Nobunaga had piqued his interest. “Alright then, 8 am. This had better be worth it.”
“Oh, I think you’ll agree it is,” Nobunaga answered smugly. “Tomorrow, Date. 8 am.”
Masamune put the phone back in its cradle. Whatever Oda was playing at, it’d probably be interesting, but eight o’clock? In the morning ? His cellphone chirped from the pocket of the leather jacket slung over the back of the chair, and he jumped. “Shit!” He fumbled it out and answered the call.
“Masa,” a sweet soprano voice purred. “What time will you be coming? I’m getting bored waiting for you.”
“Eh, Megohime,” he smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head. “Actually, something’s come up and I have an early appointment tomorrow. Rain check?”
“Aww, Masa-kun.” The soprano voice pouted at him alluringly. “You’ll make it up to me, right?” The last word had a wicked curl to it, and Masamune smirked.
“Of course I will. I know what you like best.” He let his voice rumble enticingly. “I’ll text you later this week, all right?”
“Oh, all right.”
Masamune flicked the phone off and dropped it back into his jacket before turning his attention to his cooling dinner, Megohime already forgotten
At eight A.M., Masamune rolled his motorcycle to a stop in front of the Peninsula hotel. He cut the engine and cast his gaze up the 24 stories of the skyscraper. Pictures of the skyscraper lit up at night made it seem very dramatic and romantic, but to his jaded morning eye it was merely bombastic. Still suits Oda, he grunted to himself as he pulled off his helmet. A valet hurried towards him, bowing.
“Forgive me, sir, but your motorcycle can’t be left here!”
Masamune toyed with the idea of just tossing the keys to the valet and letting him figure it out, but the chance of damage to his bike outweighed the comic appeal. He sighed. “I have a meeting with the owner of The Sixth Heaven this morning. Where can I park?”
Name-dropping Oda got him directed to a private section of the underground parking lot, near a service elevator. He parked and carried his helmet with him, entering the elevator with several women wearing the uniform of cleaning staff. He towered above them all from the back, but would have stood out anyways in his royal blue moto jacket and leather chaps. He tilted his head enough to see the woman standing immediately to his right, and exaggeratedly winked his left eye at her. She blushed a healthy bright red and the rest of them giggled. When the elevator reached the second floor he exited, tossing a grin and a wave over his shoulder. More giggling and a few sighs were cut off as the doors closed behind him. He made his way down the tastefully silent hallway and ornate restaurant entrance, shaking his head. All this opulence made his teeth itch.
He stopped at a heavy wooden door with ‘Oda’ engraved on it at eye level and banged his helmet against it gently in lieu of a knock. The door clicked open immediately, opening to reveal a slender man with feral features and silvery hair. Masamune nodded briefly.
“Akechi-san. I’m here to see Oda.”
Akechi Mitsuhide smiled thinly and stepped back to allow him access to the antechamber. “Nobunaga mentioned you’d be paying a visit this morning.” He waved Masamune in. “Can I bring you a drink?” Mitsuhide was the head bartender of The Sixth Heaven, and served as personal mixologist for Nobunaga whenever his boss was running business meetings. His mind was as sharp as his ears, and he excelled at serving drinks that loosened people’s tongues. Masamune shook his head.
“You know I don’t touch it.” He was well aware of Mitsuhide’s predilection for sneaking sake into his cup. It would be far from the first time. The arch of Mitsuhide’s white eyebrow indicated amusement at the thought, but he waved a hand in negation.
“I’m well aware of your difficulties holding your liquor, Date-san, but I do have tea and coffee on hand as well. Nobunaga does want you to hear his proposition, not sleep through it.”
“Fine, green tea.”
“I’ll bring it in. Nobunaga’s waiting for you through there,” Mitsuhide indicated the door to Nobunaga’s inner sanctum with another languid wave as he moved towards the door that presumably hid the drink service. Masamune pushed through the door and into a smaller, but no less opulent office. Oda Nobunaga sat behind a desk done in tiger stripes of ebony and lacquer. The carpet was plush, with a geometric design in black and scarlet. The rest of the furniture was black leather. Masamune nodded in greeting as he took a seat in the swiveling armchair facing the desk’s owner, his chaps creaking against the cushion.
“Oda-san. Isn’t all this,” he waved vaguely at the room, “a bit much?”
Nobunaga was leaning back in his vast executive chair, and didn’t bother to sit up when Masamune entered. He shrugged a response, bringing a steaming cup to his lips. The smell of coffee hit Masamune. “Oh, it’s not very minimalistic, I grant you, but we are a Cantonese restaurant. Japanese restraint would hardly be appropriate.” He set the cup down again on the blotter. “Good morning to you as well.”
Masamune let his helmet roll under his seat and shrugged off his jacket, then leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “What’s all this about?”
“Straight to business then? No more comments about my interior decorator’s work? Fine, then.” Nobunaga smirked lazily, then finally leaned forward. “I find that since stepping down as Chef here, I’ve been getting bored.” He paused as the door opened to admit Mitsuhide carrying a cup of tea. “I miss the challenge, and the --” he paused again, searching for the right word. “The performance of cooking.”
Masamune nodded his brief thanks to Mitsuhide as he lifted the cup to his face and sniffed the tea. No alcohol that he could detect, and the tea itself was high quality. “So, what does this have to do with me? You could step back into your own kitchen at any time. Toyotomi would never begrudge you the job.” He sipped the tea and squinted across the desk suspiciously. “There’s certainly no room for you at Oshu.”
This time Nobunaga laughed out loud. “No, no, those days are long past me. Time for the new generation to step up.” He pulled a remote control out of the desk drawer and pointed it at the wall. A black screen painted with a dragon in gold and scarlet silently slid upwards into a recess in the ceiling, revealing a television. The screen flickered to life.
A martial theme began to play as the words ‘Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.’ floated on the screen. The theme nagged as Masamune’s memory, but he couldn’t place it until the voice over started describing Kitchen Stadium. He stared at Nobunaga blankly.
“ Iron Chef? You want to compete on Iron Chef?”
“Compete? No, didn’t I just say I was done with cooking?” Nobunaga shook his head in amusement. “I want to remake Iron Chef.”
Masamune burst out laughing. “With yourself as the owner of Kitchen Stadium, I assume?”
“Indeed. I think I’d make an excellent Chairman, don’t you?”
“You’re certainly hammy enough for it.”
“I think the title of Chairman is played out, though.” Nobunaga gave his guest a significant look. “I prefer . . . Shogun. ”
“Shogun Oda. It has a good ring to it. And the chefs would be your daimyos?”
“I think it fits the level of drama the series needs.” Nobunaga leaned back again and gestured expansively. “I want to do the entire series in a Sengoku theme. Shogun, daimyo, samurai chefs, over-the-top uniforms, the whole nine yards.”
“I like it! Everyone enjoys a good historical drama.”
“We’ll update the format a little too. The old one-on-one competition lacks flair. Audiences these days prefer continuity. I’m planning a five episode series, with four Iron Chefs and two competitors. Each episode will have both contenders against one Chef, and then against each other at the end. There’ll be a running ranking, with the winner announced at the end of the series.” Nobunaga clasped his hands together over his stomach. “What do you think?”
“It’s a good plan. But,” Masamune set down his tea cup. “You still haven’t explained why I’m here.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Nobunaga lifted an eyebrow and smirked at him. “I want you to be one of the Iron Chefs. The most important one, even, since Japanese is your specialty.”
“Huh. And who else have you signed on to this?”
“You’re the first I’ve approached. I trust no one else with our national cuisine.”
Masamune grunted skeptically at that. “You mean, you don’t have enough dirt on anyone else to twist their arm.” His dry tone belied his rising interest.
“Come now, Masamune.” Nobunaga leaned forward. “Your debt to me is cleared, you know that. I invited you here as a respected peer, not a vassal.”
Masamune leaned back himself, considering. For all he mocked Oda’s hamminess, he was self-aware enough to know how much he himself enjoyed the spotlight. He rested his chin on his right hand, feeling the faint scar under the edge of his eyepatch. “It’s tempting . . . ” A television series, a few new fangirls, a little extra fame for Oshu-- That last thought brought him back to reality. “But I can’t. Oshu is too busy these days. I can’t afford to take the time away from the kitchen.”
“Are you sure?” Nobunaga narrowed his eyes. “You know Katakura has more than enough experience to keep Oshu on an even keel for the few months this would take.” The older man was right, of course. Kojuro had taught Masamune most of what he knew about running a kitchen, starting from the day Date Terumune had brought his second son into the kitchen of Date’s.
Masamune shook his head regretfully. Oshu was his responsibility, not Kojuro’s. He hated the idea of not being there to care for his staff. “Maybe next year.” He gripped the arms of the chair, preparing to stand up.
Nobunaga dipped his chin, frowning a little, but didn’t argue further. “Very well. It’s a shame, we could have used you. The audience would appreciate your charisma.” He clicked a few buttons on the remote, and the old episode of Iron Chef was replaced by a woman in kitchen whites, hair tucked into a tight bun under her cap. “Before you go, at least, would you review this audition tape for me? The woman’s name is Mizusaki Mai, and her specialty is Japanese as well.” He hit ‘play’ without waiting for an answer.
The woman onscreen bowed to the camera and smiled brightly while introducing herself. Masamune retrieved his tea and sipped it. She was cute, certainly, and lively, but it wasn’t until she mentioned bringing Ainu cuisine into mainstream Japanese cooking that he really started to pay attention. She spoke passionately about the need to preserve the minority culture and retain its lessons of simplicity and efficiency in nutrition in the modern day of empty flamboyance.
Simplicity and efficiency, and somehow she’s caught Oda’s eye? Masamune looked across the desk as the video ended with the woman bowing again. “I appreciate her philosophy, certainly. Where did you find her?”
Nobunaga looked serious. “You know why I retired from cooking?” He opened another drawer in his desk and removed what appeared to be a leather shaving kit. Masamune shook his head, but stayed silent. Nobunaga flipped the case open and removed a small plastic device with an LCD display and a lancet, which he pressed to his middle finger without flinching before displaying the resulting drop of blood to Masamune. The display lit up and beeped.
“I was diagnosed with Type I diabetes.”
Masamune nodded. “I remember Toyotomi trying to protect the dessert station from your ‘quality testing’.”
“If he were less diligent, I suspect I’d be dead now instead of merely restricted.” Nobunaga shrugged one shoulder as he wiped the lancet with an alcohol swab and packed the kit away again. “The doctors tell me the sugar wasn’t a factor, but --” He shook his head. “Before I was diagnosed, I was eating at the restaurant Mai worked in at the time. I wasn’t feeling well, but attributed it to overwork, too much alcohol, you know how it is.” He barked a short laugh. “Turns out I was falling into a diabetic coma. When it affected my behaviour, my dining companions assumed I was drunk. Mai was passing through the dining room and realised what was happening, and called for help. Thanks to her, I was treated before any brain damage could occur.”
Masamune let out a slow whistle. “That’s quite the tale.” He glanced back at the freeze-frame of Mai on the wall. Add ‘perceptive’, ‘intelligent’, and ‘quick-thinking’ to ‘cute and lively’!
“Indeed.” Nobunaga shrugged again, annoying Masamune with his cavalier attitude. “In any case, I thought giving her a chance to compete on the new show would in some small way repay her, but I’m not sure about her angle here. I mean, Ainu cooking? Even in Hokkaido they don’t much care for it these days.” He fell silent, eyeing Masamune over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Well, it’s certainly not as flashy as your Hong Kong style here,” Masamune snapped back irritably, “But it’s nice to hear a professional show some appreciation for the food instead of the plating. ”
Nobunaga waggled his fingers dismissively. “Let’s not start that argument again.” He turned off the television with a flick of the remote. “I assume that means you’d endorse her.”
“I would. If I were involved in this, which I’m not.” Masamune leaned down to retrieve his helmet before pushing out of the chair. Nobunaga shrugged philosophically.
“Very well.” He stood as well, accompanying Masamune to the door. “Thanks for coming out this early, at least. I’m surprised you were able to tear yourself away from whichever woman’s warming your bed this week.”
“Eh, I decided this meeting was worth getting a full night’s sleep beforehand.”
“And Isaka was all right with that?”
Masamune paused, hand on the doorknob. “Oh, I haven’t seen Isaka since I left the Sixth Heaven.”
Nobunaga smirked. “And how many others have there been between Isaka and --?”
“Megohime.” Masamune turned the knob. “And a few. You know that no one stays around long enough to come between me and Oshu.”
Nobunaga heard Masamune and Mitsuhide exchanging muffled farewells and the outer door closing. By the time Mitsuhide entered bearing a fresh pot of coffee, Nobunaga was back in his chair, staring out the window over his steepled fingers.
“Congratulations, sir.” Mitsuhide refilled his boss’s cup and put the pot down on a trivet. “You played him well.”
“You suggested the leverage, Mitsuhide, as you well remember.” Nobunaga swiveled around to face the silver-haired man. “It will do Mai some good to go up against a chef like Masamune, and it will do me some good to use him to attract the others.” His brow creased. “The man is so damn likeable, we’d never get Uesugi and Takeda without him.” He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “How long do you predict it will take Katakura to change his mind?”
Mitsuhide made a show of pondering. “I suspect it will be within the next 48 hours.” He turned to leave the office. Nobunaga nodded agreement.
“Make sure the contract is ready when he calls.”
“Of course, sir.”
The motorcycle roared as Masamune pulled into the lot behind Oshu. Gravel flew as he swung around into his spot and killed the motor. Through the window into the kitchen he could see Kojuro going over a clipboard with Sumire. They looked up as the motor stopped; Sumire smiled and waved, but Kojuro looked solemn.
Kojuro appeared in the office doorway as he was stripping off his chaps. “How was your meeting this morning? It didn’t keep you as late as you expected.” Masamune had called him before visiting Oda to advise he might be later than usual.
Masamune shrugged as he hung the leathers on the ancient coat tree in the corner. “Waste of an early morning. Oda’s planning a cooking show.” He grabbed his whites from the cubby hole next to his jacket.
“And?”
“And what?” Careless of Kojuro’s presence and the open door, Masamune unbuckled his belt and let his worn jeans slide to the floor as he sat down in the desk chair to kick them off.
“And did he just want to share his good news, or did he ask you to participate?”
“Oh, he wanted participation, all right.” Masamune swore under his breath when his jeans tangled around his boots, as they did every morning. You’d think I’d learn. Boots first! He fumbled with the laces.
Kojuro rolled his eyes. “And did you accept?”
“Accept?” Finally free of the right boot, Masamune started on the left. “How could I accept? I have responsibilities, Kojuro. I can’t be haring off to a studio for two months.” The left boot was forcefully kicked into the corner, and the right was tossed to join it. Masamune scuffed his jeans the rest of the way off and pulled his kitchen trousers on before looking up at Kojuro. The older man’s expression gave no hint of his opinion, but his set shoulders and folded arms radiated disapproval. Masamune was taken aback.
“Out with it, Kojuro. What’s eating you?”
His sous-chef’s lips tightened. He glanced over his shoulder into the hall, then came fully into the small room and closed the door behind him.
“You spend too much time here, Masamune.” Kojuro squeezed past a box of old menus to sit in the rickety wooden lawn chair that served visitors. “You need to branch out.”
Masamune gaped him for a minute before closing his mouth. “What in the nine hells does that even mean?”
“It means you’re in a rut.” Kojuro gave him a considering look. “You haven’t tried anything new in months, aside from new women.”
“Experiments are risky. I have to keep the good of our staff in mind!”
“Masamune --” The older man paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Masa-bo. Our staff are fine. You take excellent care of them -- of all of us.” Masamune scowled at the use of the childhood diminutive, but Kojuro continued before he could answer. “But you don’t take care of yourself. You thrive on innovation and excitement, but you’ve boxed yourself into a traditional restaurant and traditional cuisine.” He hesitated again. “Terumune wouldn’t have wanted you to limit yourself like this.”
“Don’t you tell me what my father would have wanted!” Masamune snapped, but Kojuro didn’t flinch.
“I know better what he might have wanted for you than you do! You were only eighteen when he passed. He always wanted you to have your restaurant, but he never meant to force you into his mold.” Kojuro scrubbed one hand over the bandana covering his hairnet. “Look, Masa-bo. I’m sorry. You are doing an excellent job with Oshu. But Terumune would have -- I want to see you be fulfilled instead of just ticking the boxes of your life.” He stood up. “Just think about it. Sumire and I can keep Oshu running while you stretch.”
Masamune glared at the empty seat for a minute after Kojuro left. Am I the only one here who understands what obligations are? Underneath his ire, he knew he was being unfair. Kojuro had stuck with Terumune until the bitter end of selling off Date’s. He’d come to get Oshu’s kitchen off the ground at a much lower salary than his experience warranted, to help the man he’d trained in that long-lost restaurant. Masamune had to admit the old man had a point. Life in the kitchen had become routine lately; Oshu was stable now, seven years in. He knew it was madness to tinker with what worked. People don’t come to traditional comfort food restaurants for excitement. But --
He shook his head at last and shrugged into his white jacket. But nothing. Deal with the job in front of you, Masamune. Worry about everything else after dinner.
********************************
It was nearly midnight when Masamune waved off Kojuro and Sumire in the parking lot. Kojuro bade him good night as usual, giving no sign their earlier conversation was on his mind, but Masamune kept turning it over as he strapped on his helmet and kicked the bike to life. He rode home much slower than usual, letting his mind wander.
Once he reached his building, he parked the bike and pulled the cover over it as usual. Slinging his helmet over his elbow by the chinstrap, he pressed the elevator call button and pulled his phone out of his pocket. There were three messages from Megohime.
Message from: Mego-chan
11:44 a.m.
When do you want to reschedule for?
2:37 p.m.
I’m not going to keep my weekend open forever!
7:22 p.m.
If you don’t call me back tonight I’ll be busy for a while.
Masamune winced. The ice dripping off the last message was palpable. He ran his thumb around the bottom edge of his eyepatch before sighing. Might as well get it over with, he thought fatalistically, hitting the call button.
The call barely rang before Megohime answered. “Masa-kun!”
Was she sitting there holding her phone? “Hi, Megohime. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier.”
“You should be!” There was playful anger in her voice, but he could hear the undercurrent of relief. “It’s not fair to leave me hanging like that!”
“You know the restaurant hours. I can’t have my phone on me while I’m working, it’s too distracting.”
“You like my distractions.” Megohime’s voice dropped to a throaty purr. The elevator door opened.
“Not when I’m working. That comes first.” Masamune entered the elevator and propped himself up in the corner, suddenly very tired.
“Awwwww,” Megohime began, and Masamune saw the pout on her face as clearly as if she was in the elevator with him. All at once the conversation irritated him. Why am I listening to a grown woman whine like a schoolgirl?
“I have obligations, Megohime. Don’t pretend I didn’t make that clear when we started this.”
“ This ?” she demanded sharply, dropping all pretense at cuteness. “You mean, our relationship ?”
Huh? Masamune was caught off guard. “What relationship?” he blurted, then resisted the urge to beat his head against the steel wall of the elevator.
There were several seconds of silence before Megohime answered coldly. “Well, I guess that explains why I don’t rate as one of your obligations . Forgive me for intruding on your time, Date-san .” The call ended.
Masamune let his head fall back and closed his eye. That could have gone better, I suppose.
It was another minute or two before he realised he’d never pressed the button for his floor. The elevator lurched into motion.
Inside his apartment, he dropped his keys and helmet on the bench in the entryway. He let his body go on auto-pilot as he ran the conversation with Megohime over again in his head. I thought she understood we were just casual. By the time he was standing in the bedroom, stripped to his shorts, he’d put it behind him. Oh well, one less ‘obligation’ to worry about.
He sprawled out in bed, peeled off his eyepatch, and hit the light. I guess I’ll have more time to ‘stretch’ now , was his last though before falling asleep.
********************************
The next day, at Oshu, Masamune was sitting at his desk reviewing the seafood order for the weekend when he saw Kojuro pass the doorway.
“Kojuro!” The older man paused, but stayed in the hall. Masamune grimaced. “Come in, please.”
Kojuro did as asked, taking his time closing the door and seating himself. Finally he raised his eyebrows at Masamune. “Yes, Chef?”
The title stung, as it was meant to. Masamune dropped his pen and ran his fingers through his hair before exhaling long and loud. “All right, I deserved that.” He met Kojuro’s impassive stare. “I apologise, oji-san , for my words yesterday. I was being unfair.”
Kojuro’s eyebrows lowered and his stiff expression softened. “You haven’t called me that since Date’s closed.”
“Yes, well, if Father had heard me speak to you yesterday he’d have made me wish I’d never grown up enough to leave.” Masamune looked away awkwardly. “You -- you made some good points yesterday. I’m sorry that I wasn’t ready to hear them.”
A smile spread across Kojuro’s wrinkled face. “And today?”
“And today, I find myself with more free time than yesterday, and someone wiser than I said I should take some time to ‘stretch’.”
The smile faded as Kojuro figured out what ‘more free time’ meant. “Ah, you ended things with Megohime?”
“More like she ended things after I stuck my foot in my mouth, but it had run its course anyways.” Masamune shrugged. “So which one of them called you, Oda, or Akechi?”
Kojuro started, then chuckled. “You always were too quick.” He nodded. “Oda-san, of course. He keeps in touch, even though you’ve paid off his investment. Claims to be making sure Oshu doesn’t bring him down by association, but honestly I think he just worries about you.”
Masamune grunted skeptically. “So, you think I should take him up on his offer?”
“I do.” Kojuro laced his hands together and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “He’s not asking for any financial investment, and from what he said, most filming will only be a couple of days a week.” He straightened a finger to mark this point. “You’d only be missing one or two services at most, and we’re closed on Tuesdays.” Another finger. “Saigo-kun is ready to branch out and train as chef de partie, and I’ll make sure he’ll be able to cover me while your episode films.” He smiled again at Masamune’s surprised look. “Do you really think I’d let you cook in public without your sous-chef?” A third finger. “Sumire already keeps the hostesses and servers in far closer line than you ever did, so nothing will change there.” His eyes crinkled in a smile. “She runs a tight dining room.”
“That she does,” Masamune chuckled. He knew he tended to be far too soft on the young girls working the tables, treating them like little sisters.
“Besides,” Kojuro unlaced his fingers and waggled one across the desk, as he had when teaching the younger Masamune. “You need to have some fun.”
“I was having fun!”
“‘Fun’ doesn’t give you that hunted look every time you check your text messages.” Kojuro shook his head ruefully. “You youngsters and your cell phones. You know, when I was a lad, relationships meant talking to face to face --”
“All right, all right!” Masamune lifted his hands in mock defense, laughing. “You’ve made your point, oji-san . I’ll call Oda.”
Kojuro stood, dusting his hands on the knees of his trousers. “Good. See that you do.” He made his way to the door.
Masamune waited until he was out in the hall before yelling “And it wasn’t a relationship !” He ignored the amiably mocking laughter that trailed back to him.
Shaking his head, Masamune picked up the phone to dial Oda. The call was answered quickly.
“Oda.”
“I’ll do it.”
“What?” Nobunaga made a good show of sounding surprised.
“I’ll join your kitchen circus. On one condition!” He thumped a finger into the middle of the desk. “Your Mai competes. Against me.”
The faint clink of a coffee being put down sounded from the other side of the line. “She’ll compete against everybody, in the new format. But just to make it fun, I’ll save you for last.” Nobunaga’s voice was warm with repressed laughter. “I’ll have a contract couriered over to Oshu this afternoon.”
Masamune grinned ruefully in return. “You know me too well, Oda-san. How long have you been buttering up Kojuro just to push my buttons?”
“I never let a useful tool pass out of my hands, as you know. And I don’t care if you see through me, as long as you still say yes, Date.”
“Fair enough.” Masamune scrubbed his fingers through his hair again. By now it was standing straight up. His hazy reflection in the glare of his computer monitor resembled some kind of tropical bird.
“You won’t regret it, old friend. We’re going to have a lot of fun this season.”
“I hear that’s what I need, these days.”