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Gordon Ramsay was in the middle of filming his next hit show, berating what felt like the eighth forty-something over-confident chef that had stepped on set and served him an improperly cooked dish. Sure, it made good TV, but he was really hitting a wall. Was it too much to ask to see someone who took cooking as seriously as he did? He didn’t work for pennies mastering French cuisine for years just to be known as that angry chef who gets a new gimmicky cooking show every other year.
Well, that wasn’t quite true, he actually was really fucking entertained by the gimmicks. Even the admittedly out there gimmick of his newest show–a time portal into different cultures in different time periods. The sets were elaborate, and the chefs were challenged with creating dishes from certain countries from different time periods. Gordon was pretty sure the whole pitch was more set porn than food porn.
“Cut! Gordon, we need you in Studio 6 in 10 for the next shoot!”
Gordon’s make-up artist came by and touched up his face with a powder brush, then Gordon walked over to the next studio while this one was called for lunch (rather ironic, he thought).
We walked onto set, not sure what to expect from this next segment, when his stomach lurched. And not in a ‘contestant has given him food poisoning’ way, but in a way that made his vision go black as he stumbled inside.
He blinked rapidly for a few moments and found himself surrounded by sights and sounds of a marketplace. Specifically one that looked like feudal Japan. All the set pieces had been elaborate but this one took the foie gras.
By all intents and purposes, it looked like a movie set from a samurai movie. Even better, all the stands he was walking by seemed like the best props he’d ever seen, and all the extras were acting. Were they rolling? He must have missed his cue.
He cleared his throat, and started walking down the street, specifically not worrying too much about the impressive volume stage set up giving an extremely accurate impression of the sky and surroundings. What was this show’s budget again?
This was his first week on set, but he knew the pattern, he’d walk, find the stall the contestant was at, and order a three course meal. He didn’t see his mark, but it wasn’t hard to watch through the crowd of very tall extras and find a buckwheat soba shop. There were several groups of people hanging around slurping down noodles.
Gordon took a seat–he let himself get caught up with this place, not worrying about where the cameras were, or anything else. Nothing would be happening anyway if they weren’t filming.
A blond chef that looked like he couldn’t be much older than twenty turned around to face him. His blond hair covered his right eye and the edge of his visible eyebrow curled up. Strange.
The chef regarded Gordon dispassionately–not something he saw often from his contestants.
“Bowl of soba?” The young man asked.
“Chef’s special,” Gordon said. “Give me anything you can make in thirty minutes.”
The blond kid glanced back into his stall at a few boxes of supplies out of the corner of his eye. “That will be too much food. How’s your appetite?”
Gordon’s brows furrowed. This guy wasvstand-offish, like he wasn’t trying to impress him at all. He’d seen the type before, no respect for the people they learned from, stars that burned hot, bright, and quickly.
“My appetite? Normal, I guess, what do you–”
The curly-browed man’s hands went to the sleeves of his robes, as if making sure they were going to stay in place.Something low and simmering shone in his eye. Gordon had caught his interest.
“I’ll take you up on that. I could use a change of pace from all this soba today. Give me a minute, I need to trade for some new ingredients,” he muttered, then picked up a few cartons of eggs and walked into a nearby restaurant.
Gordon was only alone a moment before another man about the same age sidled into one of the open seats next to him. He had a long nose, and curly hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Sanji’s gonna take that challenge really seriously, you know.”
“Who?” Gordon asked.
The long-nosed man jerked his head in the direction the blond had gone. “Sanji. He’s our cook. The best cook on the seas, no, no the whole world! He once saved an entire kingdom with a seven hundred pound cake he made, and another time he saved a whole country from starving! With my help of course, I helped him set up the stand and supply chain.”
Oh, so this guy was fucking with him. Well, he’d had his fair share of hecklers. This one didn’t even seem like the bad type. Better to laugh it off.
The man just grinned back then slapped the counter. “Well, I better get going, people to help, people to entertain! God Usopp’s job is never done! Enjoy your meal, don’t leave leftovers,” the man called, waving as he walked away.
Sanji returned with a couple bags of minced meat and vegetables, washed his hands and set to work. It was quiet for several minutes as Gordon watched with rapt attention. He prepared the dough, stretched it, and set it to cook, all in a few moments. His hands were incredibly deft and practiced despite his young age. His knives were well-used but kept immaculate.
Within minutes, there was a small portion of soba in front of him. “Go ahead and try it.”
Go ahead and try it was about the least formal way to introduce quite possibly the best Japanese dish he’d ever tried.
"Oh what's this? Oh, look at that now," he said, turning the bowl to look at the soba from every angle. Then he took the spoon and examined the glaze before sipping. "The broth is faultlessly rendered. Then the salt has so much complexity to it, and the noodles were cooked to perfection."
Sanji had even added interesting flavors that fell outside the scope of traditional Japanese food. "Avant-garde with none of the pompousness," Gordon said in wonder.
It was quite simply, fucking good food. He finished it too fast for his own liking. If he’d been served this one of his litany of competition shows, he wouldn’t need to taste anything else to declare the winner.
"You're a chef too or a food critic?" Sanji had a pleased smile when he looked up. Maybe he wasn’t quite as cold as he’d come off. Or maybe he just wasn’t when he was in element. Gordon could certainly relate.
Gordon was trying to find a way to delicately explain that he was a celebrity chef when a green-haired man with three swords strapped to his waist walked up to the stand and Sanji's smile flipped into a grimace. The green-haired man was carrying crates that were stacked well past his head. He set them down with a thump.
“Oi, oi, careful, Marimo” Sanji said, walking over to the crates to inspect. He had butter simmering on the pan, which he removed from the flame to carry with him. He pulled the lid off the top crate. “Hey, Zoro, you dumbass, this is half garlic cloves and the other half is bleu cheese!”
The man, Zoro, just shrugged. “That’s what they gave me. What, you can’t make a meal out of this?” The tone was a jab, but there was a strange implication under the words, like the swordsman wouldn’t believe Sanji if he said he couldn’t work with it.
Zoro went over to a bench a ways away, and laid down to take a nap. Sanji pulled a cigarette out of his robes and lit it. “Tch, guess I can do garlic soba, roasted garlic and bleu cheese, and garlic confit.”
Then he poured water and oil in a small pan and set it to simmer. Gordon watched carefully, first interested, then entranced, at the skill, practice, technique, and sheer speed in which Sanji worked. It seemed, no, it was inhuman.
Then, Sanji slid something else in front of him. Gordon didn't need to be told what it was. It was a small bowl of tourin soup.
He’d found immediate use for all the garlic he’d been given, and converted it into a challenging but delicious French garlic soup. It could have been in a cookbook, amber and slightly thick, the taste divine. Then the fact that he’d prepared it so quickly, but the soup hadn’t broken. It was perfect, clear. It reminded him of his apprenticing days with the old masters.
“Fucking phenomenal. I can tell when someone has a background in French cuisine. How did you start?”
Sanji’s brow furrowed. “France? I’m not familiar with that style. I worked as a kitchen boy for two years on one ship, then grew up on the floating restaurant Baratie in East Blue. I learned under Chef Zeff for almost a decade.”
Before Gordon could open his mouth to explain what he was sure was a cultural difference, because the dish he’d just made was very much French, and not only that, maybe the most clear, enlightened example of French cuisine that he’d ever tasted, a crowd of people bustled down the streets.
“Tch, lunch rush is coming in,” Sanji said, but there was a smirk across his face. “I was just about to make arroz con leche for dessert.”
“Sanji, you said you wanted to learn a new style? How does American food sound to you?” Gordon said, a slight smile coming to his lips. If he hadn’t made it before, Gordon could teach the kid something. If he had learned it, hell, maybe they could both learn something.
“Like something Luffy would like to try.”
“Want to see if you can keep up?” Gordon said.
Sanji turned and without speaking, lifted the bar top for the other chef. “I’m a quick study these days. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two, old man.”
Sanji ground the minced beef at his command, and Gordon started shaping hamburgers. He didn’t have every ingredient he’d want to compliment the meal but the green-haired guy had brought more than enough. Gordon started on bleu cheese and cracked pepper hamburgers, first Sanji expertly copying Gordon’s movements, but as he was putting the ingredients on the pan, Sanji had already pulled ahead of him, predicting his courses of action, but always attentive to what Gordon was doing. Still ready to learn.
He added spices on top that Gordon hadn’t seen before, smells that blended perfectly with the dish. And at the same time, Sanji was boiling miso eggs and soba.
In mere minutes, they were handing out the first bowls of cheeseburger soba and people were clambering in excitement.
When the two blonds looked at each other, their serious facades had melted away under the excitement of learning new tricks and the joy of their customers. This was a damn good kid. Gordon couldn't help but hope that his journey as a chef hadn't been a hard and painful one like his own. At least he had one good friend is that loud long-nose kid.
The green-haired guy with the swords came by, and even though they had seemed to have a level of disdain before, it wasn’t apparent at all in the exchange. While other customers had gotten a few options for toppings (especially the women, who this chef went absolutely dopey for), Sanji wordlessly prepared the other man’s meal and handed it to him, and the man accepted it with a nod.
A black-haired boy with a straw hat kept coming back for bowls, often Gordon assumed he was passing them out to people. Not so, he was simply eating them and lining back up two minutes later. But as careful with portions as Sanji was, he never admonished the boy. In fact, he seemed pleased.
“Good job waiting, Luffy,” Sanji said, handing the boy what must have been his seventh bowl.
The boy laughed heartily. “This meat is so good! Make it for me everyday, Sanji!”
“Alright, Captain,” Sanji said.
“By the way, who’s this old guy?” Luffy asked, giving Gordon an alarming blank stare. Gordon couldn’t help but wonder if he had much going for him between his ears.
“I’m a chef. You friend’s letting me test out his food,” Gordon explained nearly-patiently.
The boy’s face furrowed into a kind of labored thought. “Oh, well that’s okay, then. Just don’t try and steal my cook!” Then he walked off, content with his bowl of steaming soba. Gordon was a little worried he’d drop it, but Sanji seemed less than concerned, already turning back to his cooking.
“Captain?” Gordon clarified, after he’d gone. Sanji had called the boy ‘captain’ and he wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“He’s the captain of our ship. We’re a pirate crew.”
Gordon blinked. Pirates? What was he talking about? And even supposing he was on a pirate crew as Gordon understood pirates, what was the most talented chef he’d ever met doing on a ship? He should have his own restaurant, gathering whatever they had for Michelin stars like one would herbs in a garden. But Gordon wasn’t going to allow himself to ponder too hard on this one strange drop in a bucket of strange happenings. So he was a pirate chef.
After the lunch rush was over, Gordon extended his hand to Sanji. Gordon had worked up a light sweat but Sanji had not. High volume cooking was a young chef’s game, he supposed. “Good cooking with you, chef. I can’t imagine the places you’ll go,” he said.
Sanji took his hand. Light danced through his visible blue eye like the sea. “I can,” he said, like he had some joke only for him. Then he held out a few small pouches. “These are for you. Some exotic spices. Salt from Aqua Laguna, conache seeds, ruberry mushroom shavings. I know you’ll find good recipes for them.”
Gordon took them for what they were, treasure. His way into a whole new world of taste. They were far more valuable than gold to him. Just like they would be to any chef Gordon would take seriously.
“Thanks,” he managed, then turned to walk down the road. Gordon didn’t want to leave. He had a feeling there was a world of information to learn. He wanted to give that kid his own restaurant chain. He wanted to watch him cook. But he had a feeling that if he didn’t leave now, he never would. And like the kid had said, he had places to be. He didn’t seem the type to stay behind.
Gordon wasn’t sure to get back to his world, he was confident this wasn’t it, but after he left the marketplace behind, he felt the same stomach turning sensation come over him.
He was back at the studio. But his stomach was still full, and he still had the bags of spices. He grinned, well and truly ecstatic.
He’d found a promising new chef. The only thing was, he didn’t need Gordon’s help. That was okay. As for Gordon, he had some cooking to do.