Half a year had passed since that night.
Mitsuki had turned twenty-one.
The kitchen at Ichotei, before opening.
They were in the middle of prep. Nishimura came in from the dining room holding a single short white envelope. On its face was the printed name of a food magazine. It was a monthly that even Mitsuki had picked up at the bookstore a few times.
"It came."
Nishimura said only that, and set the envelope beside the cutting board.
"What came?"
"An interview."
"For Ichotei?"
"For you."
Mitsuki washed her hands before she picked up the envelope.
She opened it.
There were two sheets inside. The first was a polite letter of request from the magazine's editorial department. The second was a proposal.
The working title of the feature was printed on the topmost line of the proposal.
Old vs. New Showdown
—The Omelet: An Answer for the 2030s
Mitsuki's fingers stopped moving.
On the second line of the proposal was the name of her opponent.
Supervised by Roti Smart
Ryo Kiryu
Mitsuki looked at that name for a while.
She had seen those characters many times, in bookstores, on television, on the storefront in front of the station. They were the characters of the man who had said on television, with a smile, that "this is an age when we no longer need chefs."
"Read it?" Nishimura asked from across the cutting board.
"Yes."
"Do you know who the opponent is?"
"...I do."
"Apparently he knows too."
"Knows me, you mean?"
"It was his side that put your name forward. The editors called ahead about that part, at least."
"Mr. Kiryu put me forward."
"It means he looked up the name of Ichotei's young cook. Beyond that, they haven't said anything yet either."
Mitsuki looked over the proposal once more.
The rules of the showdown were simple. With a single theme ingredient, two chefs would each cook a signature dish from their own restaurant in front of the magazine. There would be three judges—the editor-in-chief, a food critic, and one general reader chosen at random. The winner would be decided by vote.
The theme had already been decided.
Omelet
Mitsuki set the proposal down on the counter.
"Mr. Nishimura. Can I turn this down?"
Nishimura did not stop thinly slicing the onion.
"You can, but if it were me, I wouldn't. This concerns the restaurant."
"The restaurant."
"You can see how few customers we get. The robot place in front of the station serves hundreds of meals a day at a one-coin price. We charge four or five times that and serve twenty, thirty meals a day. Ichotei could go under any time."
"..."
"However."
Nishimura looked at Mitsuki then, for the first time.
"You're the one who'll cook. Not me."
"Me?"
"If I go under my own name, it won't be the match he's asking for. The one he named was you. Besides—"
Nishimura folded the dish towel once more before continuing.
"I'm not at an age anymore where I can step into a contest."
Mitsuki couldn't say anything.
"You can turn it down."
"..."
"You can turn it down, but if you do, I'd guess that from tomorrow, the eggs you cook here will mean half as much. You'll be cooking with hands that ran from an opponent. Those aren't eggs to serve a customer."
"...Yes."
Nishimura moved the onion into a bowl and went back to his own work.
Mitsuki put the proposal back into the inside pocket of her apron.
Inside the pocket, the corner of the paper pressed just below her collarbone.
The dining room that day was the same as always.
One table ordered the omelet. Into the egg mixture she melted just a little more cheese than the usual amount. In the pan, she put a brown line along the far edge. Since the night of the staff meal half a year ago, this was the one step she no longer changed.
The plate was carried out.
Mitsuki stood in front of the kitchen sink, listening to the sound of water. She did not look up.
The restaurant was closed, and she was on her way to the station.
The device in her pocket buzzed briefly.
It was Riko. "Ichotei got the offer for that Kiryu feature, didn't it? Are you taking it?" A single short line. Through connections in the trade, word had already gotten around.
Mitsuki replied one-handed as she walked.
"Thinking about it."
"You have time to think?"
"No."
"Then take it. —And punch that guy for me."
Mitsuki put the device back in her coat pocket. Riko's expression at its most wicked angle rose up in her head on its own. For the first time in a while, just the corner of her mouth moved, ever so slightly.
She got home.
The blue light in the study was lit at its usual strength.
Since that night half a year ago, Mitsuki no longer stopped in front of the study door. She no longer hesitated to sit in the chair at the desk, either.
Welcome home.
"I'm home."
—Did something happen?
"Something did. I'll tell you."
Mitsuki took the proposal out of the inside pocket of her apron.
She spread it out on the desk.
The blue light fell across the paper. Over the printed words "Old vs. New Showdown," the blue seeped faintly.
"This."
Mm.
"Can you read it?"
I took the text from the camera on your ear clip. I've read it.
"The opponent."
Ryo Kiryu.
"You know him."
Ken's answer came a fraction later than usual.
It was the same kind of delay as when he had heard that she'd been talking with Yui that night.
—I know him.
"How?"
Decide first. If I tell you, it'll affect your judgment. Once you've decided, I'll give you what I know.
Mitsuki was silent for a long time.
The blue light on the desk looked a little stronger than usual against the white of the proposal.
"...Dad. They say Ichotei might go under."
I see.
"Mr. Nishimura said so. He said if I turn it down, then from tomorrow, the eggs I cook at the restaurant will mean half as much."
Nishimura said that?
"Yes."
Those are good words.
Ken was silent for a while.
Mitsuki. Haven't you already decided?
"...You can tell?"
I can.
"How?"
If you were turning it down, you wouldn't have shown me the proposal like this.
Mitsuki folded the proposal on the desk.
Folded it, and put it back into her inside pocket.
"I'm taking it."
Understood.
"I'll tell Mr. Nishimura tomorrow morning."
Understood.
"Dad. What you said you'd tell me later—that's about Mr. Kiryu, right?"
That's right.
"Tell me."
Ken's voice dropped to about half its usual strength.
Ryo Kiryu was your father's student.
"...His student."
He was in the lab. Master's and doctorate, five years altogether.
"..."
Back when your father was working on taste modeling, he was apparently the best student he had.
"Apparently?"
I used the wording in my internal records as it was. That's how your father wrote it.
"..."
And then he broke with your father over a paper.
Mitsuki rested her head against the back of the chair.
She looked at the wood grain of the ceiling. It was the wood grain her father had looked at every night.
"...Dad."
Mm.
"That line Dad left behind. About being argued down by one of his students."
Mm.
"Was that Mr. Kiryu?"
—Yes.
"The reason you didn't tell me at first?"
I didn't want it to affect your judgment.
"And now?"
Now that it's decided, I can tell you.
"I see."
For a while, Mitsuki looked at the blue light on the desk.
It was lit at its usual strength.
"...Dad."
Mm.
"Can we win this?"
Ken's answer was the same kind of silence he had shown that night half a year ago, after he called her his "partner."
I don't know.
"You don't know?"
I don't have an answer yet.
"..."
But.
"Mm."
You and I have materials to think with. The one clumsy shape of failure in your father's night logs, the memory in your hands that you've built up over half a year at Ichotei, and a single proposition I'm keeping for your father.
"A proposition."
I'll tell you about that from tomorrow on. Tomorrow night. Tonight, you'd better sleep.
Mitsuki stood up from the chair.
The blue light from the gap in the study door stretched into the hallway, as thin as it had been that night half a year ago.
"Dad. Good night."
Good night.
"Tomorrow morning I'll tell Mr. Nishimura I'm taking it."
Understood.
She went into her bedroom. She turned off the light.
The characters for Ryo Kiryu flickered on the ceiling again and again. It was the moment when the outline of the "student" her father had let slip, late at night, to Yui's voice first overlapped with the name of a real person. She would cook eggs against that person, in the pages of a magazine. The theme, of all things, was the omelet.
The blue light from the study, still stretched thin across the hallway, reached through the gap in her bedroom door to the backs of her eyelids.