Chapter Text
He should be used to it by now. The constant rotation of different flavours swirling around on his tongue. Each taste bud lights up with a new burst of gusto, while the aroma of each ingredient satiates every other sense. But the truth is, he’s starting to grow a disdain for this.
He can see the eyes around him staring, waiting, preening for his approval.
It’s nauseating.
He should chew even slower. Make them look too long that they get bored and something else catches their attention. But he knows he can’t. It’s his job after all, to rate this.
Come Monday, when the new issue is out on the culinary creatives magazine, his name, printed in bold, as it always has, will be gracing the front pages again.
And that’s not anything to scoff at.
He’d started this food critic journey as nothing more than a hobby. One he’d felt nice enough to bless the world with after he’d declared himself being born with a ‘tongue of deities’, he knew he had to travel the world and let everyone else know that too.
What gave him this false sense of confidence?
Nothing.
It was the truth.
He had a tongue befitting of a deity. As true as the hues brushing across the sky and as real as the pain of a stubbed toe.
He was born with the unique ability to decipher and devour food down to the most minute of ingredients.
He could tell the difference in oil drizzled around in a pan, or the slight variations in chopping technique—always in tune with texture of food—the crackling of the fire from the stove and quality of utensils and pans and pots used. He could feel it all within him.
It’s a blessing and a curse.
Blessed with the ability to be the perfect cook, but cursed with the inability to accept imperfections.
Simply put, Satoru hasn’t truly enjoyed food in a long time.
What started off as a hobby quickly transitioned to a job and then an expectation.
Traveling all over the world, tasting all kinds of cuisines, they’ve all at some point kind of plateaued into the same level of intrigue.
All boring and uninspired.
So when he heard a previously famous chef would be making his comeback in the culinary world, Satoru was mildly curious because frankly the bar is currently in hell.
Chef Naobito Zen’in.
He’d once been put on the Mount Rushmore of legendary chefs in his era. Renowned for his aggressive but detailed cutting styles and flamboyant displays while he cooks. More style than substance which never interested Satoru. He’d tried some of his old dishes before which he had reviewed and had started the inevitable downfall of his culinary empire.
Many hate comments filled his inbox. Death threats from super fans who felt like Satoru had ruined over thirty plus years of hard work and the image of a reputable chef. But Satoru never saw it that way. He was only doing his job.
Now five years after that infamous review which put Satoru himself on the map in ways he never imagined, he’s been invited to check out the new and reformed chef Naobito and his new establishment in Tokyo.
It’s a fairly modest restaurant. A far cry from his usual style. None of the extravagant lighting or the obnoxious posters of all his achievements or stacks of all his accolades. It’s been stripped off to only focus on the open cooking area and the intimate seat arrangements for the guests.
Satoru won’t say he’s impressed, but it’s definitely a better way to start things off.
But the real determinant of the future of this restaurant will lie in the food. Which he’s currently eating right now, all eyes on him, begging for his seal of acknowledgment.
He takes another bite, slower this time. He always makes his judgement after three bites. Not because he can’t tell everything he needs to know from the first, but because he has a thing for rounds of threes and because he likes to tease his onlookers. Call it a personal ritual.
Except what’s different this time is, he’s far too stunned to want to take the third bite. His first bite is usually enough to pick out everything he needs to, but what surprises him is how he finds himself still savouring new things on his second.
It’s all wrong.
There’s nothing truly refined about it.
In all honesty, he should write it off for its clear sloppy techniques. Most of the ingredients aren’t cut to perfection. The ratio of sweet and salty shouldn’t work. It’s messy and disorienting.
But the bursts of flavour pile on themselves with each swirl. Like the chef must have planned it all, down to the speed the food will be eaten.
Like he must have known what each bite would unlock in the next one.
It’s intriguing. Filled with warmth and heart. And for the first time in his life, Satoru finds himself wanting to finish a meal.
His eyes widen to the amusement of the audience he has managed to garner around his table and a few paparazzi gathered outside looking through the windows.
Chef Naobito must have planned this. Called on the press to put him on the spot. If he gives him a good review then he wins, if not, then Satoru will just be seen as a bitter and stern up and coming critic whose head is way too far up his ass and just loves to hammer down on old men.
Either way it works in his favour.
The problem isn’t the food now. The food is good—great even.
The problem is that Satoru knows without a doubt that Naobito is incapable of making a meal like this. It’s impossible.
This level of sloppiness even for a man at his level is damn near impossible to achieve accidentally or with planned precision as this meal appears.
Moreover, there’s something simmering underneath all that sloppiness. There’s kindness and intent put into it—care that he has never tasted in any food before. It feels like a warm hug from a loved one, or like a hearty meal you have just after a day’s hard work. It’s….fulfilling but it leaves you craving more.
A pure contradiction.
He has had his food before and he’s always prided himself on his techniques and extravagant use of ingredients and flavours.
But this, this one is stripped bare—nothing feels calculated, or particularly unique. But it’s crafted in such a way that makes it work.
This level of soul and heart cannot possibly come from a man like him, even if he somehow stumbled in the last five years and found Jesus.
Satoru looks up from the food. A small smile escapes him as he gestures for Naobito to come closer.
He has a cocky grin on his face. Almost like he knows Satoru cannot fault this food. At least not in the ways he’s used to and it infuriates him a little bit.
“So, Gojo Satoru,” he says with his most patronising voice. “Everyone here is excited to see if I’m fit to make a grand comeback. I know I can’t possibly set on this new journey without hearing what the man with the tongue of a deity has to say. After all, one word from you is enough to raise or destroy food empires.” He finishes, sounding smug and triumphant.
Satoru already dislikes his smug face.
He clears his throat to speak. “ I will say, the food just now...can you walk me through how you made it?”
Naobito stops abruptly, clearly thrown off guard by Satoru’s question.
“Why do you need to know that?” He asks nervously. “You’ve never wondered about that before.”
Satoru places his elbows on the table, placing his chin in the middle of the palm of his hands. The perfect picture of a man ready to draw this conversation out until he gets what he wants.
“Yes, but that’s precisely because you always prepared your meals right in front of your customers. This one was made out of sight.” He leans further on the table, aiming to make him uncomfortable. “I’m wondering if you can make it again. I’m curious.”
“Well, a chef never really spills his secrets. I decided to try a new way out this time.” Naobito laughs nervously.
Satoru pouts, unhappy to not have his way. “Hmmm..” he looks around, checking to see if there’s any other staff. “Where’s your sous chef? I’d like to meet them as well if possible.”
Satoru doesn’t know what exactly he’s pushing for. But given his reluctance to provide him with straight answers, it’s enough to confirm to him that he didn’t make this food himself.
He just needs to find out who really did, and find a way to ask them how the fuck they made it. He could care less about the fate of this restaurant.
“The staff is not here since the official opening isn’t till Monday. Either way, their presence isn’t really important for your review now is it?”
He’s right. They aren’t imperative to anything he will have to say about the food. But he knows Naobito isn’t being honest about who cooked the food, so he decides to play his own game.
“I don’t know…since you’ve embarked on your journey of rediscovery so have I. So the food isn’t the only thing I care about anymore. I don’t think I can give an honest review without taking everything into perspective.”
Naobito is visibly furious now. He curls his hand into a fist. The strain on his face, so evidently indicative of all his willpower holding him back from launching at Satoru.
“So when do you think you can give your review?” His voice comes out strained and annoyed.
Satoru is loving every minute of it.
“Now now, where’s the fun in that? Isn’t it better if we both don’t know when next I’m coming hmmm?” He drags his words annoyingly. “That way we can surprise each other.”
He knows all this will do is put him on edge, always looking over his shoulder, never knowing when Satoru will decide to come back to try his food again. But he’s looking forward to it.
Now that he’s found food that intrigues him he will be sure to return.
***
His declaration is enough to turn the legion of people crowded at the restaurant away. But Satoru doesn’t leave. He lingers outside.
He knows the old geezer lied.. The real cook has to be somewhere in the kitchen.
He’s been outside for a while now, long enough for the sun to find its home behind the horizon and the moon to begin its slow climb into the sky.
His phone starts to vibrate with multiple notifications.
Great. News must have gone out already.
He doesn’t have to read all of them to know what the headlines are already saying. But some of them stick out like a sore-thumb
“Does food critic Gojo Satoru have it out for Chef Zen’in?”
“World famous self proclaimed Food critic Gojo Satoru might be out of his prime.”
“The brilliant Chef Naobito Zen’in stuns Gojo Satoru into silence.” okay this one, that old bastard definitely paid for it. Satoru frowns, about to toss his phone into his bag when he gets a call from his so-called manager.
“What do you want, Ijichi?” he asks, already annoyed having to hear whatever it is he has to say.
“Gojo- Saaaan.” Satoru moves the phone away from his ear, wincing from his whiny crying voice. “Gojo san please, we were doing so well already why can’t you just stay on your best behaviour.”
“That old fraud started it first.” He groans. He refuses to be berated for doing his job by not celebrating a man stealing from someone else.
“I am already getting calls from multiple publications asking for a statement about your lack of review. This could set back your schedule by two weeks.”
“Good, maybe we should cancel the whole thing. I’ve been due for a vacation anyway.” he answers flatly.
He’s blowing dust off his fingers, paying as little attention to him now as possible, when he catches movement from the corner of his eye. Someone comes out of the back door of the restaurant. It’s not the old man. It’s a younger looking man with pink messy hair under the lights at the back of the restaurant.
It has to be him.
“Listen Ijichi, you can complain about this later. I just fell on gold and I have to go, bye ~”
He hangs up the phone with a quickness and he’s bolting straight towards the young man.
He’s taking out what seems to look like trash towards the garbage area and dressed in a white chef shirt rumpled like he’s been moving non stop for hours. Getting closer he can see stains on the side of his shirt—probably tomato sauce from the food earlier. But on closer inspection he sees the chisel of his jawline and the firmness of his torso.
He looks good in all the right places.
But Satoru shakes off the distraction. He needs to ask about the food.
“It’s you right?” He blurts out suddenly, startling him.
“Oh geez.” He steps back, almost tripping on his untied shoelaces. Satoru walks forward, no care for his personal space or privacy—he steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Careful, don’t go falling for me now.” he says smugly. It’s corny but he can’t help himself.
It takes him a moment to gather himself before he’s steady on his feet again.
The younger blinks up at him before pouting, “And whose fault is that? Sneaking up on me like that.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.” He withdraws his hand from his shoulder but makes no effort to put any distance between them.
“You work for that old geezer right?”
“Old geezer? You mean Chef Naobito?”
Satoru rolls his eyes in indignation. “Yeah him.”
“Uh yeah I do. You lost or something?” he asks, confused on where the conversation is heading. What’s even more intriguing is that the younger doesn’t seem to recognize him. Anyone who was worth their salt in their culinary world knew who Gojo Satoru was. Especially in japan.
There are two types of people in Japan.Those who know Gojo Satoru and those who wish they didn’t know Gojo Satoru.
But he doesn’t seem to fall into either category. Satoru is getting more intrigued by the minute.
“You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?” He smiles genuinely now, no teasing behind it.
“Am I supposed to?”
Oh how innocent.
“Nope. I’m glad you don’t actually. Say, what’s your name?”
The boy takes a step back, turning away from him to walk toward the garbage to dispose of the rubbish he came out to get rid of.
“Itadori,” he says, “ Itadori Yuji.”
He throws the rubbish away. Dusting his hands together and steps back towards Satoru.
“I would shake your hand but uh..” He raises his hands up comically. “Probably don’t want to get all that gooey stuff on you.”
“No it’s okay.” Satoru reaches out, fingers curling around Yuji’s wrist without thinking. It’s warm and messy just like the food from earlier. He pulls him closer—not rough, just enough to blur the distance between them.
“Nice to meet you, Itadori Yuji. My name is Gojo Satoru and I need you to cook for me.”