Chapter 71: Great Teachers Produce Outstanding Students

Seeing Zhuang Chen's satisfied expression, Yu Mizu spoke in accented Mandarin, “I’ve only been in Shanghai for a short time. The only Chinese I know is ‘thank you.’” He could only offer a simple smile and bow before immediately donning a serious expression to prepare the ingredients.

“At that moment, his expression seemed to say, ‘If you don’t eat my food right away, I might just scold you until you admit your mistake!’”

Zhuang Chen chuckled to himself. This island nation chef was actually quite humorous—perhaps after spending so much time in China, he’d finally learned how to indulge in casual banter.

Yu Mizu deftly prepared the ingredients behind the bar, long accustomed to the watchful eyes of his guests. The essence of Japanese cuisine is freshness; the key lies in delivering the delicacies to the diners as quickly as possible.

He had selected Pacific bluefin tuna tartare, paired it with imported caviar, and adorned it with a few flower petals. The cold dish was personally set before Zhuang Chen, who was invited with a smile to taste it.

With a shell spoon, Zhuang Chen scooped up the glistening caviar into his mouth, once again savoring the bursting sensation as his tongue and palate pressed down, a mingling of gentle sea breeze and wild ocean brine.

He raised his glass of champagne—the dreamlike bubbles combined with the flavors created a truly unique taste, one that summoned all the senses to participate.

Nodding in satisfaction, Zhuang Chen commented, “Although it’s not beluga caviar, paired with the tuna, the flavor is quite unique.”

After the cold appetizer, Yu Mizu began preparing a bowl of simmered golden-eye snapper noodles. When it was served, the lid still bore beads of condensation, a deliberate touch to signify the dish’s freshness. If the water dried up, the optimal tasting window would have passed.

Thick slices of snapper, crispy potato shreds, and pine-citrus zest enriched the texture of the noodles. The broth was a simple Japanese dashi—clear and elegant as water, yet layered and deep, full-bodied and gentle.

To borrow a popular phrase:

Very Zen!

Next came the soup course, served in a lacquered bowl brimming with eel broth. Lifting the lid, a fragrant aroma wafted out, and the first sip was pure, fresh, and sweet.

After finishing, Zhuang Chen smiled, “It appears simple, but the steamed egg conceals a secret. There’s wild softshell turtle meat inside—tender yet springy. Matsutake mushrooms, grilled mochi, and fried burdock strips add further depth.”

Eyes shining, Yu Mizu paused his work, wiped his hands, and came forward with a solemn bow, “It’s an honor to receive your approval!”

Zhuang Chen straightened and nodded in respect. Though it was just an unassuming soup, achieving such subtle harmony in a transitional course revealed the chef’s years of skill and attention to rhythm.

Below, a hot stone slab bore foie gras and young scallions. As the freshly made teriyaki sauce was poured over, the rich aroma of teriyaki and scallions sizzled into the air.

Yu Mizu explained, “The seasonal menu at Kuromoku changes with the time of year, but this signature stone-grilled sesame tofu is an enduring classic. The homemade tofu is simmered for six hours, resulting in a dense, intense flavor. Unlike our Tokyo branch, I’ve added a slice of foie gras.”

“Many diners say it’s a bit superfluous, but I’ve never changed it. Please give your honest opinion!”

Zhuang Chen nodded, picked up a piece, and placed it in his mouth. At first, it was rather salty; the sesame tofu was so rich it nearly overpowered the foie gras’s own delicacy.

Suddenly, the bold teriyaki sauce, scallions, and wasabi swept in like a whirlwind, cutting through everything to let the foie gras’s flavor emerge once more.

“Two ingredients with strong personalities, and the combination is a bit heavy…” Zhuang Chen frowned, considering. “But in fact, this very clash gives the dish such impact—rich and unctuous, a stark contrast to the previous refined and delicate courses. It’s a crescendo for the palate.”

Yu Mizu grinned broadly, bowing deeply. “Thank you for your praise!”

Zhuang Chen waved his hand, pausing in thought before suggesting, “Many people enjoy foie gras; its richness collides with the tofu’s freshness, and the balance of meat and vegetable enhances both flavor and texture. If people still find it too heavy, offer a blackcurrant cocktail alongside—it might work even better.”

Yu Mizu’s face lit up in realization and he bowed once more. “I’ll take your advice to heart!”

Zhuang Chen smiled. Such an attitude was commendable—cuisine knows no borders, and every chef pursues the ultimate in taste. The Japanese devotion to rigor and earnestness was worthy of admiration.

The next course was sashimi, and Zhuang Chen looked forward to witnessing the chef’s knife skills. He watched as Yu Mizu’s nimble fingers glided over the snowy belly of a fugu. The blade danced across the quivering flesh, slicing with millimeter precision, the crisp clash of steel and bone ringing out…

The sashimi was served on a Ryutagawa plate—named for a famous river in Nara, celebrated for its autumn maples. The plating evoked the beauty of fall. Grouper and lightly seared lobster were dipped in a special shrimp-brain egg yolk sauce; fugu meat and skin coiled with grated daikon and fine scallions.

Finally, Yu Mizu squeezed yuzu peel inside out to release its full aroma. “Japanese cuisine values the concept of seasonality,” he explained, “not just in ingredients, but also in the choice of tableware and presentation.”

“Our restaurant’s eight-inch platter, presented under dim lighting, makes a glamorous entrance like a star on stage. It’s like a floral arrangement, an autumnal tableau out of a classical poem.”

Zhuang Chen picked up his chopsticks and selected a piece of fugu—the world’s most deadly delicacy, so they say. The unique freshness of fugu sashimi is unsullied by fatty aromas, deriving solely from the intrinsic sweetness of the flesh.

The umami of an ingredient depends on the presence of twenty amino acids in nature; fugu contains as many as eighteen. The taste was subtle at first, the sweetness and umami lingering, growing more pronounced with each chew.

Astonishing!

The next course arrived: beside a softly glowing daikon lantern were chestnut-wrapped lilies, purple sweet potato, simmered sea cucumber and shrimp, and persimmon paired with egg yolk and kelp—delicate, adorable, and exquisitely textured.

“Did you add… sweetfish?”

Yu Mizu smiled. “You saw right through me. This autumn treasure took me an entire day to prepare. The flavor is gentle, the flesh fine-textured, with a signature bitterness that lingers on the finish—an inspiration I borrowed from the tea ceremony.”

It was a subtle masterstroke—tasting autumn ingredients in early summer, it evoked a sense of time’s swift passage and nostalgia for what has gone.

Beautifully marbled wagyu with a pronounced truffle aroma was the main course: sukiyaki. Yu Mizu simmered the ingredients, plated them, shaved fresh truffle over, and poured on a hot spring egg.

It was Zhuang Chen’s first time trying sukiyaki. Compared to previous wagyu sashimi, the thinly sliced beef’s sweetness soared to new heights, meltingly tender and suffused with the unique, abundant aroma of fresh truffle.

Mayura Farm’s pureblood wagyu, its marbling like veined marble, carried a special sweetness and nutty note. If last time was frost, this was flame.

Zhuang Chen quietly exhaled. The portions at Kuromoku were far more generous than those in Beijing—after finishing the main dish, he was actually full.

“This is my personal favorite: salmon belly rice. Please do try it!”

Yu Mizu served a bowl of rice himself. Zhuang Chen could hardly refuse such warm hospitality—and was delighted by the surprise. The fatty salmon melded with plump, snowy Wuchang rice—the grains sticky and resilient, the flavor sweet, aided by the briny pop of salmon roe, a burst of joy in the mouth.

Yu Mizu personally poured Zhuang Chen a cup of sake. “Please enjoy a sip of Masayuki sake from Shizuoka, brewed with pure soft water—smooth and subtle. Our Masayuki daiginjo is a limited edition, debuting in Shanghai for the first time. The aroma is elegant and refreshing, and it pairs beautifully with the food.”

Accepting the sake with a smile, Zhuang Chen appreciated this gesture from a fellow professional. Noticing he hadn’t finished the rice, Yu Mizu quietly formed the leftovers into rice balls for him to take home for breakfast.

Dessert was a fruit pudding—the custard below so delicately whipped that no less than two hours of hand-beating could achieve such silkiness.

Finally, there was warm warabi mochi with soybean flour and black sugar syrup. Made fresh, the mochi was extremely soft, and the black syrup deepened the perception of sweetness on the palate.

He recalled what Mr. Chua Lam once said: the essence of kaiseki is not to fill you up. Yet this restaurant left a deep impression. Whether it was the young chef—serious and unhurried when preparing the food, slightly shy when looking up to speak—the experience was memorable.

Kuromoku’s kappo cuisine, with its ritual pared down and relaxed compared to kaiseki, offered a joyful, effortless dining journey, striking the perfect balance and never imposing.

And if one wished to linger for drinks after the meal, there was a hidden Japanese-style bar within, where a professional bartender could guide you through the myriad moods of the island nation’s spirits.

As more patrons arrived, Zhuang Chen stood, bid farewell to Yu Mizu, and departed, already eagerly anticipating the skills of Kuromoku’s Tokyo counterpart, Jun.