Spring is full of wine and celebration.
That was the best way to describe Buddha Jumps Over the Wall.
From the very first taste, Alice was stunned.
Each ingredient was tender yet intact, melting softly on the tongue. There wasn't the typical overpowering seafood sweetness—instead, it was a gentle richness, with the stickiness of long-simmered collagen clinging subtly to the mouth.
The depth of the meats, the fragrance of the vegetables, and the mellow undertone of wine—a trio of flavors that danced together in perfect balance.
Complex, yet never chaotic.
By the end of the meal, Alice found herself completely entranced.
"Mm-mm!"
She couldn't hold back her praise.
"So rich… this broth alone—just a drop—captures the soul of every ingredient. The aftertaste just lingers and lingers…"
She set down her spoon, unable to stop her thoughts from spinning.
This was the first time a traditional dish had ever made her feel… pressure.
If someone presented a dish like this in a serious Food War… could my molecular gastronomy even compete?
Alice had always believed in the future of food science. In her eyes, molecular cuisine was the key to the next culinary revolution.
After all—
Thirty years ago, the traditional method for brewing Alsace wine often caused headaches and couldn't be stored long. But thanks to modern techniques, it had evolved into a fine wine recognized worldwide, with greatly improved aging potential.
And yogurt?
Once made in clunky, inefficient home appliances with mediocre taste. Now, industrial yogurt, perfected through science, had replaced it entirely with superior flavor and texture.
So in Alice's view—
Traditional cooking was art.
Molecular gastronomy was science.
Science was reproducible, predictable, and scalable. Traditional cuisine? Dependent on the hands of a few skilled veterans. Inefficient. Unsustainable. Outdated.
Or so she had thought—until now.
This pot of Buddha Jumps Over the Wall shattered her conviction.
Carefully selected ingredients.
Masterfully timed simmering.
Flavors that went beyond technique—flavors that told a story.
For the first time, Alice found herself doubting.
Could it be that traditional cooking, when done to this level, wasn't inferior to molecular gastronomy at all?
And then she remembered—her own molecular dishes.
Would they hold up under Zane's scrutiny?
In the warm and lively tavern atmosphere, the pot of Buddha Jumps Over the Wall was soon completely emptied.
Zane, Sonoka, Erina, and Alice—four people. One pot. Not a single drop left.
Alice sat back in her chair, still dazed.
Earlier, she'd only heard the rumors—about the mysterious tavern, the chef praised by Erina and the Academy's directors.
But now she knew—those words weren't exaggerated. If anything, they didn't do justice to what she had just experienced.
This dish wasn't just noble and luxurious. It was thoughtful. Precise. Inspired.
Even the timing of the cooking, the order of the ingredients entering the pot—each step had to be carefully calculated and executed. Without that ten-hour simmering, without the perfect harmony of components, there was no way it could have created such depth.
Alice glanced at Zane.
Just what kind of thought process lies behind a dish like this?
She wanted to ask. But before she could, her gaze shifted—toward the buxom, slightly older woman sitting beside her.
Sonoka.
From the moment Alice entered, Sonoka had held a certain elegance. She wasn't loud or flashy, but her presence was undeniable.
"Erina," Alice whispered, "who's that sitting next to Zane?"
"A Tōtsuki graduate," Erina replied simply. "Sonoka-senpai."
"…Seriously?"
Alice blinked.
Another graduate?
And Erina clearly respected her.
A small tavern like this… drawing in a Tōtsuki graduate, the Divine Tongue, and even catching the attention of Tōtsuki's board of directors?
Alice couldn't help but feel a sense of mystery about this place—
What exactly is this tavern?
Later That Evening…
By 7 PM, the street outside was filling with the hustle and bustle of dinnertime.
In a corner of the food street, Zane's tavern quietly opened for business.
There were no extravagant signs.
No glowing menu boards.
And yet, one after another, customers came in.
Here, there were no fixed dishes. If you wanted something, you just asked.
"Boss, do you have sweet and sour pork?"
"We do."
"Great! One order and two bowls of rice, please."
"Coming right up."
Zane casually took his place at the cooking station.
Alice immediately sat up straighter.
She was eager to see how this enigmatic chef handled a more everyday dish.
Sweet and sour pork, huh?
That was a simple, common dish—but it had countless variations.
Would he make the northern version with big chunks of pineapple? Or the southern version with crisp fried batter?
Then she watched as he began.
One wine.
Two sauces.
Three sugar.
Four vinegar.
Five water.
A simple, almost poetic ratio—the 12345 formula.
One spoon of cooking wine.
Two spoons of soy sauce.
Three spoons of sugar.
Four spoons of vinegar.
Five spoons of water.
Mix, heat, and simmer—it was a classic and reliable sweet-and-sour base.
Zane brought out pork ribs, spring onions, garlic, star anise, rock sugar, and ginger.
He picked up a boning knife from the elegant Peacock's Charm knife set and expertly chopped the ribs into even pieces. Then he blanched them in boiling water, skimming off the foam with precise timing.
While that simmered, he stirred together the sauce—wine, soy sauce, sugar, vinegar, and water. The color gradually turned a deep amber.
Then came the key step—caramelization.
As the rock sugar melted and browned, he quickly tossed in the pork ribs, coating them in the thick, glistening sauce.
In ten minutes, the sauce reduced, clinging tightly to the meat. A final sprinkle of sesame.
Done.
Alice's eyes lit up.
Wait a minute…
"This technique—" she blurted out.
"It's using a heterogeneous reaction from molecular gastronomy!"