The sweet and sour pork was served.
Each piece glistened under the tavern's warm lighting, bathed in a ruby-red glaze that shimmered like a silk coat. The sauce clung to the meat with a perfect consistency—clear, glossy, and vibrant.
It didn't sparkle with the dramatic flair of the Reincarnating Spring Rolls or the explosive aroma of the Ascending Dragon Dumplings, but its subtle, meaty fragrance still made Erina's eyes light up with admiration.
The customer who ordered it didn't hesitate. They picked up the largest piece of pork with their chopsticks and popped it into their mouth.
The moment it touched their tongue, the sweet and sour flavors unfolded like a slow bloom. The pork was tender and juicy, wrapped in an amber-like coating that was sticky, aromatic, and richly flavored. Paired with a bite of soft, fragrant white rice, the combination was pure bliss.
They sighed in satisfaction.
"I love it."
"Seriously, I love it."
"Only your sweet and sour pork makes me crave it, boss!"
Zane, standing behind the counter, gave a faint smile. Praise was common by now, but it always gave him a quiet sense of fulfillment.
However, beside him, Alice was experiencing something entirely different.
Her mind was racing.
She wasn't just eating a dish—she was dissecting it.
Because she understood something others might overlook:
After refined sugar is heated, it caramelizes.
Caramelization wasn't just a visual or flavor change. In molecular gastronomy, it was a key chemical reaction used to alter color, flavor, and even the structure of ingredients.
And this sweet and sour pork—
It wasn't just traditional.
It was full of scientific principles.
"Zane," she asked, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer, "just how many chemical reactions are involved in this dish?"
Zane looked at her, sensing the fire of inquiry behind her question.
"Caramelization."
"Maillard reaction."
"Esterification."
He answered calmly, then added, "Sweet and sour pork varies between Sichuan, Shanghai, and Zhejiang styles, but the key elements are always sugar, vinegar, and cooking wine."
"The brown-red color, the aroma, the layered sweet and sour—"
"All of it stems from a series of chemical interactions between the meat and those ingredients."
Alice's eyes widened.
"…So you're saying even traditional dishes rely on the very chemical reactions we study in molecular gastronomy?"
Zane smiled.
"Molecular cuisine is a new label for something that's been happening in kitchens for centuries. Just without the microscope and the lab coat."
Alice was momentarily speechless.
Her entire worldview—it had always revolved around the idea that molecular cuisine was the future, that it would replace outdated traditional methods with something more advanced, more precise, more… intelligent.
And yet—
She refused to back down.
She lifted her chin, eyes burning with resolve.
"Even so, molecular gastronomy does push taste and sensory experiences to the extreme," she argued. "It draws from so many fields—physics, chemistry, even psychology. There's a chef in England who's studying how sound changes the way we taste food."
"In the next few years—no, in the next few decades—molecular cuisine will reshape the culinary world."
Zane didn't interrupt. He let her speak.
She wasn't wrong.
The word molecular had indeed become a symbol of modernity. From molecular biology to molecular medicine—attaching the term gave weight and authority. And while some disciplines used it as nothing more than a buzzword, molecular gastronomy had real merit.
It studied the physics and chemistry of cooking, using advanced tools to understand flavor interactions and transformations at a fundamental level.
And yet—
Many traditional chefs, like Zane, never sought to name these processes. They simply felt them, practiced them, inherited them. They weren't any less scientific. They just didn't frame their art as science.
"Alice," Zane said after a pause, "do you know how many different forms white sugar takes during the heating process?"
Alice raised an eyebrow.
"Three? Maybe four?"
"Wrong," Zane replied. "At least six."
Her eyes narrowed.
Zane continued, counting off with calm precision:
"At 100°C, it starts bubbling—used for syrups."
"110 to 120°C, the bubbles multiply, viscosity increases—it can be pulled into threads for glossy finishes."
"130°C, it thickens into spheres."
"150°C, it hardens but shatters easily—used for sugar work."
"160°C, it turns light caramel."
"180°C, it becomes deep brown, bitter, and the sweetness disappears entirely."
"In essence, each stage involves the breakdown of sugar's molecular structure—what you call an isomerization reaction."
Alice froze.
A traditional chef… saying "isomerization"?
She stared at him in disbelief.
Zane wasn't just some skilled cook relying on instinct—he understood the science, possibly more intimately than many molecular chefs.
How could she not be surprised?
"W–Why do you know so much?" she asked, almost whispering.
"Practice," Zane said. "And studying the knowledge passed down from generations of chefs."
Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "Molecular cuisine and traditional cooking aren't enemies, Alice. In many ways, they've always been the same. The science just used to be unnamed."
"Even cotton candy on the street, or sugar-coated hawthorns—they're based on the same principles you use in molecular gastronomy."
Alice went silent.
His words echoed in her mind.
The same science… just used to be unnamed.
She slowly looked down at the remaining piece of pork on her plate.
Her heart, once certain and unwavering in its belief that molecular gastronomy was the path forward, now felt shaken—like waves crashing against the shore, again and again, wearing down the walls of her conviction.
In that quiet moment—Alice wasn't just contemplating a dish.
She was questioning everything she believed about cooking.