People, when faced with the unknown, feel two things: fear… and curiosity.
Molecular cuisine thrives in that space between the two.
It's a culinary revolution that feels more like a chemistry experiment—where food is no longer just food, but raw elements to be transformed. Through precision blending, distillation, spherification, fusion, and freezing with liquid nitrogen, it gives birth to wonders:
Peach-flavored fish roe.
Wine-infused pearls.
Stones that melt in the mouth.
Chocolate screws.
Mango "egg yolks" that burst on the tongue.
These unfamiliar forms provoke awe—sometimes confusion. Sometimes rejection. But always curiosity.
"I used to think…" Alice began softly, her eyes downcast.
"That if I applied every scientific theory and used every advanced instrument, I could craft dishes no one had ever seen before. Something that would make people gasp in wonder."
"But in chasing the extraordinary… I forgot the two most important things."
She exhaled deeply.
"…Taste. And texture."
Her voice was full of regret.
There was no denying that Alice had accomplished much in molecular gastronomy. Her techniques were cutting-edge. Her presentations, world-class.
But now, standing here in Zane's tavern, with the lingering sweetness of his deceptively simple sweet-and-sour pork still on her tongue, she felt something unravel inside her.
A blind spot.
One she'd refused to acknowledge for years.
She realized now—she had stagnated.
As a child, she'd easily surpassed Ryo Kurokiba. He used to stand in her shadow.
But in recent years, he'd grown by leaps and bounds… while she remained in place.
She had hit a wall. A bottleneck.
And she had no idea how to break through it.
Erina, quietly observing Alice's internal struggle, felt a wave of complex emotions.
She too had gone through a shift after arriving at the tavern.
Those three fast food dishes Zane had served her at the start—nothing fancy, nothing noble, just ordinary fare done extraordinarily well—had left a deep impression.
Delicious food doesn't need grandeur. Just heart.
She looked at Alice. Then spoke, her tone cool but not unkind.
"Any cuisine worth its salt must prioritize practicality," Erina said. "Alice, your molecular dishes are dazzling, yes. But if they can't satisfy a diner's taste buds… what's the point?"
"In the end, all the beakers, syringes, and gels you use are just ornaments."
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
"A castle built in the sky is still destined to collapse."
Alice was stunned.
The words struck deep—because this wasn't the first time.
Years ago, she had presented a molecular dessert cake to Erina, made with cutting-edge techniques and carefully calibrated flavor profiles.
She'd been so excited to share it.
But Erina had dismissed it then too—just as she had now.
Cold. Dismissive. Looking down from her queen-like throne.
"You haven't changed at all," Alice muttered, bitterness creeping into her voice.
"You always stand above others, sneering at any cuisine that doesn't match your 'divine palate.'"
She turned her face away.
"But have you ever stopped to think whether the cuisine you uphold so dearly… is even loved by the general public?"
Her tone turned cold.
"I'm not going to argue with you. But one day—sooner or later—you and I will face off in a Shokugeki."
Erina's gaze sharpened.
Her voice calm and composed.
"I'll be waiting. I won't lose."
Alice smirked without looking back.
"Neither will I."
Though both hailed from the prestigious Nakiri family, their philosophies couldn't be more different.
Erina, blessed with the divine palate, valued taste above all. Texture, balance, harmony—each ingredient's role had to be respected. To her, cooking was sacred. Anything that leaned on machines or tools instead of a chef's hands was borderline blasphemy.
Alice, however, embraced inclusivity. She didn't look down on any cuisine.
Her only failing was this—
She didn't understand traditional cooking. Not really.
Her worldview had been shaped by molecular gastronomy, which led her to undervalue simplicity.
Even during the Autumn Elections, she had looked dumbfounded when Souma presented a humble seaweed bento box.
How could that be impressive?
That moment had exposed the cracks in her knowledge—her lack of connection with food that spoke to the soul rather than the intellect.
Erina may scorn commoner food…
But she understood it. Studied it. Probably better than anyone at Totsuki.
That fundamental difference—that balance of knowledge and pride—was what kept Alice forever one step behind.
At that moment, a light floral aroma wafted across the tavern.
Sonoka, who had remained quietly sipping her peach wine, tilted the glass under her nose, enchanted by the scent.
It was soft, elegant—like peach blossoms after spring rain.
She took a small sip.
The flavor opened like a breeze: sweet, subtle, and refreshing. Not cloying like fruit liquors often are.
She let out a small sigh of satisfaction.
"…This is amazing."
Then she glanced at the two cousins, who were now facing away from each other like rival generals before battle.
Her expression turned puzzled.
Why are these two always like this?
But she quickly shrugged it off. Not her place to meddle.
Turning to Zane instead, she grinned and said,
"Owner, maybe you're in the wrong business. With wine like this, you'd make a killing running your own winery."