Page 30 of Kotori
The first dish is a single perfect ginkgo nut nestled in a ceramic shell no bigger than my thumb, glazed with something that catches the lamplight like amber. Beside it sits a piece of sea bream so thinly sliced it's nearly translucent, garnished with a single chrysanthemum petal.
I pick up my chopsticks awkwardly, still struggling with the proper grip. The ginkgo nut has a buttery texture and an earthy flavor I've never tasted before. When I reach for the fish, he speaks quietly.
"Slowly. Kaiseki is meditation through taste. Each bite should be savored."
The way he says "savored" makes me aware of his attention on my mouth as I eat. The fish dissolves on my tongue, sweet and clean, the chrysanthemum adding a subtle floral note that lingers.
Hayashi returns with the second course—a small bowl of clear soup so delicate I can see the bottom through the golden broth. Floating inside are three perfect drops of green tea oil and a single white flower that looks too pretty to eat.
"Suimono," he says. "Clear soup to cleanse the palate. The flower is edible—a symbol of purity."
I lift the bowl with both hands the way I've seen him do, bringing it to my lips. The broth is warm silk, flavored with something oceanic and clean. When I bite into the flower, it releases a burst of subtle sweetness.
"The oils carry the essence of tea ceremony," he continues, his dark eyes never leaving my face. "Harmony, respect, purity, tranquility. The foundations of proper understanding between two people."
The way he says "understanding" makes heat gather low in my belly. Every word feels loaded with double meaning.
The third course arrives as I'm finishing the soup—a single piece of grilled fish, no bigger than my palm, presented on a bed of cut radish. The skin crackles perfectly, and when I take a bite, the flesh flakes apart to reveal tender sweetness with a hint of smoke.
"Wild salmon," he says. "Caught this morning, grilled over cherry wood."
"It's incredible," I say, meaning it completely. Every bite is a revelation, flavors I've never experienced combining in ways that seem impossible.
The next course is a work of art—sashimi arranged like flower petals on a black lacquer plate, each piece of fish a different color and texture. Ruby red tuna, pale yellow amberjack, silver-skinned mackerel, and something white as snow that gleams like a pearl.
"Each fish represents a different season," he explains. "Tuna for winter's depth, amberjack for spring's freshness, mackerel for summer's richness, sea bream for autumn's elegance."
I try the tuna first, and it melts on my tongue like butter, rich and clean. The amberjack has a firmer texture and a brightness that makes my mouth water. The mackerel is more intense, with oils that coat my palate, while the sea bream is delicate as snow.
"You eat with proper appreciation," he says, watching my reactions with something that might be approval. "Many foreigners rush through such meals, missing the subtlety."
"I've never tasted anything like this," I admit.
"Because you've never been properly taught. Education requires the right teacher. Someone who understands both the student's needs and their potential."
The way his voice drops on "potential" makes my pulse quicken. He pours more sake, and when he hands me the cup this time, his fingers linger against mine.
"The next course requires guidance," he says, rising with fluid grace. "May I?"
Before I can ask what he means, he moves around the table to kneel beside me, close enough that our thighs almost touch. The new course is unlike anything I've seen—tiny vegetables carved into flowers, arranged around a central dish that looks like abstract art.
"Takiawase," he explains, his voice close to my ear. "Simmered vegetables, each prepared separately, then arranged in harmony. Like bringing different elements together to create something beautiful."
He picks up a piece of lotus root with his chopsticks, the vegetable carved so thinly it's almost translucent, shaped like a flower. "Open your mouth."
The command is quiet but unmistakable. Heat floods my cheeks, but I part my lips obediently. He places the lotus root on my tongue, his chopsticks barely brushing my lips as he withdraws them.
The vegetable is silky and mild, cooked in a broth that tastes of the sea. But I'm barely registering the flavor because of his proximity, the way his dark eyes watch my mouth as I chew.
"The lotus grows in mud but blooms pure," he says softly. "Transformation through proper nurturing."
He feeds me each element of the dish—baby turnips carved like flowers, their sweetness brightened with citrus; squash that melts on my tongue like butter; delicate baby corn that crunches between my teeth. With each bite, his attention on my mouth becomes more intense, more intimate.
"Beautiful," he murmurs when I taste the final piece— eggplant so tender it dissolves instantly, leaving behind a hint of miso and smoke. "You learn so quickly when properly guided."
The praise makes warmth bloom in my chest. When did earning his approval become so important to me?
By the time I finish the last bite, I'm aware of how quiet the room has become, how intimate the lamplight makes everything feel. The meal has been unlike anything I've ever experienced—not just food, but ceremony, seduction, art.
