Shoku-What? (Open)

[Rouge Ako]

The dining hall at Beacon was quiet when Rouge arrived. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching in the steam vents and gleaming off rows of polished steel counters. Most students would come later, filling the space with chatter and noise, but Rouge preferred the stillness before the rush. Cooking—serious cooking—needed room to breathe.

He rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt and tied an apron across his waist. The kitchen already smelled faintly of peppers and onions, the ingredients he had laid out earlier, neatly arranged across the cutting boards. A sharp inhale through his nose and his lips curved slightly, barely there. This was work he respected.

He started with the curry. Heavy pots clattered onto the stove, oil hitting the bottom with a hiss as he brought the heat up. Rouge’s knife worked quickly—onions, garlic, ginger, all diced fine and dropped into the sizzling base. The fragrance filled the hall immediately, rich and warming. He stirred with a steady rhythm, letting the edges caramelize just enough before adding in the spices: turmeric, cumin, coriander, a measured pinch of chili powder. The colors deepened into a golden hue, the air heavy with the promise of heat.

Next came the meat—chunks of chicken seasoned and seared until browned—and vegetables, eggplant, carrots, potatoes. Coconut milk and stock followed, tempering the fire with a creamy undertone. He let it simmer low, steam rising in thick curls, tasting once, then twice, adjusting with salt and a little more chili. He wanted warmth that lingered, heat that didn’t overwhelm but demanded respect.

The rice came next. Rouge rinsed it carefully until the water ran clear, then set it to steam with just the right ratio, a splash of vinegar, and a strip of dried kelp for depth. While it cooked, he moved on to the spreads of dishes he’d promised—an ambitious fusion, Japanese and Mexican flavors woven together across the long wooden tables.

Tonkatsu sizzled in one pan, pork cutlets breaded and fried golden, while he kneaded masa for fresh tortillas on another counter, pressing and laying them onto a hot skillet. The smell of toasted corn joined the air. He layered sushi rolls with avocado, spicy tuna, and crisp vegetables, then set them beside a platter of enchiladas smothered in red sauce.

Steam baskets carried delicate gyoza dumplings, while nearby, a tray of tamales baked in their husks, their savory fillings spiced with cumin and chili. Rouge even allowed himself a little flourish with tempura vegetables—eggplant, sweet potato, and green beans fried until crisp and light.

Each dish found its place across the tables. Bowls of pickled vegetables for brightness, roasted peppers for those who wanted more fire, soy-marinated eggs cut neatly in halves. He brewed a pot of green tea and another of hibiscus agua fresca, pouring both into pitchers that caught the light.

By the time he stepped back, the hall was no longer quiet. The food itself filled the space with its voice—scents layered upon scents, warmth radiating from each tray and bowl. Rouge stood with his arms crossed, watching the spread like one might a battlefield map, making sure everything was in its place, every detail accounted for.

He wasn’t smiling, not really. But there was something softer in his face as he reached for a ladle, stirred the curry once more, and set it down with deliberate care.