Chapter 7 The Firebird
Chapter seven
The Firebird
Nyomi
Stravinsky's The Firebird played through the kitchen's hidden speakers—violins climbing in golden spirals, horns blazing beneath them like embers refusing to die.
Chef Bunzō had chosen this full orchestral ballet for our soundtrack today.
It ran nearly forty-five minutes, and had been composed in 1910, when Stravinsky was still young, hungry, and trying to prove himself.
I knew the story well.
A prince wanders into an enchanted garden and captures a magical firebird. She gives him one of her feathers in exchange for her freedom—a single burning plume that later saves his life when he faces the immortal sorcerer holding thirteen princesses captive.
In the end, the firebird's magic destroys the sorcerer and transforms everyone he'd imprisoned, turning stone back into flesh, death back into life.
"We can play this for inspiration," Chef Bunzō had said with that easy smile of his.
He was younger than I'd expected when I first met him—late thirties, maybe close to my age—with sharp cheekbones and clever eyes that probably missed nothing.
"The Firebird is about transformation. Death and rebirth.
I thought it fit what we're creating today. "
He wasn't wrong.
The kitchen was alive with heat and limitless ideas. Steam curled from pots. Knives flashed under fluorescent light. The massive industrial range glowed with blue flames, and above it all, the smell of slow-braising oxtail wrapped around me.
This is what I needed.
After everything—the spy hunt, the betrayals, the pyre I'd witnessed burning outside our window—I needed to create something.
To transform raw ingredients into nourishment.
To remind myself that my hands could build, not just destroy.
Around us, the kitchen hummed with activity.
Five of Chef Bunzō's staff moved through the space like dancers in a choreographed performance.
Right from the beginning, the music shifted the whole kitchen. The dark, prowling introduction gave way to quick rhythm.
In the ballet, this was the moment the prince first glimpsed the firebird darting through the sorcerer's garden.
Near the prep station, a young woman with her hair pinned back, sliced scallions. And as the music rose, her knife matched the tempo.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash of scallions falling into perfect thin ribbons right along with the pizzicato strings—quick plucked notes that danced off her blade.
Beside her, another woman—older, with laugh lines around her eyes—carefully arranged small plates for tasting. Her movements were precise and unhurried.
A third woman stood at the pastry station, piping delicate swirls of matcha cream onto miniature tarts, testing the ratio of bitter to sweet. She'd look up every few minutes to catch my eye and smile, genuinely curious about what we were creating together.
The two men worked closer to the industrial refrigerators.
One was tall and quiet as he prepared mise en place—tiny bowls of chopped ginger, minced garlic, measured spices—while the other, younger and more animated, was taste-testing a honey-bourbon glaze, and his expression shifted from thoughtful to delighted as the flavors hit his tongue.
"This glaze," He held up the spoon. "It's perfect for the karaage. The heat builds through the sweetness."
Chef Bunzō tilted his head toward me. "Shall we try it, Nyomi?"
“Sounds good to me.”
We crossed the kitchen together, weaving between stations.
The orchestra tightened, sound pulling inward before its release. Strings trembled and built toward a high level of magnificence.
The young chef reached for two tasting spoons from the container by the stove. He dipped each one into the glaze, coated them evenly, and then handed one to me and the other to Chef Bunzō.
The young chef glanced between us. "Bourbon, honey, gochugaru, and a little cayenne. This turned out to be an excellent execution. How did you come up with that combination?"
“I was always taught—sweet to draw you in, spice to remind you who you’re dealing with.” I lifted my spoon and let the glaze coat my tongue.
Heat.
Not immediate—it crept in slow, building at the back of my throat. The bourbon smoothed everything out, and the honey gave it that sticky sweetness that would caramelize beautifully on fried chicken.
Hmmm. It’s good, but. . .there’s something missing.
Chef Bunzō lifted his spoon, tasted, and closed his eyes, letting the flavors settle. “Excellent balance. Clean. Focused.”
“Yeah, but. . .” I exhaled softly. “It needs one more note. Something to stretch the heat just a little longer.”
The young chef’s face lit up, like he’d been waiting for permission. “I was actually experimenting with something earlier. Blooming the cayenne first—warming it gently in neutral oil before adding it to the glaze. It could change how the heat lands. Less sharp. More. . .layered.”
“Very interesting.”
He reached for a small saucepan. “When you bloom it, the capsaicin disperses more evenly. It doesn’t spike. It rolls.”
I tilted my head. “Capsaicin?”
He nodded. “It’s the part of the pepper that makes it hot.”
“Aww. Okay.” I made note of that.
“When you warm the spice in oil first, it releases more evenly. The burn doesn’t spike—it spreads.”
Intrigued, I asked. “So, the heat behaves that way?”
“Exactly.”
“I love it.”
Chef Bunzō watched him with interest. “Let’s try it.”
“This could be great.” The young chef smiled, and was already grabbing a handful of peppers.
The Firebird swelled overhead—strings tightening, heat gathering, something on the edge of becoming.
We returned to our stations—Chef Bunzō to the massive cutting board where he was breaking down wagyu to test out some of my ideas for the main course, me to the notebook I'd spread across the stainless steel counter.
Pages of ideas covered the surface.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
Some with arrows connecting them to other concepts, other flavor profiles, other memories I wanted to capture in food.
This had been our rhythm since the chef found me in the kitchen.
All morning, I'd come up with fun ideas for the Claws’ cocktail party and the big dinner including the Fangs and Roar.
I played with everything—a taste I remembered from my grandmother's kitchen, a combination that felt right in my gut, a dish that might tell a story about my short time with them so far—and Chef Bunzō's team was doing their best to bring it to life.
Test it.
Refine it.
Tell me honestly when a dish worked or didn't.
"The miso-maple situation," the older woman shook her head from her station. "I think we need to revisit.”
I looked up from my notebook. “Not working?”
“Too sweet for the pork belly, but you can try it."
“No. I trust your palate.” I flipped back three pages in my notebook. "What if we added more white miso and then cut the maple by half?"
She considered this and then nodded slowly. "That could work. Let me try."
“Thanks.”
She winked at me. “This is fun.”
And the kitchen kept moving.
Creating.
Transforming.
And then we continued testing.
Small batches of everything.
Miniature versions of dishes.
Sample cocktails mixed in quarter portions.
Tasting.
Adjusting.
Scribbling notes in margins.
Starting over when a dish or cocktail didn't work.
The collard green gyoza had taken three attempts before the filling was right. However, it had turned into an exquisite balance of smoked collards and bacon lardons. Plus, Chef Bunzō had created this dipping sauce that had me loudly groaning.
The mac and cheese croquettes were perfect on the first try.
Everyone had agreed.
Even the quiet man by the refrigerator had nodded approvingly, which Chef Bunzō told me later was the highest praise he ever gave to anyone.
Now we were working on mini oxtail bao buns—the dish I was most nervous about, the one that felt most personal.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the industrial range and the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.
Grandma would lose her mind over this kitchen.
I could already hear her voice: "Baby, you tell that man I need to come visit. I'll cook circles around all of y'all."
Several minutes later, Chef Bunzō got to my side and began working the bao dough.
Doing bao would be a new adventure for me. They were simple at their core.
Steamed wheat buns.
Pale white.
Soft and pillowy with a faint sweetness that melted away on the tongue.
Not bread exactly.
More like a doughy cushion.
A perfect culinary invention designed to hold, to absorb, to soften whatever richness one tucked inside it.
I’d first eaten one years ago in New York, bought from a small Chinatown bakery late in the evening. The buns sat behind glass, fogged from steam and stacked in shallow metal trays. I ordered one out of curiosity and ate it standing on the sidewalk a few steps from the door.
The way I moaned after the first bite. . .I was surprised people didn’t call the police for public lewdness.
That bao had been filled with braised pork. It had been rich with soy and sugar. The meat was tender enough to fall apart. The juices soaked directly into the dough. Still, the bun held together just long enough to do its job.
I wanted to do a similar rendition for the Claws’ cocktail party, but add oxtails.
For me, oxtail wasn’t subtle.
It was memory, patience, and time.
It was Sunday kitchens and simmering pots.
Soul food through and through.
Asking a bao to hold that—to cradle it without losing itself—felt like a risk. But also like a risk worth having if it all came out perfectly.
I watched Bunzō’s hands work the dough. He turned to me and smiled. "This dough is almost ready."
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.” He pressed a thumb into the pillowy mass. "See how it springs back? This is the moment. Not before. Not after."
I leaned closer, watching. "My grandmother says the same thing about biscuit dough. 'Don't overwork it, baby. Let it breathe.'"
He chuckled. "She sounds like a wise woman."