"Just from the aroma alone, I can tell this dish carries your usual style."
Before even tasting it, Senzaemon Nakiri could already smell the sharp, numbing spice radiating from Terunori Kuga's dish as it was placed before him.
"The essence of Sichuan Cuisine is in its spiciness and heat, isn't it?"
Kuga smiled confidently as he spoke, but Senzaemon quietly shook his head. After decades in the culinary world, he knew all too well what truly defined Sichuan Cuisine.
Spice and numbing heat were indeed a core part of it—but only one part. In recent years, the trend toward intense flavors had grown so popular that it had smothered the subtler aspects of Sichuan Cuisine entirely.
Many younger chefs never studied its true depth. To them, "Sichuan Cuisine" simply meant "make it spicy." And Kuga was the perfect example of that mindset.
For him, Chinese cuisine was represented by Sichuan food—and Sichuan food was represented by chili and peppercorns.
That way of thinking was fundamentally flawed.
Senzaemon had tried to correct him before. A chef who could achieve this much success while walking the wrong path clearly had immense talent. But no matter who tried, Kuga never listened.
The old man had long since realized words alone wouldn't bring Kuga back.
And sure enough, time proved him right—others had tried too, all to no avail.
When elders tried, Kuga dismissed them, saying they were just older, not better—that with enough time, he'd prove his way right.
When his peers tried, they didn't have the strength to back it up. Among his generation, no one could surpass him in Chinese cuisine. What right did they have to lecture him?
So, in the end, no one could change his mind. Everyone knew he was walking down a misguided road, but no one could stop him.
Senzaemon didn't waste any more words. He picked up his spoon and took a bite of Kuga's Mapo Tofu.
Instantly, his face flushed red, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
The spice hit him like a wave. Even with his sturdy constitution, it was intense—any ordinary elderly man would've put the spoon down after that first mouthful.
"While the level of heat isn't exactly kind to someone my age," Senzaemon said evenly, "I can't deny your control of spice is excellent."
He gave praise where it was due. Though he believed Kuga's direction was wrong, he wasn't blind to the craftsmanship behind the dish.
At those words, Kuga's grin widened proudly.
And then—the telltale sign of the Nakiri family's food euphoria appeared. Senzaemon's clothes tore open in a powerful Clothes Bursting reaction.
"However," he continued, unbothered, "overemphasizing spiciness has thrown the balance off completely. The other flavors of your Mapo Tofu have been suppressed—or even destroyed."
"True Mapo Tofu should embody eight distinct sensations: numbing, spicy, fresh, aromatic, crisp, tender, hot, and lively."
"You've pushed the numbing and spicy notes too far. Combined with the dish's inherent heat, it becomes overwhelming. After several bites, the tongue begins to burn rather than savor."
"As for freshness, crispness, tenderness, and liveliness—those have all been drowned out. Even now, my tongue's still tingling."
Senzaemon shook his head slightly. The execution of the spice was technically impressive, yes—but this kind of imbalance crippled the harmony of the dish.
Mapo Tofu was meant to be complete—each of its eight sensations in perfect unity. Kuga hadn't omitted any flavor, but his extreme focus on spice had damaged the others.
If Senzaemon wanted to nitpick, he could've listed dozens of flaws. The fact that he only pointed out the most basic one was his way of sparing Kuga's pride.
Still, even with its flaws, the dish was undeniably of Four-Star quality.
Kuga's smile faltered. He had been beaming after the initial praise, but the critique drained the color from his face.
"Hahaha! Shorty really thought he'd walk away unscathed, huh? He should've remembered who the judge was this time!" Rindo Kobayashi laughed from the audience.
In most Shokugeki matches, the Shokugeki Bureau assigned professional judges—people who, out of courtesy or politics, tended to go easy on an Elite Ten member like Kuga.
Partly because his food was genuinely good—but also because his influence at Totsuki was enormous.
But tonight's judge was Senzaemon Nakiri, the Director himself. The head of both Totsuki and the Nakiri family. He wasn't about to indulge anyone.
Once Kuga's tasting ended, it was Kael's turn.
Under the moonlight streaming through the open ceiling, Kael placed his own Mapo Tofu before the judge.
Senzaemon's clothes had already reformed—thankfully. Even for a Nakiri, constantly exploding out of your shirt mid-meal took a certain level of composure.
It was a good thing only the men of the Nakiri family experienced the Clothes Bursting phenomenon. Otherwise, none of the women in that bloodline would dare eat in public again.
"Oh… to think I'd see this technique here!"
Senzaemon's eyes widened in surprise as he examined Kael's dish.
The scallions—no, garlic sprouts—stood perfectly upright, emerald-green and glistening, their sheen reflecting the rich red sauce below. They looked freshly plucked from the soil, yet were fully cooked, tender, and fragrant.
This was the mark of liveliness—the "Huo" among the eight elements of Mapo Tofu.
By contrast, Kuga had used finely chopped scallions. In his dish, their green had been completely swallowed by the deep crimson sauce.
Kael's version, though equally vibrant in color, presented a striking balance of red and green.
The sight alone was enough to make everyone in the hall hold their breath.