White and Black Palate: A Japanese Heart Blooms in Paris - Dawn at Rungis

A single piece of kombu lay on the stovetop. It was something left over from prep work, something he'd brought home weeks ago with the vague intention of making dashi in his own kitchen someday. That day had never come. For weeks now it had simply remained there beside the burner, and Misaki Aozashi could no longer remember—if he'd ever truly known—whether he'd meant to give it to someone. He gazed at that single strip for a while. He didn't move. There was no need to. 3:15 AM. Fifteen minutes until departure. The attic room was only fourteen square meters. Top floor of an apartment building in the 7th arrondissement of Paris. A single bed, a small desk, a one-burner stove, a compact refrigerator. Several pages torn from recipe notebooks were taped to the wall—handwritten notes in a mixture of Japanese and French, crossed-out passages, sketches of ingredients in the margins. That was all. Through the skylight, the Paris night sky was barely visible. To the southwest, the tip of the Eiffel Tower pierced the dark sky. Aozashi woke at this hour every morning and always confirmed that same tip before beginning his preparations. On his first morning in Paris, when he still understood nothing, he'd seen the Eiffel Tower through the window and felt it for the first time: *I am here*. It had become a habit since then. Why it had become a habit was difficult to explain in rational terms. He simply felt that something would be missing if he didn't confirm it. He pulled on his white chef's coat. Black slacks. On the inside of his arm was a small burn scar from his training days, when hot oil had splattered. It didn't hurt anymore. But sometimes, in unguarded moments, it caught his eye and brought back memories of who he'd been then. He looked in the mirror. Short dark hair with a greenish tint. Clear amber eyes, almond-shaped. A lean, taut frame, about 175 centimeters tall. Someone had once told him his impression was faint. He hadn't bothered to object. A chef's face wasn't what mattered. He fastened his coat. Time to go. ＊ The cobblestone alley was still wet. The rain from deep in the night had left its mark; streetlight gleamed and blurred across the stones. Aozashi walked with careful, quiet steps. Rue de Verneuil was a quiet street lined with galleries and antique shops during the day, but at this hour it was completely deserted. A cat cried out somewhere—short, just once. Aozashi paused for a moment and looked toward the sound. There was a black shadow on a wall, but it vanished quickly. He passed the entrance to Lumière. Cream-colored stone exterior, dark green wooden window frames. Above the entrance hung a brass lamp-shaped sign that cast a modest glow even at night. A sign unchanged since 1887, they said. Aozashi had heard Jean-Paul say once, "When we change this sign, we close Lumière." Jean-Paul Belmondo. Executive chef and owner-chef. Sixty-two years old. The man who held everything about this restaurant in his hands. That man had called Aozashi to Paris. Why he'd been called, Aozashi still didn't fully understand. He didn't stop walking. He passed by, turned the corner, and got into the waiting car. He placed his bag on the passenger seat. Alone again today. About twenty-five minutes to Rungis. Only the engine sound filled the empty pre-dawn roads. ＊ Rungis International Market. The world's largest fresh produce wholesale market. Twelve kilometers south of Paris, sprawling east of Orly Airport across 234 hectares. Fresh fish pavilion, produce pavilion, meat pavilion, dairy pavilion, flower pavilion. Large trucks moved constantly through the corridors connecting each section from deep night into early morning, their sounds mixing with the screech of forklifts, the crack of ice being broken, and the shouts of fishermen. 2 AM was peak trading time. Aozashi came here four times a week, always arriving after 3:30 AM. As he entered the fresh fish pavilion, the smell of salt and ice rushed at him all at once. The floor was always wet. Fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh white glow, illuminating the silver scales of the arranged fish. Aozashi headed toward the D-14 section in the central-southern area. Elian Seafood. Founded 1978. A wholesale dealer specializing in fresh fish from the waters off Brittany and Normandy. When the owner, Thierry Elian, spotted Aozashi, he raised a thick hand. Fifty-eight years old. Third-generation from a fishing family. Broad shoulders, short white hair, skin darkened by years spent outdoors. His voice was loud, his laugh even louder. He spoke only French, and he saw no problem with that whatsoever. "Misaki, you're late today," Thierry said. Aozashi gave a small nod. He didn't need to answer; Thierry didn't mind. It was part of the habit built up over these six months. Aozashi's eyes moved to the group of sea bass arranged on ice. From Brittany waters. The sizes were uniform. The shine of the scales wasn't bad. But— The first one. He reached out his hand, then stopped. His movement cut off whatever Thierry was about to say. He picked up the second fish. The moment he lifted it, his head tilted slightly. His eyes narrowed. A quiet moment passed, as if he were reading something from within. This was something Aozashi had never been able to put into words. He simply knew. The way water had left this individual specimen, the depth of its aging, the uniformity of its flesh. It was as if the taste floated as an afterimage on the surface of the food. He knew this wasn't normal for other people. He'd come to understand that slowly, over many years. He returned the second fish. He stopped at the third one. He stared at it for a while, then quietly shook his head again. And when he picked up the fourth fish, Aozashi's movements stopped. After a brief pause, he placed it in the basket. That was all. Not a single unnecessary motion. Thierry let out a small whistle. "You skipped the third one again," Thierry said. Aozashi didn't answer. "They all look the same to me," Thierry continued with a wry smile. He wasn't teasing. He was genuinely puzzled, and Aozashi understood that. This man called Aozashi "the man who eats fish with his eyes." When Thierry had first said that, Aozashi couldn't respond. He couldn't deny it either. It was the closest description. "What can you tell from that?" Thierry asked. "...I can tell," Aozashi said quietly. With that, he moved his gaze to the next ingredient. Thierry watched his profile for a while, then shrugged. "Well, fine. There's never been a mistake in what you choose," Thierry said. Then, as if remembering something, he added: "Oh, we got some scallops in today. They're smaller than usual, but want to take a look?" Aozashi paused for a moment, then nodded. Thierry disappeared toward the back of the pavilion. Watching his retreating figure, Aozashi thought: this man doesn't get angry when you don't speak. He doesn't try to fill the silence. That quietness was something Aozashi was grateful for. In Paris, such people were rare. ＊ On the drive back, when the car merged onto the highway, Aozashi's gaze fixed on something outside the window. The dark sky was beginning to lighten, just barely. A color that existed before the horizon, neither night nor day. The orange of the streetlights dissolved into that whiteness. Aozashi watched that boundary. Or he thought he was watching it. The word *cobblestones* surfaced in his mind. Not the cobblestones of Paris outside the window. Those of Kyoto. Memory rose up, drawn toward the color of that boundary. He knew this happened often in the space between sleep and waking. When you rode in a car at this hour, the edges of thought would soften and the past would seep in. Suiun-an. A restaurant tucked away in an alley eight minutes south of Kiyomizu Temple, in Higashiyama Ward, Kyoto. Kaiseki cuisine, founded 1923, run by the Kajiwara family for four generations. Aozashi had spent three years there. He'd entered at eighteen and left at twenty-five. *Left* might not be the right word. Fragments surfaced. Not continuous memory. A pale face. The thinned cheeks of the old man Tanaka. The moment Aozashi saw the old man's complexion that night, what he felt was taste. A dry taste, exhausted, as if something had hit bottom. He felt it on his tongue. He understood what state the old man's body was in that night, what was happening at his core. He simply knew. So he changed the menu. On his own. Without permission. Without consulting Shinjiro Kajiwara. The aroma of kombu dashi rose in memory. The old man Tanaka wept. He didn't say "this is what I wanted to eat." He simply wept in silence. That was all. Aozashi couldn't say anything. He only thought he'd done the right thing. That night. Shinjiro Kajiwara's voice appeared as a fragment. The quality of his voice came first, before the words. Low, quiet, containing something deeper than anger. What that voice had said didn't fully return to memory. But one phrase was carved in clearly. *—You're drowning in your own talent.* Then the memory cut off. The car slowed. The sound of turning into the alley toward Lumière. Aozashi moved his gaze from the window and leaned back against the seat. His expression had returned to normal. It was just a memory drawn up in that drowsy space, he told himself, exhaling slowly. ＊ The kitchen at Lumière was still quiet. Sixty-five square meters. A central stainless steel pass, with sauce station, grill station, cold appetizer station, and pastry station arranged around it. Before 5 AM, more than an hour before the other staff arrived. Aozashi changed his coat, gathered the ingredients he'd purchased, and headed to the east end of the kitchen. His section. About three square meters. It had once been a space for drying herbs, which Jean-Paul had renovated for him. One wooden cutting board, five Japanese knives, a small pot for making kombu dashi. That space, composed of these elements alone, was made of different materials than the rest of the kitchen. A boundary between metal and wood. As Aozashi set down the ingredients, his eyes traced that boundary. He'd thought once that it resembled his own position. His title at Lumière was "Specialist Invited" (Spécialiste Invité). A specialist in Japanese cuisine brought in from outside by Jean-Paul. He didn't belong to the formal brigade system—the kitchen hierarchy systematized by Escoffier in the nineteenth century, with the chef at the top, followed by sous-chef, section chefs, and commis. His compensation was a fixed monthly salary from the restaurant and housing. His voice in the kitchen was limited; it was an unspoken rule that he not comment on anything outside his own section. Not a colleague, but treated with respect. Every time the staff called him "Monsieur Misaki," he felt the distance of that position. He placed the sea bass he'd purchased on the wooden cutting board. He pressed the surface lightly with his palm. There was elasticity. This would work. He began preparations for a trial dish. This morning he would attempt a spring appetizer. Thin-sliced sea bass paired with a delicate yuzu-infused dashi gelée. The concept was "the breath of the season"—not merely using seasonal ingredients, but using everything from the choice of vessel to temperature to the way aromas rose to express "this precise moment in the season," the fundamental philosophy underlying Japanese cuisine. Could he translate that into a Paris spring? That was the question. Paris's seasons were different from Kyoto's. Different soil, different air, different light. Even using the same word "spring," the content was entirely different. He picked up his knife. The moment the blade touched the sea bass flesh, all of Aozashi's senses sharpened. This was something he couldn't explain well even to himself, but the instant the blade made contact with the ingredient, the contours of its taste seemed to expand. The distribution of moist

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Name: White and Black Palate: A Japanese Heart Blooms in Paris
Author: Novelia

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