Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
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."
"She is." I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest. "She'd love this setup. I need to FaceTime her later and give her a tour."
"And she'll be proud of what you're creating." He gestured toward the braising pot where the oxtails simmered in a bath of soy, ginger, star anise, and bourbon. "This fusion—American soul food and Japanese technique—it's not just cooking. It's conversation. Two cultures speaking to each other."
I did my best not to blush. “Thank you.”
“You will have a problem on your hands, however.”
“Oh no. What do you mean?”
“The Claws and Fangs will expect this epic treatment from you all the time.”
“Ahh.” I laughed. “Well. . .I think Kenji will help me with calming them down.”
“The Dragon surely will.”
The meat had been braising for hours now, the collagen breaking down into silk, the bourbon caramelizing against the soy until the sauce was thick and glossy.
Soon I'd shred the meat, fold it into those perfect bao buns, add pickled onions, and a drizzle of chili oil. “I really hope they like these.”
"They will. Bao is everywhere." He finished with the dough. “In China, they call it baozi. They like it soft enough to tear with your fingers. Strong enough to hold something rich.”
“Yep. That’s how I want these to be.” I watched as he rolled the dough into smooth, pale rounds—each one puffing gently beneath his palms. They looked like little clouds waiting to be filled.
“In Vietnam, it becomes bánh bao,” he continued. “A little sweeter. Bigger. Usually stuffed with pork, egg, mushrooms. A treat meant to be shared.”
“That tracks. Vietnamese food always feels generous.”
He nodded. “In Japan, it’s nikuman. Heavier seasoning. Soy, sugar, mirin. Comfort food. You buy them hot in winter from convenience stores.”
“Oh, that’s perfect for the cold.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at me. “In the Philippines, siopao. Malaysia and Singapore—pau. Indonesia—bakpao. Same idea. Different voices.”
I reached out and picked up one of the shaped buns, relishing in how light it felt in my palm. The surface was smooth and faintly warm, the dough yielding slightly when I pressed my thumb into it.
“Your pairing it with the oxtails may be genius.” Chef Bunzō’s eyes blazed with approval. “Oxtail is rich. Fatty. Deep. It needs something that absorbs without fighting back.”
I imagined this dish fully assembled—the shredded meat folded into those clouds of dough, the sauce soaking in, the sweetness of the bun tempering the salt and umami.
Pickled onions for brightness.
Chili oil for heat.
A perfect balance.
I set the bun back on the tray and looked at the pot of oxtails simmering nearby. “I want the Claws to take a bite and the meat fall apart on their tongues."
He grinned.
“In fact. . .I want them to bite into it and taste my grandmother's kitchen and their favorite Tokyo street food at the same time."
"Oh. Then you'll succeed." He nodded firmly. "I can already smell the memory you're creating."
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I feel like I’ve already met your grandmother.”
My heart warmed.
The music turned savage.
I felt it before I fully registered the shift—the violins no longer climbing but slashing, brass snarling beneath frantic strings. The tempo had shifted into something darker. More urgent.
Ah. The Infernal Dance.
The score abandoned grace entirely.
I recognized this moment of the ballet immediately. This was when Kashchei the immortal sorcerer finally awakened. When his demons poured into the enchanted garden, and chaos erupted through what had been beautiful and safe.