Page 192 of The Dragon 2

Steam rose, fragrant and dark, and I inhaled. “It smells good.”

The dark, rich brown of the oxtails glistened. The dish was garnished with bright green herbs, adding a splash of color to the deep hues of the meat.

I got a fork and cut into the oxtail but there was barely any need. The meat slid off the bone like it had been waiting its whole life to give in. The braised flesh trembled at the edge of my fork, dark and glistening, streaked with its own reduction.

So eager, I took the first bite, and fucking froze.

Flavor burst on my tongue—bold, smoky, rich. The reduction had this deep, sticky darkness to it. There was the salt of bone marrow, the whisper of heat from the paprika, and something else—maybe the vinegar pulling it forward—but perfectly restrained.

I closed my eyes. “Now I get it.”

“Now you get what?”

I opened my eyes. “Mother used to quote this old philosopher and say, ‘sometimes nirvana can be found not in temples or silence, but in a dish prepared by the hands of one who loves you.’”

“That’s beautiful.”

“That’s this moment right here.”

She blushed.

I took another bite, slower this time, letting it linger on my tongue. When I swallowed, I sank into this blissful daze. “We have something calledniku jaga—meat and potatoes stewed in dashi, soy sauce, mirin, and sometimes sake. It’s comfort food. When I miss my mom, I have my chef make it.”

“Your mother made it a lot?”

“Yes. It was one of my favorite dishes from her.”

I gathered up more of the tender meat. “But this. . .is just as special. I don’t think I will be able to taste this dish again and not think of you.”

“You’ve got me over here beaming.”

“You should be beaming.” I forked another portion. “You know the only woman who ever cooked for me like this was my mother?”

Nyomi said nothing, just held my gaze.

“We had chefs, but. . .it was always special when my mother cooked, especially when it was just for me.”

Nyomi watched me as if she was trying to imagine a younger version of the Dragon eating with his mother. “I know it’s probably obvious to you but. . .tell me. . .why did you feel so special when she did it?”

“Because. . .” I set my fork down. “Every time my mother cooked for me it wasn’t just food—it was her love. Her time. Her care. I felt. . .chosenlike. . .I was the most important boy in Japan.”

“That’s so sweet.” Her smile warmed.

I gestured to the tray of delicious oxtails. “Since she died, this is the first time I’ve felt that way.”

Nyomi’s eyes shimmered.

So greedy, I looked at the other trays. “What else did you cook for me, Tora?”

She chuckled and lifted the next tray. “It took me years to get these collard greens just right, so. . .you have to let me know if you like them.”

Steam curled upward.

Bits of smoked meat shimmered in the folds and there was a scent—tangy, sharp, deep. Vinegar, garlic, and something peppery.

“Okay. Now these, I have had before.” I went straight for them, spooning a lot onto my plate.

“Where did you have some?”