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MAISON DE MIYA RECEIVES FIRST MICHELIN STAR
By Udai Tenma
Maison de Miya by Miya Osamu received its first Michelin Star in the Michelin Star Award Ceremony yesterday evening, barely a year after it first opened its doors. In particular, Ukai Keishin, the international director of Michelin guides, praised Maison de Miya’s famous Onigiri Reimagined, a deconstructed onigiri scattered on a plate.
“Miya Osamu reintroduces a familiar childhood friend in an exhilarating sensory experience,” he said.
Maison de Miya’s onigiri was first made popular by Miya Osamu’s beloved Onigiri Miya chain. It had its humble beginnings as a food stand at various festivals and sports tournaments, and eventually its first brick-and-mortar store in Osaka. Five years later, the Onigiri Miya craze has swept through Asia, with franchises in Seoul, Hong Kong, Beijing, Manila, Singapore, Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, and Ho Chi Minh City, just to name a few. Miya Osamu is also reportedly in talks to expand to Europe, with rumours of a London branch opening in the third quarter of the year.
Despite Onigiri Miya and Maison de Miya’s explosive success, the man behind the brand is almost completely unknown to the public. Miya Osamu is a famously elusive figure, members of the public knowing next to nothing about his personal life. In fact, at the Michelin Star Award Ceremony, Miya-san himself was conspicuously absent, with the prestigious accolade being accepted by his second in command, Kuroo Tetsurou.
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“LEV. IF YOU DON’T WATCH WHERE YOU PUT YOUR KNIVES-”
Kuroo leans against the counter next to Osamu and sighs under his breath. “You still sure that hiring Lev was a good idea? At this rate Yaku’s gonna be on blood pressure meds by the end of the month.”
“Ya say that like he isn’t already on them,” Osamu scoffs.
The kitchen is the perfect picture of Maison de Miya’s typical Saturday night chaos. From Yaku yelling at their youngest relief cook, to the furious churning of the mixer working overtime, to Yachi looking more and more stressed as the volume level and also the pile of vegetables in the sink steadily increases, Osamu would not have it any other way. He loves his job, and everything else that comes with it.
“Miya-san?” Yamaguchi, their newest waiter, pokes his head nervously into the kitchen. He raises his voice ever so slightly to be heard above all the hubbub, and looks utterly mortified at having to do so. “There’s, uh, a couple at Table 3 who wants to meet you? They said they want to send their compliments to the chef.”
“Compliments received,” Osamu says easily. “That won’t be necessary.”
Kuroo lets out one of his hyena laughs at the confused look on Yamaguchi’s face. “’Samu doesn’t meet customers, Tadashi-kun! Just tell them you’ll convey their message, and if they really wanna thank us, direct them to our tip jar.”
“We don’t have a tip jar, Kuroo. We have a 20% service charge,” Osamu reminds him as he waves Yamaguchi away.
“Yes, thanks to me.”
Osamu shoots his friend a dirty look. “Shouldn’t ya be off butcherin’ some meat or somethin’?”
“Won’t need to do that if Yaku keeps that up.” Kuroo grins in Yaku’s direction, where the senior chef is currently waving a vegetable knife threateningly at Lev’s general vicinity. “Have fun breaking that one up.”
Okay, so maybe Osamu doesn’t love every part of his job.
Ten minutes and several near-death experiences later, Osamu finally gets Yaku to drop his knives and has ushered him to a table in the corner to help with plating. Just as he’s drizzled a dollop of tangerine sauce on the last plate of steak, Yamaguchi’s worried face pokes through the door again.
“Miya-san, there’s another customer who wants to meet you-”
“Tadashi-kun, did you forget the script?” Kuroo chastises.
“N-no.” Osamu actually feels kind of sorry for Yamaguchi- the boy is practically quaking in his one-size-too-big brogues. “This customer says that he has, um, issues. With the food.”
An audible silence falls over the kitchen. For any other restaurant, this would have been a tad overdramatic. Every restaurant, no matter how good, had to have their fair share of bad reviews. Except, that is, Maison de Miya. In fact, Osamu thinks that the last time he’d gotten a bad review on any of his food was way back in culinary school, when he’d accidentally added habanero peppers into his chocolate fondue.
“Well,” Osamu finally says. “No sense departing from tradition for one negative review, right? Explain what we usually do, and give him a pen and the customer feedback form. Very politely, please.”
As Yamaguchi leaves, knees knocking together in terror, Osamu turns to look at the rest of his staff, and claps his hands together gamely. “Ah, we all knew that our lucky streak couldn’t last that long, eh?”
There is a titter of nervous laughter around the kitchen, and Osamu puts on his best encouraging smile. “Keep it up, everyone. Only one hour till last order!”
Slowly, everyone returns to work, and Osamu lets the smile slip off his face. Kuroo, of course, notices at once, and makes a beeline over to him to clap him sternly on the back. “Chin up, dude,” he says. “Not everyone can say their restaurant went a year without a bad review.”
“I know,” Osamu mutters gruffly. “Still sucks.”
Yaku chortles from his other side. “’S not like they’re gonna take away your Michelin star because of one sodding review. Anyway, if I know you, you’re probably gonna spend the next week trying to figure out how to fix whatever problem there is.”
“And if you can’t,” Kuroo warns, “don’t go trying to reinvent the whole menu, please.”
Osamu huffs out a laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll find the problem.”
Three nights later, slumped over a mixing bowl on his kitchen island at two in the morning, Osamu is forced to admit defeat.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Osamu mumbles into the gooey yellow mixture. “Lord, I am not your strongest soldier.”
Osamu feels, acutely, what Lucifer must have felt as he was cast down from heaven. This is a gross understatement for the emotional drop tower he’s been on the past few days, ever since that cursed reviewer had not only refused to leave any comments whatsoever on the feedback form Yamaguchi had provided him with, but also doodled a large angry face on the back of said feedback form. Osamu hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but after having tried the leftovers on said customer’s dish (sue him, he’s a perfectionist) and painstakingly replicating the dish and still finding no apparent flaw, it sufficed to say that he is at his metaphorical wit’s end.
“Hush,” Kuroo says comfortingly as he lifts Osamu’s sorry face out of the bowl. “Have more vodka. No more negative thoughts.”
Right on cue, the familiar screech of demonic laughter echoes through the apartment. This would normally be terrifying in and of itself, but it is made all the more foreboding because of certain other implications. Namely, by virtue of the fact that this is also Osamu’s custom ringtone for his twin brother, this is also the soundtrack of the apocalypse.
“’Samu,” Atsumu sings, unbearably chipper for this godforsaken hour of the night, not altogether surprising because of how his idiot brother had somehow gone and become a lawyer, of all things. “How ya doin’, baby brother?”
“Peachy,” Osamu snaps, feeling a vein pop up in his forehead, an unfortunate reflex he’s developed in reaction to Atsumu’s bratty voice over the years. “So peachy that I might just take this ladle and shove it right up-”
“The ladle holder,” Kuroo interrupts smoothly and yanks the phone out of Osamu’s vice grip. “Sorry, Atsumu.”
“Tetsurou-kun,” Atsumu croons delightedly. “You’re here too?”
“Someone has to stop your brother from having his tenth meltdown over one stupid review,” Kuroo replies, too cheerfully for someone who has drained half of Osamu’s alcohol collection over the past five hours.
“Ah, yes,” Atsumu says gravely. “I read that. But cheer up, ‘Samu! Yer life doesn’t revolve around food! Ya haven’t been on a date in six months-”
“Hold up,” Osamu jerks upright. “Whaddya mean, read it?”
“Er,” Atsumu suddenly sounds nervous, which almost never happens. “I mean, I heard about it?”
“Oh my god,” Osamu says. “The jerk published a whole review? This is the end of my career.”
“Don’t say that,” Atsumu replies immediately. “It wasn’t even that bad, for goodness sake.”
“Send me the link and we’ll see,” Osamu says hollowly.
“Maybe? I don’t know about that-”
“Send the damn link, Atsumu,” Kuroo says. Atsumu shuts up at that, and sighs.
“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Atsumu mutters darkly, and drops the call.
Five seconds later, Osamu’s phone pings with the ominous notification. Osamu and Kuroo crowd over the phone and read it with bated breath.
THE BEST THING ABOUT MAISON DE MIYA IS THE KFC NEXT DOOR
By Suna Rintarou
A wise man once said: Shoot for the moon, and if you fail, at least you land amongst the (Michelin) stars. Sadly, Maison de Miya has clearly missed this particular memo.
Instead of shooting for the moon, it is clear that Miya Osamu has shot for somewhere closer to home, like the konbini across the street from your childhood home. Just to clarify, I mean this in the worst possible way.
Don’t get me wrong. The food itself was technically excellent. Generously overlooking the whopping thirty minutes I waited for the first course to be served (legend has it that I’m still waiting), which is to be expected for any Michelin star restaurant at peak hour, there were no technical flaws in the execution of the dishes. The sous vide egg oozed lava-like egg yolk, as promised. The wagyu beef was textbook perfect. And if you looked up mukozuke in the dictionary, there would probably a picture of Maison de Miya’s sashimi platter in lieu of an actual description.
Unfortunately, that is exactly Maison de Miya’s Achilles heel- it’s plain predictable. If these dishes were to be served in any old restaurant, I’d happily eat them any day of the week for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and then some. But in a Michelin star restaurant, when I order a drunken pigeon in walnut sauce, the worst thing I can get is a damn drunken pigeon in walnut sauce. How dare they give me exactly what I asked for?
The metaphorical and literal cherry on top of the most boring Michelin star meal ever came in the form of Maison de Miya’s signature dessert, the Chef’s Kiss. The chocolate and cherry mousse was the most boring make out session I’ve ever had, which is saying something because I’ve had boyfriends dump me because I (allegedly) scroll through Twitter while making out.
Overall, by the time I left the place, I was literally asleep on my feet. And not from food coma, because heaven knows that the portion sizes in these fine dining places aren’t nearly enough to induce a good, satisfying nap. As I dragged my weary, world-worn soul out of the establishment, the light at the end of the tunnel materialised in the form of the neon KFC signboard that greeted me five meters away.
Said Garden of Eden is where I’m currently typing this review, my fingers sticky with mouth-watering grease and chili sauce. It’s true that I’ve never had a bad KFC meal in my life. In any case, there’s always the delightful anticipation of whether this will be the time when the kitchen finally gets my order (whipped potatoes blended with coleslaw) right.
Until next time, when I review every type of chicken on the KFC menu. Adieu!
Kuroo is the first one to break the stunned silence. “What the hell is this guy on?”
“I don’t even know where to start.” Osamu is feeling a little faint. Whether it’s from that train wreck of a review or his lack of sleep, he can’t tell.
“Okay, so he’s clearly on crack,” Kuroo says, and decisively smacks the phone face down on the table. “That’s settled, then.”
"Yes," Osamu says, a little uncertainly. "No point losing sleep about it, I guess."
Osamu wishes that had been the case.
He had gone into the restaurant the next day after a full eight hours of sleep, determined to put the review from hell behind and start afresh. But then as he is helping the delivery guys unload the sacks of rice from Kita’s farm, it hits him. And by it, he means a twenty-pound sack of rice.
“Miya-san! Are you ok?” Lev hurries over to him.
“Grrmph,” Osamu groans. This is when the realisation hits him. “Oh my god. My food is boring.”
“Uh,” Lev shifts awkwardly from one foot to another, clearly at a loss for words. “Miya-san?”
“I need to go home now,” Osamu says, and shoots up, ignoring the throbbing in his head to sprint to his car.
Atsumu crashes his place that night, setting up his laptop at Osamu’s dining table to laugh at him losing his marbles for the fourth night in a row. If this were any other night, Osamu would have kicked him out the moment he showed up at the door, but right now, Atsumu is proving to be a very useful test subject.
“Taste this,” Osamu says at about one in the morning, smacking a dish onto the table. It’s a beautiful plate of pufferfish sashimi, arranged in some pretentious flower shape and filled with salmon roe. It's his first time attempting any kind of fancy plating in the years since he graduated from culinary school, but he thinks he's done a pretty decent job, if he does say so himself.
Atsumu chews it thoughtfully. “It’s great,” he says slowly.
“Forget about the taste,” Osamu says impatiently. “Were ya surprised?”
“What’s so shocking about pufferfish sashimi? I mean ya arranged it nicely an’ all, but it’s not like I can’t tell that it’s raw fish.”
Osamu’s knees give out beneath him, and he falls face first onto the floor. “It’s over,” he says. “I’m gonna close down my restaurant.”
“I can’t believe I get called the dramatic twin,” Atsumu mutters, and lightly kicks at one of Osamu’s legs. “Get up, ya slug. It ain’t the end of the world.”
“I can’t just ignore it,” Osamu moans. “Not after I’m confronted with the terrible, cursed knowledge that my food is uninspirin’.”
“Hey,” Atsumu says suddenly. “I know how ya can find the problem with yer food.”
Osamu sits up straight to glare at his brother. “No.”
Atsumu shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”
It is truly a testament to Osamu’s passion that he finds himself seated at a corner of nondescript café a few days later, nervously tugging on the collar of the polo Kuroo insisted he wear. The nice barista comes over to put down the two decafs he’d ordered, and he thanks her, albeit a little tersely.
(“It’s not a date, or anythin’,” Osamu had complained. “Why does it matter what I wear?”
“It’s the first time you’re meeting any of your diners since you opened Maison de Miya,” Kuroo reminded him. “And I did some digging on this Suna Rintarou guy. Turns out he’s a fashion photographer, so you better not give him another thing to review. I can already see the title. ‘Miya Osamu is a millionaire who only owns one outfit in his closet’.”
“Fine,” Osamu had grumbled. “Give me a picture, or somethin’. I gotta know how he looks like.”
“There aren't any,” Kuroo said. “Turns out he has one thing in common with you. The only shots of him are blurry zoomed-in ones from a bunch of glitzy premiere parties. Apparently he doesn’t like being photographed.”)
“Is this seat taken?”
Osamu is broken out of his reverie by a low, honey like voice. Then he looks up and temporarily misplaces his vocal chords, to busy gawking at who he’s sure has to be the most gorgeous man in his life. The angel in front of him has inky black hair falling into delicate doll-like features, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket. He is so very, very tall.
“Um,” Osamu manages intelligently. He checks his watch, and looks around the café. It’s been fifteen minutes. Suna Rintarou, whoever he is, probably bailed on him like the asshole Osamu knows he is. “It’s free, I guess.”
Osamu can’t believe his luck when the model slides into the seat across from him. Is this the universe’s way for apologizing for Suna Rintarou’s review? It must be.
“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing, sitting all alone?” the shounen manga protagonist says. He slides the other cup of coffee over and starts stirring it, looking at Osamu expectantly.
“Well.” Don’t blow this, he pleads himself. “I was supposed to meet someone here, but I guess they bailed on me.”
Great. His inner voice sounds annoyingly like Atsumu. Way to make yourself look pathetic in front of the Calvin Klein model.
“Aw,” Mr. K-Pop Idol pouts. “Is that why you looked so sad, huh? That frown you had on really doesn’t suit your handsome face.”
“No,” Osamu laughs wryly. “I guess ya could say I’m having a bit of a creative block. At my job, that is.” Then the second half of his sentence sinks in. “Wait, didja just say-”
“A creative block, huh?” The Japanese angel’s eyes never leave Osamu’s face. He needs oxygen, because he thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe. “I know a bit about those.”
“Yeah?” Osamu doesn’t just need oxygen. He needs CPR.
“Yeah.” The man lets out a low laugh, and Osamu thinks, faintly, that breathing is overrated. “Sometimes I get stuck in a routine after I’ve been doing the same thing for ages, and I think, ‘What would be totally insane to do right now?’ And then I do it.” His voice is filled with so much conviction that Osamu can’t help but believe him. He wants to believe him.
“I don’t know,” Osamu admits. A part of him still can’t believe he’s unloading all of his issues onto a poor unsuspecting stranger, but said stranger gives really useful advice. And he’s hot. “Ya know, I don’t ever meet my customers. Not since my business really took off. My brother says it’s ‘cause I’m too scared to hear what they think about my food to my face.”
“You’re a chef, huh?” There’s a twinkle in the man’s eye that makes him, impossibly, ten times more attractive. “I like chefs. And for what it’s worth,” he adds, graciously ignoring the reddening of Osamu’s cheeks, “I think you’ll find that taking a little constructive feedback is way less scary than you think.”
“Huh,” Osamu says. “Yer probably right.”
Just then, the phone on the table vibrates, and the model-angel-man taps on it for a couple of seconds before sighing.
“Looks like I’ve got to run.” He drains the coffee in one gulp, and Osamu doesn’t even have time to be impressed by that before he’s standing up, shrugging on a messenger bag. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Wait,” Osamu says suddenly, and the man looks back inquisitively, his hand pausing on the surface of the glass door of the café. The late afternoon is streaming in through the stained windowpane, outlining the man in gold. “I didn’t get your name,” he says dumbly.
“Hmm,” the angel says enigmatically. “I think that won’t be necessary. I have a feeling we’ll be meeting again very soon.”
“They love it,” Yamaguchi reports. “The tables next to them all want the same thing.”
It’s Saturday again. It’s been two months since Osamu revamped the entire menu of Maison de Miya, and the restaurant has never been busier. Kuroo is even in talks with their business partners to open another branch, this one in Seoul. The kitchen staff are all working overtime, too, and Osamu thinks, giddily, that he might have to expand the team.
“’Course they do,” Kuroo says, and claps Osamu’s back. “You really outdid yourself on this one, ’Samu.”
He has. In the ensuing cooking frenzy post-chance encounter with the stranger at the café, Osamu has come up with about ten new dishes, including an appetizer adorned with a ring of dry ice spewing smoke over a bed of mini onigiri, an edible helium balloon, and steak served on a canvas with pots of brightly coloured sauces and paintbrushes. And his proudest creation- a glass bowl with an edible bed of rocks, and sashimi suspended in the blue gelatin that fills the bowl. Osamu has never loved cooking more.
“Who woulda thought, huh?” Osamu chuckles. “Wonder what that Suna Rintarou guy would say about this.”
Right on cue, Yamaguchi comes running back into the kitchen. “Miya-san,” he says breathlessly. “The mean review guy. He’s at Table 12, in the private room.”
“Yeah?” Osamu waits for apprehension to bloom in his gut, but it doesn’t come. He smiles. “Let’s show him what we got, then.”
He busies himself around the kitchen, but when a dish goes up for Table 12, he hurries over and not-so-discreetly inspects it from every angle before letting Yamaguchi serve it. At last, two hours later, Yamaguchi approaches him hesitantly.
“He wants to meet you. Should I, uh-”
“No,” Osamu says decisively, and takes off his apron and hat, carefully laying them aside. “I’ll talk to him.”
Osamu steps out into the dining area of his restaurant, and is immediately hit with the realisation that it’s the first time he’s done so during operating hours. He drinks in the sight of diners of all ages gasping in wonder and delight as their dinner is served, and feels his heart skip a beat.
He’s missed this.
He’s still smiling a little when he pushes the door open to the private room. The words on his lips die instantly as he takes in the familiar green eyes of the man sitting behind the table.
“You,” Osamu says. The door clicks shut behind him, cutting off the hubbub of the restaurant.
“Told you we’d meet soon,” Suna Rintarou says. He’s wearing the same bomber jacket, and his hair is swept back, but a few strands have fallen back into his eyes. His voice is as gorgeous as Osamu remembers. “Did you get over your creative block?”
“I don’t know,” Osamu finally finds his voice. “That’s for you to decide, isn’t it?”
Suna hums, a hint of a smirk on his face. “No, but I don’t mind taking a little credit where it’s due. The meal was inspiring, by the way.”
Inspiring. Not delicious, or flavourful, or any other adjective he usually got in his reviews. Osamu feels something threatening to burst out of his chest.
“You can take credit for that,” Osamu says, honestly. “I wouldn’t have come up with that in a million years without your review.”
“Well,” Suna gives him a genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle together. “What about a proper date this time? As a thank you?”
Osamu smiles back. “I know just the place.”
MAISON DE MIYA: REINVENTED
By Suna Rintarou
It seems that a leopard can, indeed, change its spots. Although I am, once again, typing this from the KFC adjacent to Maison de Miya, it is no longer the saving grace of my meal. In fact, every dish in the nine-course meal was, I am happy to report, more awe-inspiring than the last. However, the title of best dish is undoubtedly reserved for the dessert. The reinvented Chef’s Kiss, permanently off the menu, was the best I’ve ever had.
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