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The restaurant out in All Blue - you’ve been trying to reach it for years. It’s not so impossible to find these days, not since the peerless chef who founded it made the place famous across every corner of the seas. Still, this is the Grand Line, so the journey wasn’t easy, and when you arrive, it isn’t quite what you expect.
Modest, might be a good word for it. The floating restaurant - and that’s spectacle enough in itself, isn’t it, enough to catch the eye even here, bobbing on the gentle waves of crystal-clear water, more fish than you could ever dream to name teeming beneath it - is smaller than some Marine ships you’ve seen, cheerfully bright with its whitewash and blue trim. There are a few other vessels moored nearby, all tied fast to colorful mooring balls. That much you knew, that no one is allowed to drop anchor in the rarest sea in the world, lest they disturb the delicate corals and bring the chef’s wrath down on their ships.
Your ship is even smaller, of course, just the right size for you and your best friend, asleep belowdecks. It’s been a hard few days of sailing to get here, shift after night shift through raging storms, but here in All Blue, it’s as if such weather never existed. You’ll get the boat tied and stretch your legs before waking them; they earned the rest, getting you through the last gales overnight while you caught a few precious hours of shuteye.
The mooring ball you choose is orange, lightly speckled with a pattern of leaves painted around the waterline, and the pennant you fix your line to is bright green to match. A school of rainbow-colored fish swarm around it near the surface, each one no bigger than your hand, and a massive, mottled-purple shark glides by beneath them. The excitement tingles in your fingers, your breath coming quicker as your heart pounds, but as much as you want to dive in, to see all these unfamiliar creatures, it can wait a few more hours.
Your little dinghy glides over the water and slides in amongst the others tied along the wide outer decks of the restaurant, and you have to pause again. More fish you’ve never seen before, strange, sleek things like broad ribbons, tiny spots of green flashing as they wind beneath the bevy of small boats. Someone walks by and tosses a handful of fish food into the water - never human leftovers, not here - and the ribbon-fish swarm, twisting and knotting together for a few breathless seconds before the food is consumed, and they resume their lazy paths.
Tearing your eyes away, you take in the restaurant itself. It’s welcoming, still; not intimidatingly fancy like other famous restaurants you’ve passed. The Strawhat’s Jolly Roger flies proudly in the playful breeze, alongside the chef’s personal colors, and the long-retired flag of the Red Leg Pirates. Animated conversation floats through the wide front doors as people bustle in and out. The occasional brash yelling, too, reminding you that like its predecessor the Baratie, Chef Blackleg’s restaurant is staffed by experienced pirates.
The deck is clean, well-kept but comfortably worn by the feet of the restaurant’s many patrons. You linger outside for a few more minutes, taking in the countless varieties of seabirds that also make All Blue their home. You know your best friend will be excited to see them; much like they don’t quite understand your fascination with fish, you don’t quite know how they can possibly tell so many kinds of back-and-white gulls apart, but their enthusiasm is magical to hear, and you know they feel the same way when you ramble on about sea life.
A yell startles you out of contemplation, much more easily than the birds, who seem utterly unconcerned by the humanity running around beneath them, and you watch an aproned waiter throw a rough-looking pirate out on his ear. The pirate glares, but slinks back to wait by a haphazardly patched rowboat, shortly joined by a few crewmates, ushered out with similar lack of protest. You know why that is, too. If the reputations of the cooks and Head Chef himself aren’t enough, even the most rowdy customers won’t risk causing a ruckus when the World’s Greatest Swordsman or even the Pirate King himself might be hanging around.
They aren’t always there, but rumor has it, Roronoa Zoro and Monkey D. Luffy frequent Blackleg Sanji’s restaurant more often than any of their other famous crewmates. Come for the food, of course, always the food, but, if you’re lucky, who knows? You might even get to see a reunion of the legendary Strawhat Crew with your own eyes. They’re known to be close still, all of them, even if they no longer sail together all the time; by all accounts, this very deck hosts their parties with every few cycles of the moon. Of course, if you make trouble while any of them are present, they’ll take care of it before Chef Blackleg can even make it out of the kitchen.
You aren’t here to make trouble. Slipping inside, you can see several upturned tables, broken glass but not a morsel of food on the floor, and harried staff clearing everything up.
“Take a seat, we’ll be just a moment,” a waiter calls, so you make your way into the large dining room, searching for an open table.
There’s a small one near the back, beside the doors into the kitchen. As you look around, you see that most of the diners are here in laughing groups, or blushing pairs. You’ve never wanted a large crew, but once your best friend wakes up, maybe the two of you can eat a meal at a table with a better view of the water. They’ll be happy to watch the birds, and you can count all the new fish, and maybe…
“Order up!” a voice barks, startlingly loud even through the heavy kitchen doors. None of the waiters seem to hear, still too busy setting the rest of the dining room to rights, and after a few moments, one of the doors swings open.
Your jaw drops. This can only be Blackleg Sanji. The sheer confidence rolling off this man, from the perfectly glossy toes of his black patent shoes to the top of his tall chef’s hat, is boundless, matched only by…
Matched only by the irritation. Chef Blackleg huffs, casting around, his visible eye landing on you. “Every time,” he mutters, curly eyebrow drawing down. Faint wrinkles reveal the expression to be a frequent one, but this close, you can see laugh lines too, just as prominent on his handsome face.
Your heart flutters a little. He’s known for his kindness as much as his temper, or the skill of his hands, Chef Blackleg is, and to see it in his face is revelatory. All the stories pale in comparison to seeing him in the flesh, even though he’s not doing anything more than stand in the doorway, a cloche-covered plate balanced on one hand.
“You’d think they’d be used to it by now,” he mutters, shaking his head. Captivated by the movement of the long waves of his golden hair, all you can do is nod dumbly, unsure if he’s even addressing you. “Shitty bastards. Hey, kid.”
That’s definitely directed at you. “Yes, sir?” You say - okay, you squeak. So what? It’s not every day you meet a living legend like Blackleg Sanji.
He quirks a smile at you, crinkling the crow’s feet at the corner of his eye, and your heart flips again. “Do me a favor, kid.”
You’re on your feet before you can even process the request. “Yes, sir!”
His amused smile doesn’t fade, but he holds the plate out to you, jerking a thumb toward a discreet side door. “Take this out back for me. There’s a useless plant on the roof, and he’ll need more than a little photosynthesis in his old age, ungrateful shit-swordsman.”
Nodding fervently, you take the plate carefully in both hands, feeling the warmth radiating through your fingers. A gleam catches your eye, as Chef Blackleg fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket with his newly freed hand, and you can’t help staring at the golden wedding band on his finger as he puts one in his mouth.
He doesn’t light it, muttering under his breath about meddling doctors, and when his vibrant blue eye lands on you again, you all but bolt, bobbing in some hapless approximation of a salute as you zip out the side door. You think you hear a laugh, but the noise of the seabirds drowns it out as the door closes behind you.
On this side of the restaurant, the deck is narrower, with fewer people bustling about. In the distance, you can see another floating platform - no sword fighting!, a sign out front had said, and there’s another back here, with a large arrow pointing out across the sea. Sword fighting isn’t your strength, though you have one on your hip; you’re certainly not going to challenge the World’s Greatest Swordsman to a duel out on the notoriously oft-destroyed raft behind Chef Blackleg’s restaurant.
There must not be any challengers today, if Roronoa Zoro is napping atop the restaurant. That must be who Chef Blackleg meant - everyone has heard of their bickering, as constant as the waves themselves. Casting around, you see stairs wrapping up along the side of the restaurant, and climb, until you emerge from the shadows and the late morning sun momentarily blinds you.
It sounded easy, to find one sleeping swordsman up here, but the entire rooftop is green. A garden, as lush with vitality as anything you’ve ever seen, many of the plants towering above your head within the waist-high encircling wall.
Stepping off the last stair, you follow a narrow path through raised beds of neatly kept plants. Some you recognize, fruits and vegetables and herbs both edible and medicinal, but many are strange to you. Exotic flowers, luscious greens that look like something from the deepest jungles of the Grand Line, vegetation you can’t even begin to describe, let alone name. For a moment, you even forget the plate in your hands, as the wind brings you the scent of fresh, sun-kissed tomatoes mixed with a heady floral perfume.
The path branches, and you wonder if you’ll get as lost as the World’s Greatest Swordsman is said to, but then a tall trellis of snap peas and morning glory gives way to an open space. It’s a grassy lawn, only a few paces across, with a view of the visiting ships bobbing at their moorings, and a man slouched against the short wall, asleep.
Or so you think, but his unscarred eye cracks open as soon as you set foot on the grass, and the flash of Haki nearly sets you stumbling back again. Then he yawns, scratching at his stomach above his grungy haramaki.
“Who’re you?”
You shrug, lifting the plate, and when he doesn't do more than peer lazily in your direction, you dare to cross the lawn to his side. The World’s Greatest Swordsman, but he looks more like a big old cat, lounging in the sunlight.
“Cook sent you up here? What, so new they didn’t even give you a uniform yet?”
“Just visiting,” you manage to say, stealing a glance at his stormy gray eye as you do.
“Curly’s conscripting customers now, huh?” Roronoa observes, looking you up and down, gaze lingering on the sword you wear. You offer the plate, but he doesn’t take it immediately. “Know how to use that, brat?”
You shrug again, and he loses interest, taking the plate in one hand and raking through his shirt-cropped green hair with the other. There are threads of gray in it, thickest at his temples, and his skin shows his age much more than Chef Blackleg. The same glint of gold graces his scarred hand, though, a promise even more eternal than the couple’s fabled arguments. Even the waves go quiet at times, but you’ve heard that this pair keeps vows stronger than any known force could hope to touch.
“Told him I’d come down when I’m hungry,” the World’s Greatest Swordsman mutters, laying the cloche aside. It’s a simple meal, fish over rice with aromatic vegetables to the side, and a subtle kind of peace crosses Roronoa’s expression as he looks at it. “Meddling old bastard.”
Shifting your feet, you wonder if you should just leave, but he looks back up at you and you freeze in place, even though his expression is no more than mildly put out.
“Didn’t send any sake, did he?” Roronoa grumbles, and when you shake your head, he adds a few choice phrases about medical professionals minding their own business, which sound awfully familiar. “Live to a ripe old age, my ass,” he adds. “A man ought to get a little drink with a meal, don’t you think, brat?”
You can’t help but giggle. They’re so alike, these two undefeatable men, trying to set their vices aside and complaining every minute, but you can see it in Roronoa’s eye, he doesn’t truly regret the lack. How could he, if every cup of sake less might give him a few more hours of this bliss, with his husband right below and both of them so clearly happy, so well-settled in the prime of their lives, living with their dreams meshed so well together?
“What do you think you’re laughing at,” the World’s Greatest Swordsman pouts, plate cradled carefully in one large hand even as he shifts to frown up at you. He’s more serious, you think, but amongst the lines on his weathered face are the same marks of joy that shine from his husband’s.
“Nothing, sir,” you say, trying to suppress a smile as he gives you a suspicious glare.
“Then go tell that curly bastard to stop sending brats to interrupt my meditation,” Roronoa says, turning his attention to his meal with one last careless wave toward the path you can in on, “and bring that down with you, while you’re going.”
There’s a basket you hadn’t noticed before, packed to overflowing with freshly picked produce. You give a foolish little bob that Roronoa Zoro doesn’t so much as glance at, and scurry over, nearly overbalancing as you pick the basket up. It’s heavier than you expected, and bumps against your legs as you squeeze through the narrow paths back to the stairs, but everything is arranged so carefully that not so much as a single string bean comes loose, despite your clumsy handling.
You slip back through the side door, and find your table still empty. Setting the basket on it, you wonder if you should knock on the kitchen door - surely Chef Blackleg wouldn’t take kindly to strangers just walking in - but before you can decide, it swings open again, and the chef comes to your side.
“He does listen sometimes,” Chef Blackleg murmurs, fingers running delicately over a few of the vegetables before he takes the basket from you. “Thanks, kid. Wait here a second.”
You wait, of course, wondering if he has another errand for you, though the dining room is back in order and the restaurant staff seems to have resumed their normal flow. After a few short minutes, Chef Blackleg comes back with a beautifully plated piece of cake, molasses crumbles and an interlocked curl of orange peel and chocolate over a dense slice, and seems surprised to find you still standing beside the table.
“Sit,” he waves, and as you fall into your chair, he sets the cake in front of you. “What, did you think I would make you brave my grouchy moss garden for nothing? Enjoy, kid.”
It seems almost a sin to take a bite, but the rich scent of almost wafts up to your nose, and suddenly your mouth is watering so much that you nearly drool onto the table. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Chef Blackleg smile, but the cake in front of you is demanding all of your attention, even with one of your heroes standing at your side. Your fork wobbles in your hand and your vision all but whites out as the flavors burst across your tongue - it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted, more than you’ve ever dreamed possible, and when the stars clear from your eyes you find Chef Blackleg seated across from you, a boyish grin spread across his face.
“Good, isn’t it? Nobody goes hungry on my watch, but aside from that... that’s why I do this,” he says, and you blush, a little embarrassed to be so transparent. “Every day, seeing people take that first bite… well, it never gets old.”
“Thank you,” you manage to say, sounding breathless enough to make him laugh again.
“Thank you, kid,” he says, getting up once more. “Make sure you finish your meal, even though you’ve had dessert first,” he adds, giving you a wink that makes you weak in the knees, and glad you’re already sitting down.
You eat your cake as slowly as you can, despite wanting to shovel it into your mouth as if someone is coming to steal it, and watch the well-choreographed dance of the restaurant’s staff. The rest of your late breakfast, once you’ve gathered yourself enough to order, is equally delicious, but without the chef himself present, it’s easier to keep your head.
As you walk back out to your dinghy, you can’t help but snicker, imagining your best friend’s face when you tell them what they’ve missed. Not only meeting Chef Blackleg, but the World’s Greatest Swordsman too, and getting a slice of cake from the chef’s own hand? You’ll be lording this over them forever.
Hopefully for just as long as Blackleg Sanji and Roronoa Zoro have had, and will have. They seem so permanent, the certain love between them so unmistakable, even though you didn’t so much as see them in the same room. It makes you wonder whether that’s the real crowning joy of their lives, now that their dreams are real; whether they could possibly be so happy without one another. Certainly not so complete, you think, and wonder if someday, maybe, you’ll win something so fulfilling too. After all, they were once hopeful young pirates not so unlike you and your best friend.