Chapter Text
Blue-tipped winged grubs are the best bait for Cloudhead Carps. They’re a pain to find, though, only coming up in rain soaked dirt, blending into the damp soil. Luckily, it had poured just a few days prior, and while it took a few hours and you ruined a pair of trousers with mud stains to hell and back, you had a whole pail of them ready for this very day.
The carps appear as they’re named, their bodies tender and fluffed all around. You haven’t had them before yourself, but from the old recipe books adorning your bookshelves, they’re well known for their flavorful and tender meat, usually seasoned with citrus and pepper and paired with red wine. During this time of year, they’re mostly found in rocky coasts, hiding away in the dark shadows and crevices and only coming out to find food or migrate at the end of the year. All in all, they’re a tricky bunch to fish up.
You gently reel your line, tugging rhythmically to coax out the puffy fish from hiding with the juicy grub at the tip of your hook. For a moment, you shift your attention to your little journal, finishing the sketch of one on a new page, before jotting down some of your observations to the side.
“Looks like we got enough Pancake Flounders and Red Scuttlers for Baratie’s order,” your uncle yells from the deck, wiping his hands on a towel thrown over his shoulder. “Any luck on those clouds?”
“They aren’t bitin’ too much,” you answer back. You’ve caught at least two, but you wanted to try and catch a few more before the day wakes. It wouldn’t hurt to bring back a few extras. “But I want to try catching a few more, if we have the time.”
“Sure thing,” he shrugs, checking the time on his watch, a cracked old thing that you had gifted him long ago, one he refuses to replace or get fixed. It’s still a little before sunrise, and you’re not too far off from your usual route. “Let’s throw out another trawl! Anything extra you all can take home!”
The crew cheers, their spirits revived as they hoist the huge net over the boat once more. You laugh as one of the crewmen swings an arm over your shoulders, thanking you loudly for tonight’s dinner. As your uncle sets course to take a wider turn around the ocean body, you manage to snag a few more within the next half hour, relieved that there’s a good number of them to work with just as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, stretching a glittering gold across the deep blue. Rather than tossing them into the livewell with the other fish, you lean over to grab the bubble fruit, stretching it open and dumping the fish into it. After, you close it up, tying the stem into a tight knot. The fruit jiggles against the deck as it rocks with the waves, the fish floating freely within the water inside.
“Those for the little chef?” your uncle peers over your shoulder, eyeing your catch. The rest of the crew are pulling up the trawl as he speaks, and you hear them cheer over Snakefin Tuna and Kelptails.
“Yeah,” you nod, tying the stem to the railing. “He’s been mentioning some new ideas so I figured I’d get him some while we were around here.”
“Ha!” he laughs with a wide grin. “Always helpin’ him cause trouble with ol’ Zeff. You’re half the reason he’ll lose that mustache of his in the next few years.”
“I can’t help it,” you smile back. “Not when Sanji keeps coming up with such delicious recipes.”
“No time to waste. Let’s get goin,’ then!” he calls out, and you make your way to the rest of the crew for the first delivery of the day.
The Baratie is quiet by the time you arrive, the beautiful ship floating gently under the dawn bringing sun. It’s a stark contrast from the lively nights, where the bar, snug deep inside the mouth of the fish, teems with energy and gentle lights. You spot some of the chefs outside already, moving back and forth fresh ingredients from other vendors, mostly produce and meat from the mainland that are to be used for the coming week.
Your uncle anchors the boat onto one of the loading docks before he hurries out, meeting with one of the chefs to confirm their order. You wave at him, receiving a firm nod before he orders the rest of the men to start carrying the load in, and you take that as a sign to grab the bubble fruit, slipping into the restaurant among the busy loads of stock being brought inside.
The chefs, while busy as they count the inventory and begin prepping before the morning shift opens, still greet you with booming voices, to which you return with equal energy. Zeff waves you over from where he stands near the swinging doors to the kitchen. He greets you with a familiar smile, and you already know what that means– “Mind helping out tonight?”
“Did you fire your other waiters?” you ask in a knowing tone, to which he huffs.
“Didn’t have the chance to when they ran out on me. Bunch of weaklings.”
You laugh. Same ol’ Zeff. “You know I’m always happy to help.”
“Thanks, little fisher,” he grins. “Lil eggplant is in the back, don’t want to keep him waiting any longer, that impatient shit.”
Despite his scowl, you know he means it like a doting father, chuckling as you wave over your shoulder before pushing through the doors to the kitchen. Immediately, you’re greeted by the bustling morning prep. Like always, you weave your way through the chefs, greeting them as you pass, until you spot a familiar head of blonde at the very back. “Sanji!”
He’s chopping up some carrots by the time he looks up to meet your gaze, his lips curling into a grin that you can’t help but return. “Honeycomb!”
You heft the bubble fruit onto the counter space in front of him, revealing it to him with open arms. “Ta-da!”
“Oh, you didn’t!” His jaw drops open, coming around the counter to examine the bubble. “Cloudheads? Caught by my sweet honeycomb herself?”
“Yup! And I expect you to let me taste test the moment doors close tonight,” you grin. “Zeff told me you guys are short on waiters again.”
“Much appreciated,” he smiles softly, a hand coming around your waist to pull you closer to his side. “I’ll make sure to repay you with a delicious meal afterwards.”
“That better include dessert,” you grin, and he mirrors it on his own lips.
“It always does,” he winks, and he lets you go, allowing you to go help your uncle unload the rest of the goods. Once it’s all done, you wave at him and the crew as they head back to the mainland for another busy day in the markets once more.
“Why don’t I prepare a small snack for you before we open?” Sanji asks, as you head towards the back table to properly set away your stuff. Your glaive sits against the wall as you place your rucksack on the table, and from the hooks of aprons and jackets, you grab your uniform, a crisp white button down with a black jacket and matching slacks. “Anything you want in particular?”
“Those crepes from last time, if it’s not too much trouble,” you give him a sheepish grin. “They were delicious.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he responds in kind, with a little flourish and bow. “Coming right up!”
You curtsy in return, playing along. “Thank you, my kind sir.”
Patty snorts from the background, muttering loudly about how insufferable the two of you are together, and as you chuckle, Sanji quips back, “There’s a reason why this crepe is for honeycomb and not you , Patty!”
It doesn’t take him long to whip it up for you, perfectly topped with fresh strawberries and cream that he presents to you as soon as you return into the kitchen, now donning your uniform. You enjoy it for as long as you can, up until the doors open, and the wave of customers, early for their reservations, begin to file in, the restaurant floor soon filled to its max capacity. You get to work, easily getting into the swing of things as the orders start to come in.
The lunch rush keeps you busy, and you take a quick break once things calm over, a period of time right before dinner for the chefs to rest and do some last minute prep once more. Sanji and you enjoy some simple sandwiches he whips up, enjoying the clear skies and warm sun as you share with him the cloudhead recipes you got from the cookbooks at home, and ideas for dishes he could make. His eyes sparkle with excitement, and it’s infectious, pulling a smile to your lips as he writes it all down into his little journal.
“Time for dinner, lovebirds !” Zeff calls out, and while Sanji sputters out a few curses to the old man, getting to his feet in an instant, you merely laugh, hoping the heat that surfaces to your cheeks isn’t too visible in the afternoon sunlight.
Zeff means well, but you only hope that one day, perhaps it’ll come true. Sanji turns around, leaning down to offer you a hand. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”
Your heart somersaults and flips as you slip your hand into his and meet his smile with one of your own.
Until then, you’re perfectly content to stay by his side just as things are.
You’re twelve by the time your uncle receives the opportunity of a lifetime.
At the crack of dawn, you go outside to meet the postal gull, thanking it as you accept the stack of mail it has in its beak, before it flies away. As you return inside, you hand the envelopes to your uncle as he sits at the counter while you make your way back to the stove to finish up breakfast— toast and eggs, with some homemade jam that you had traded for some fish a few days ago.
Crackle, sizzle, rip . You listen to your uncle’s grumbling from behind you, plating the eggs as he mentions something about terrible deals and bad business, until suddenly he sputters, choking on his coffee before he slams his mug onto the table. As you balance the plates on your arms while you bring them to the dining table, you merely raise an eyebrow as he stutters out something to you, coffee dripping down his chin as he gets up to go to his desk.
“You alright?”
Your words go unheard, and he continues to ramble about so and so, his words unintelligible as he digs through the papers scattered across his desk until–”I found it!”
He nearly trips over his own feet to show you an old newspaper he’d dug up from somewhere , basically slamming it onto the table and forcing you to lean away as the plates and glass rattle across the wooden surface. It’s from a couple years back, with a headline that spells out, “Culinary Treasure of the East Blue: Welcome the Baratie!”
You have no idea what a Baratie is, and your uncle beams down at you with indescribable pride. “So? What’s a Ba-ra-tee?”
“Baratie,” your uncle corrects you, before finally taking a seat and beginning to dig into his own plate of breakfast. As he scarfs down his food, he tells you, “One of the most famous restaurants of the East Blue.”
Nibbling on some toast, you nod, not exactly understanding, but at least now you know how to say it. He doesn’t even wait for you to ask any questions, wolfing down his eggs in one gulp before hurrying back to his desk, grabbing the Transponder Snail and dialing numbers from the letter he’d received.
It chirps as the line connects after a few rings, and you listen to your uncle excitedly greet a gruff voice on the other end, talking a mile a minute as he jots down notes and numbers in his notepad to the side. You don’t pay too much attention—preferring to read through the current newspaper splayed out on the table as you continue your meal at a normal pace. Pirate drama and the like is pretty juicy, after all.
You’re finishing the last of your orange juice by the time your uncle ends the call with a triumphant grin. “Something good happened?” you ask.
“Something great,” he answers simply and vaguely, leaving you to merely wonder for the remainder of the day.
He doesn't leave you in the dark for too long, and your curiosity is satiated that next morning, where you find yourself sailing out at dawn to the middle of nowhere. Famous restaurant, your ass. You thought you’d be heading into town or sailing to one of the bigger islands around—not to the middle of nowhere!
The chill nips at your skin as you look out to the sea, waves padding against the boat as your uncle steers it. Unlike the usual mornings where he gathers up the crew, it’s just you and him, surrounded by deep endless blue.
“It’s one of the biggest contracts we’ll have,” your uncle explains gruffly, knowing most of the details will be lost on you. “They want our fish, we’ll give it to them for good money.”
Simple enough.
Most of your business was done in the outdoor markets of Seaside Village, famous for the largest selection of fish and produce. Located on Landel Island, just east of the Gecko Islands, you’ve grown up in the busy streets of the maritime town, where the livelihood of many of the villagers, yours included, depended on fishing. Selling and trading your catch was enough—not plenty, but enough for the two of you to get by with a roof over your head and food on the table. But it’s hard when everyone else and their mother did the same thing.
And at the very least, you know that this opportunity puts you above so many others, and that’s obviously a good thing.
Your uncle barks a laugh, and you’re snapped out of your thoughts, eyes landing on the speck in the blue distance ahead. Between the seam of sea and sky, you spot a ship that simply floats on the water's surface. In the shape of a fish, it sails with no direction, resting like a place for weary sailors to go. It’s a peculiar design, one that you’ve never seen before, but you recognize it instantly from the photos in the newspapers.
The floating restaurant, Baratie, in all its glory, greets you with its open mouth. Your uncle steers the boat to dock at the entrance, and after he ties it up, you follow him to the front door, wondering just how such a famous restaurant could operate in the middle of the ocean.
As soon as you enter, you’re greeted by an elegant restaurant floor, much more upscale and sophisticated than you ever imagined. Smooth mahogany surrounds you for a comforting vibe, illuminated by warm candlelights, a striped floor of black and white under your feet as you enter. There’s a tall man with a goatee, wide shoulders, and muscular forearms standing at the front, chatting with a much smaller man, but is quick to see you two enter. With a few steps, he greets you both, introducing himself as the head pâtissier, Patty. He offers your uncle a firm handshake, before he turns to you with a small smile and greeting, to which you return quietly.
“Don’t make too much trouble,” your uncle says softly, his hand ruffling your hair gently. “Go fish out on the docks or somethin,’ alright?”
You nod quietly, before he turns to follow the man, disappearing up the stairs and into what you assume is the chef’s office. The host who he was talking to bows in greeting, offering you a small nod as you head outside once more, and you return to the boat to retrieve your rod and net, before settling onto the edge of one of the empty docks. You’re not quite sure what’s around, but you use a simple lure, casting it far before you reel it in. It comes to you naturally, as if you’re breathing, the small jigs and pauses, the way you imagine the lure moving under the water, swimming prey to the other fish.
The waves lap at the dock, and you embrace the ocean’s calm, surrounded by blue that stretches as far as the eye can see.
“Who are you?” A young voice calls out from behind you, and you slowly turn to meet the gaze of a young boy, probably the same age as you, as he looks down at you with a raised, and to your surprise, curled, eyebrow.
Before you can answer, you feel the telltale tug on your rod, and you quickly avert your attention to it. It’s not a small one by the way it yanks heavily on your rod, and you let it pull, keeping the line taut as it fights. The moment it slows, you reel in, repeating the process until you see it under the water’s surface, tired as it gets pulled higher. With the net at your side, you easily scoop it up once it’s in arm's reach, before plopping it on to the deck, letting it flop energetically on the wood.
It’s a Honeycomb Halibut— a sizable one, at that. Its dark golden scales reflect against the sunlight, thin wings sprouting from its back, similar to that of a honeybee, and the boy voices it, identifying the fish to which you confirm with a nod.
“I’m surprised you recognize it,” you comment offhandedly.
“Of course.” He turns his nose up. “I’m a chef, after all.”
“You? A chef?” you ask incredulously. “You’re just a kid.”
“So are you,” he bites back, and you can’t help the annoyance that bubbles up in you. Titles like ‘chef’ are for the muscular man dressed like one, not for snotty kids who act like they know everything.
“If you’re a chef like you say you are, then prove it!” you point at the fish still flopping around at your feet. “Cook me something with it.”
“Fine!” Sanji rolls up his sleeves, before crouching down to pick up the fish by the tail. “C’mon, I’ll make you the best food you’ve ever had.”
He leads you back into the restaurant, with you trailing close behind, until he slips into the kitchen, stopping you in your tracks. Stay out of trouble , your uncle had said, and you bite your lip as you eye the doors definitely meant for chefs and waiters to pass through. It surely wouldn’t do your uncle well if you were found lurking around in the very kitchen of the famed restaurant, not when he’s making negotiations at the very moment.
“Aren’t you coming?” The boy pokes his head out the swinging doors with a frown, and you hesitate. Your inner conflict must be clearly visible, and he merely raises an eyebrow, before he grabs your hand with his free one, tugging you along as he uses his shoulder to push open the swinging doors. Before you can retort or yank your hand from his grip, you’re immediately bombarded by the energy of the chefs, all sorts of scents and sounds bombarding you in an instant.
The boy is unfazed, easily weaving his way around the chefs to the end of the workstation, an empty counter where he makes himself at home. He lets go of your hand to pull out a stool for you, setting it on the other side of the counter he’s set up, before he goes to wash his hands and prep the fish you had caught. Immediately, you’re intrigued by the steps he takes, recognizing the method as ikejime , something your uncle had taught you early on to prepare fish so they’re at optimal freshness.
You want to watch his technique up close, but you find yourself slowly inching away, nervously backing away from the counters. With every curious glance from the cooks around you, you lean further back as if you could melt into the walls, feeling more and more out of place as the cooks bustle around, busy with their morning prep.
“You can come sit here if you want,” the boy calls suddenly, gesturing to the stool, but refusing to meet your eyes. “You don’t have to just stand over there.”
Hesitantly, you make your way closer to the counter, and when he nods, you climb up onto the stool. He had already bled and removed the spinal cord, before tossing the fish into the large bin of ice, letting it bleed. You watch him weave through the other chefs, gathering herbs and spices in his arms before getting to work on the seasoning. Once done, he sets them aside, before returning with the bled out fish, beginning to prepare it. All that exudes from him is confidence as he holds the knife, expertly cutting away at the fish until a small filet is left, the rest stored away in the walk-in freezer nearby. The filet itself doesn’t look like a normal fish–the honeycomb texture, hence the name, makes it quite fragile, yet the boy handles it with ease, seasoning it, with a mix of spices he pulls out without a second thought, before gently drizzling it with a mix of olive oil and honey.
“So, halibut girl, what brings you here anyways?” the boy asks, and you can’t help but glare at him.
“Halibut girl?” you question, pointing at yourself.
“Don’t know what else to call you,” he shrugs, nodding to the filet that he begins to sear on the pan. You finally give him your name, and he tests it on his tongue in a soft voice. “Well, you’re still a halibut girl.”
You roll your eyes. Stubborn. “What about you, you stupid cook?”
“It’s Sanji,” he answers simply. “A damn good cook, if you ask me.”
“We’ll see about that when you’re done.”
But honestly, with how skillful his hands are and the confidence he exudes as he navigates around the kitchen, you have no doubt he’s true to his word. Sure, you may know how to gut a fish and tie any kind of knot on the fly, but the way Sanji moves is entirely different— much more graceful and beautiful than you could ever dream of doing yourself.
When he pauses for a second, you finally snap out of your stupor, meeting his gaze with a waiting look, and you realize you hadn’t answered his initial question. It's not like you’re a customer, and you surely looked out of place, alone on their docks, fishing as the sun rose.
“I fish with my uncle,” you explain briefly. “I think he’s making a deal with the owner to sell fresh fish to your restaurant.”
He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t comment on it, instead focusing on putting the final touches on the dish before he slides it in front of you. It’s a beautiful thing, even to someone like you, who doesn’t know the first thing about cooking, other than the simplest meals you’ve learned to cook with your catch.
The honeyed glaze is absolutely divine—a rich flavor that melts sweet into savory. Coupled with the interesting texture of the filet, it takes everything in you to chew slowly as you meet Sanji’s expecting gaze.
“Well, how is it?” he asks. “Told you I’m a chef.”
“The best!” you exclaim, making him jump slightly. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever had!
His surprise is quick to morph into pride, and he beams at your praise, his smile wide as he watches you take a bite, then another.
“What are you doing?” A gruff voice echoes, and you see a man with a long braided mustache with the tallest chef’s hat you’ve ever seen. Not a moment later, you glance down to see his peg-leg tapping against the wooden floor as he enters the kitchen. Behind him, your uncle follows, eyes immediately landing on you before glancing at Sanji and the food laid out.
“Needed to prove to the halibut girl that I’m a good chef,” Sanji answers as if obvious, but Zeff clicks his tongue, visibly angry as he approaches the boy.
“What did I tell you about treating ladies?” Zeff yells, forcing Sanji to bow his head as he faces you. “Don’t call them by such rude names! Now apologize to the young lass, this instant!”
Sanji roughly pushes Zeff’s hand away, fixing his hair before he turns to you with an embarrassed frown.
“I’m sorry…” he murmurs, pink tinting his cheeks. “For calling you ‘halibut girl.’”
It surprises you— it’s not like you haven’t dealt with rowdy boys, having grown up in a village like yours. But for the most part, their teases and jabs were always something you learned to push aside or spit back with your own. Despite him being forced into an apology, you can tell he means it, by the way he looks regretful.
“It’s… okay,” you mumble in response, watching your uncle nod from behind Zeff. “And… your cooking is really good. You’re not a stupid cook.”
Sanji puffs out his chest a little at that, a little grin soon appearing on his lips.
Zeff crouches down, offering a hand as he says your name. “So you’re his niece, huh?”
You take it— it’s scarred and rough against yours, but you squeeze it all the same, shaking it twice, just as you see your uncle do when doing business. “Yes, sir.”
He eyes you, before his gaze trails up to your half eaten plate, and then he laughs, a hearty belly laugh that makes you ease up. “I look forward to cookin’ your catches, lass.”
You turn to your uncle. “Does that mean…”
“We’re officially suppliers for the Baratie!” your uncle declares happily, throwing up a thumbs-up. “Any and all seafood orders, we’ll make sure to fulfill.”
Zeff chuckles from beside him, before turning to the rest of his kitchen as he speaks up. “We’ll be getting some of the most high-quality fish from these guys, so treat them well!”
“Yes, sir!” They echo back, throwing in their own greetings and gratitude to you and your uncle. Once more introductions are tossed around, it’s time for you to head back to do a round of fishing for the evening.
Your uncle expresses his gratitude once more, and while you’re led out to the deck with him by your side, Sanji stops you halfway, running up to you as you tilt your head curiously. There’s a nervous frown on his lips and he looks at his shoes before he musters up the courage to glance up at you with a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.
“I’ll see you later, honeycomb.”
He offers you a smile that you can’t help but return. It’s better than halibut girl, and you don’t mind the way it sounds on his tongue.