Fanfiction About Iron Chef

"The Iron Chef Italian is just as important."

Chairman Kaga rarely raised his voice, but this, infighting among his Iron Men of Cooking, could not be allowed to spread any further than it had already. Morimoto, the Iron Chef Japanese, also rarely raised his voice, but this was for him, unlike the Chairman, no exception.

"All I am saying," said Morimoto, with the clean-toned innocence and immense presence of a temple bell, "is that Kobe has been in 2 episodes this season already and that he is, strictly speaking, not quite one of us." It was true, Masahiko Kobe, the Iron Chef Italian, was something of an afterthought. The producers had thought it would be a good idea to cater to more American audiences, who, they thought, would be enticed by the large portion sizes, savory sauces and forbidden extravagances of Italian cooking.

The reactions of the others had been less than favorable. Chen Kenichi, the Iron Chef Chinese, had followed his Italian counterpart (who, like all of the Iron Chefs was actually Japanese) to the locker rooms of Kitchen Stadium and, in a fit of rage at having been ousted by the wily American Bobby Flay, threw a cup of cod roe ice cream at the Kobe's ceremonial robes, staining their immaculate imitation of the Italian flag with a streak of pink residue and finely minced fish eyes. While his robes had been replaced, out of Chen's own pocket even, the ice cream pelting had hurt his soul more than anything.

Hiroyuki Sakai, master of French cuisine, wasn't much better. He and Morimoto, though they never directly confronted their outcasted brother, were iron-clad in their assertion that Italian cooking was reserved for brutes who could not appreciate the more subtle tastes of their respective nationality's cuisines.

"Enough of this!" Kaga's eyes were set, resolute. He had made his decision. "The tortilla battle will continue as planned." His command was law here, but when he yelled, it was closer to scripture.

And so, the Iron Chefs were dismissed, the camera crews summoned, the ingredients gathered. The day for Masahiko Kobe to prove his merit had arrived. As Chairman Kaga bit into the ceremonial yellow bell pepper which signaled the start of the match, Chen sneered at him from the side lines. "May your cooking be as Italy is: bootish!" Chen's English was not very good, but the emotional force with which he delivered his lines would have impressed all but the most ardent of hearts.

The first half hour raced by. The challenger was aiming to have four dishes prepared: First, a tasteful tortilla soup, flavored with shark fin and the flavors of the old style of Cantonese cooking, which he was considered a world authority on; second, a truly wonderful creation: tortilla dumplings, stuffed with an array of herbs and slow-roasted meats, and topped with a homemade bolinguous sauce that would knock the judges flat; his main course was an irresistible blend of eastern and western flavors, incorporating barbequed ribs, sautéed leeks and, of course, the ubiquitous tortilla; and finally, after all was said and done, his palette cleansing finale would be a dish not unlike a mochi choco-taco, served cold, but dipped in a hot plum sauce. The spectators gazed and cheered as their culinary heroes drew upon their training in the world's finest restaurants to push the creative boundaries of cooking in the same room for over forty five minutes.

And then, forty-seven minutes into the match, Masahiko Kobe, hastily cutting a piece of yellow snapper that he was imagining to be the meat of his chief tormentor's yellow robes, something snapped. The Iron Chef came down on the fish hard with a knife that would make Excalibur’s dullness an unavoidable truth, sliced off a bit of his own flesh. Red blood spilled onto white meat and an unintentional crimson marinade was born.

The commentators, of course were frantic. The cameras rolled on, capturing the wince on Kobe's face and the sweat on his brow dripping so close to his eye that it made spectators sweat sympathetically. They hadn't seen a screw up of this magnitude on the part of an Iron Chef since Morimoto had added enough yeast to a batch of stuffing to explode a Cornish game hen from the inside out. "The Iron Chef has certainly lost," they said in unison. Kobe heard their voices as a beached whale hears seagulls. The coastal fog of fear slid in silently.

When the ringside commentators arrived, Kobe had already begun what even he knew was a desperate plan. The camera crews captured him, not bandaging himself as one would expect, but rather, draining his blood into an earthen bowl, which he then covered with saran rap and refrigerated.

The commentators approached the Iron Chef Italian for a response about his situation. When pressed for further comment, all he would add was a dismissive smile and an assertion that he needed to concentrate on his other dishes.

"Five minutes remain." The announcer's voice echoed around kitchen stadium as the two warriors of the kitchen range put the final touches on their impressive creations. The Iron Chef applied glaze to his tortilla hors d'ouevre, the challenger arranged leeks in an eye-pleasing semi-circle. The Iron Chef put the final touches on his very modern truffle wraps, the challenger poured plum sauce into four bowls, one for each judge. The Iron Chef added his noodles to the bowl of his blood. The challenger simply watched, shocked.

The challenger presented his dishes first. The judges were delighted with each one. They praised his use of color and the elegant simplicity with which each flavor was absorbed into the mouth. Each of his variations on the theme ingredient was more unexpected and delicious than the previous.

Then, it was the Iron Chef's turn. Masahiko Kobe was no longer sweating, in fact, he felt dry to the bone, as though the loss of a little blood were actually the loss of all his body's moisture. He felt that at any minute, Chen's eyes would glare into him hard enough to cause a collapse. He turned his eyes to the panel of judges: Chairman Kaga today was joined by Kazuhiro Sasaki, a baseball player and Japanese expatriate with an enviable palette; the famous actress Mayuko Takata, a lovely and humanizing addition to any panel; and, finally, a woman who with nothing more than a wave of her fan, could drop Simon Cowell to the floor and desecrate the corpse, Kazuko Hosoki, a Japanese fortune teller and author.

The tasting began robustly; they loved the playful arrangement of the tortilla hors d'ouvre, they praised Kobe's skillfully form-flaunting truffle wraps, they went apeshit over the fish and pork salad served in a tortilla bowl and topped with mixed nuts. And then, more suddenly than any of them would have liked, Masahiko Kobe returned to his cart and pulled out a single silver tray, covered but obviously hot, and placed it in from of the fortune teller.

"This," he said, glancing around and seeing only shock on the faces of Kaga and the others, "is my true masterpiece. This is cooking that may truly be considered artful. Remember the words of Brillat-Savarin, which begin each of our episodes, 'tell me what you eat, and I'll tell you who you are.'" And with that, he slowly and with a serenity, removed the lid from his tray and, with a blast of steam any subway would dream of, placed the tray in front of the only person present who did not look scared, did not even look affected: Kazuko Hosoki.

"Iron Chef Italian is removing the lid," said the commentator to one of the others, forced to watch from afar. Commentary is not allowed during tasting.

Kaga glared hard, stared deep in to the skull of Masahiko Kobe, but no response. No more talking. The Iron Chef removed the lid, under which was a silver tray topped with a downwardly conal porcelain bowl filled with thick noodles resembling Japanese soba but made of the theme ingredient, tortillas. Tortilla noodles red with human blood. He took sprigs of fresh sage and sprinkled them, slowly, carefully, skillfully down. He then handed her a pair of chopsticks.
Kazuko chewed slowly, letting the piece permeate her mouth. Kaga stared, straight ahead, over the table, right into the circular motion of her chewing. He saw what they all saw, blood and teeth mixing with tortilla and preparation. By the time her mouth stopped moving, everyone in the room had fixed their eyes to focus on what would come out of it.

Using the most polite forms of Japanese, “This food was a disgusting experience to eat, while at the same time acknowledging, its creation was highly original. Challenger wins.”