The bubbling stew sputtered and splattered ever so gently in the large iron cauldron, releasing an umami, slightly sweet waft in the narrow galley. The chefs and the sous' danced in a nimble ballet in the tight space as they churned out carefully crafted beautiful dishes of Ramen, docket after docket. "Service!" rang the shrill voice of the head chef as he kept tab on the incoming and outgoing orders, tasting, arranging, reviewing plates minutely as the orders moved to the front of the house by never at rest waiters in crispy white aprons, a sharp contrast to the stain specked aprons of the kitchen dwellers. Running a Michelin recommended kitchen was no easy task, there was reputation at stake, people flocked from close and afar, queuing in long lines, locals and tourists alike for a seat; A bad order, a sour review could ruin trust built over the years.
The menu was simple - Ramen, with thick slurp worthy noodles, with a slight chew to them, in a lustrous pork bone broth, a recipe held close to the heart by the head chef, the Masutā, the namesake of the restaurant. He was a man of slight build, with a greying thick mane of hair, combed tight to the scalp, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans and his signature red bandana on the forehead. The recipe of the broth was only known to the Masutā, the master, who painstakingly made it every working day in secrecy, coming in very early near dawn much before the rest of the crew to prepare the broth that simmered away then for more than 8 hours before the evening service started; the only hope for the sous chefs to learn the secret was by tenure, a chance of favouritism, or by sheer observation of the ingredients and attempt at replication. The secret was actually quite simple - all of the flavour came from the slow gentle simmering that matured over time into delectable flavour, you simply could not get the same flavour from vigorous boiling. Time and calm were the key ingredients, ones that you could only learn from experience, and were not to be found in any cookery books.
Outside the restaurant, he was ordinary, someone in the crowd; you could easily be excused for not noticing this person or giving him a second look if he walked passed in the busy streets of the metropolis he called home. But inside the restaurant, he was in his element, he was the star of the show, a place where he shone, with his body language, his confidence and with the deep focus and intent that he put in ensuring that each one of his bowls were delectably perfect. In the little 30 seater restaurant, with 5 staff, he was the peacock, the centre of all attention. He didn't talk much with the patrons, but looked at them intently as they slurped on his signature broth, to gauge the level of satisfaction on their faces. He ensured however that he reverted with a curt but charming smile and a subtle bow when anyone acknowledged or appreciated him and the restaurant.
Despite the busy schedule and decorum of the culinary business, the Masutā found himself at peace inside the restaurant, for he felt in control of all the elements; his forehead was crinkle-less at work, a bright twinkle of contentment shone in his eyes. Outside of the shift at the restaurant, his life faced turmoil, stemming probably from his long hours at work, that further invited other tributaries of discontentment. The tumult was not particularly his own, but of his close, loved ones, his girlfriend, who perpetually wanted more time. They both knew that he had responsibilities towards his restaurant, his passion, so the window at work was fixed, but it was hard to digest this information for the latter. He, in his limited capacity, had done all he could to salvage the situation, leaving early from work, showing gratitude, going on long breaks when time permitted to beautiful distant places. They loved each other dearly, and wanted this to work so much, and they worked diligently towards that goal. But, even then, this annoyance of work related inconveniences cropped up at times, that seemingly affected him more than his partner. She seemed mostly okay with an abrupt justifiable burst of annoyed energy and got okay a bit later, probably after justifying things in her own head. But he, he was a different kettle of fish. His mind was a relentless whirlpool of aggravated thoughts that kept recurring in different formats. He kept re-running the same arguments, analysing them from different angles, as they swished passed in front of his internal centre of attention, in the depths of his mind.
Introspecting at depth about this, he was able to identify that the unrest was actually his own, and no one else's. No one else in his immediate circle was affected by this, his girlfriend was happy, she had justified things in her head. He needed to do the same, and not let these thoughts swirl incessantly. If this all remained in his own head, it wouldn't have mattered, but this unavoidably crept into his mannerisms - he got annoyed, snappy at things so easily, and this pained him further, in addition to of-course hurting others, straining time built relationships. What was incredible was that this turmoil was absent from his place of work, there was no sign of this stress when he was stewing the broth or smiling at his customers, he was at peace; so much at peace actually that at times he preferred to run away to the restaurant in search of solace.
As life continued on, with this ongoing internal turbulence, the urgency to bring normalcy into the world appeared imminent. He started bringing his baggage of personal issues to work, they'd breached the sacred boundaries of his safe haven, his restaurant. He started coming in later than usual to prepare the Tonkotsu - no longer coming in at dawn, and rather when the sun was a scorcher - for his passion now wavered. His smile now lacked that charm, it became strained and curter than before. The galley felt an unnerving lack of peace during service, since the Masutā now tried to find short comings even in the most perfect of bowls, and this added authority had the opposite effect - the quality of dished out product suffered since it reflected the strain in the back of the kitchen. The umami wafts from the broth now also reeked of slight desolation. And for restaurants of this stature, such little anomalies easily came out into the tabloids via eager grapevines and put hard earned reputations at stake. The ultimate effect of all of this was on the tonkotsu, the glorified broth that made the ramen as sought after as it was. The patrons felt the difference and so did the critics. And reluctantly, so did the staff at the restaurant. But who could even question the sanctity of the tonkotsu, that made the very foundation of this institution where they worked and earned from? And that too to an already disturbed seeming Masutā. He himself had hesitantly noticed a difference in his mastered recipe but with the annoyances that engulfed him, he seemed to purposely avert the required investigation into the divergence of flavour.
Time carried on, as he struggled to make sense and find solitude, while the restaurant struggled to keep up it's stellar reputation. Alas, the main sous chef, the right hand, a young man, in his early 30s, with a yearning for more than being an apprentice, decided to take a stand, and confronted the head chef. Taking him for a walk outside on the busy sidewalk outside, on a windy early spring day, he asked rather genuinely and gutsily, it must be said, 'It seems like the patron-ship of the regulars is slightly dwindling, and I've heard the new ramen restaurant two blocks down is gaining favor.' at the same time gulping down a strong feeling of fear against repercussions - for he'd violated the rules of hierarchy. There was no immediate answer, the master kept walking, at his regular quick cadence; he just looked ahead and continued on. He remained contemplative, with a furrowed brow, as he struggled to confront reality. A few paces of hurried steps and deep breathing later, he finally confessed 'I agree, the flavour of the tonkotsu seems to have shifted, the umami component seems compromised'. Warming up to this one on one chat with his deputy who he trusted like no other in the restaurant, he opened up further, 'It's almost like my discontent is finding it's way into the food'. How was that even possible? Both wondered. It was clear that only the master made the broth, so it had to be some difference in the long secretive process. Now heading back to the restaurant, as they cut a corner on the busy block, still in their pondered meanderings, the sous throwing side eyes for any hint of further reaction from his companion, it finally dawned on the Masutā, the broth was struggling, much like him; he'd been coming in later than usual the past few months, and as a consequence, he left the heat under the cauldron a tad bit higher than normal, causing the delicate stew to bubble more, be more agitated, and detrimentally lack character. The way the light in him had wavered due to the annoyances and agitation, due to the lack of peace, the Tonkotsu had suffered the same fate because of the analogous fire that had caused it to be more flustured, causing a lack of peace in addition to the lack of time of course, depriving it of its two key ingredients. The redemption for the ramen was giving back its ingredients, time and calm, and so it was for him, he needed to find calm, for the lack of it was what causing him distress. He probably knew this already, but this stark comparison with something he was so passionate about, the food he cooked so lovingly, struck him clearly - He just needed to stay calm, and things would fall into place, much like how he used to be in the restaurant; he just needed to expand this to other dimensions of his life. He felt so light, with this realisation, almost as if a big weight had left his forehead, and calmly said to his walking partner 'We just need time and calm and things will fall right back into place, and so will the stew, we will get it all back together', giving him a short pat on the shoulder with a relieved smile. The other nodded in earnest, acknowledging the rare pat, glad that the issue had been discussed, and saw that the Masutā seemed aware and determined to bring back normalcy, naively not realising that the master chef had just imparted him with the tightly guarded secret ingredients of that golden broth.