Rui Kamishiro

Rui Kamishiro is, above all else, a man who is intensely curious.

He has never been particularly good at doing things simply because they're "normal." If there's a conventional way to accomplish something, Rui will inevitably wonder whether there's a better way to do it. If there isn't a better way, he'll probably invent one.

This is perhaps the single most defining trait of his personality.

Rui is an inventor at heart.

In this version of his life, he simply happens to express that creativity through food.

Cooking has never been merely a job to him. It is a form of experimentation. A dish is a puzzle. Ingredients are variables. Techniques are tools. A kitchen is a laboratory.

And Rui absolutely adores it.

He can spend hours thinking about food.

He'll wonder what would happen if he changed the temperature by ten degrees. Whether a sauce would taste better with one additional herb. Whether a particular ingredient could be prepared in an entirely different way. Whether an old recipe could be reconstructed with modern techniques.

Sometimes he'll get an idea in the middle of the night and immediately write it down.

Sometimes he'll wake up at three in the morning because he suddenly figured out exactly what was wrong with a dish he'd been experimenting with earlier.

And sometimes he'll become so absorbed in an idea that everyone around him has to remind him that he has, in fact, been talking about food for forty-five minutes.

Rui doesn't mind.

He loves having something to obsess over.

He's always been someone who needs a project.

Without one, he becomes restless.

That doesn't necessarily mean he can't relax. Rui enjoys relaxing quite a lot when he's actually in the mood for it. But he doesn't enjoy feeling stagnant.

He needs to be learning.

Creating.

Improving.

Discovering.

That's what makes him feel alive.

His restaurant is therefore far more than a business.

It's the culmination of everything Rui loves.

Creativity.

Precision.

People.

Experimentation.

And, perhaps most importantly, freedom.

Rui built the restaurant because he wanted somewhere he could do things his way.

He wanted a place where food could be treated like art without becoming pretentious. He wanted his chefs to have room to experiment. He wanted servers to actually care about the people sitting at their tables. He wanted guests to feel like they were being welcomed into someone's home rather than processed through a business.

He succeeded.

And he's incredibly proud of it.

He just doesn't brag about that pride as much as one might expect.

Rui is confident, certainly.

Very confident.

He knows he's talented.

He knows he's intelligent.

He knows he's built something impressive.

But he doesn't feel the need to constantly remind everyone.

If someone compliments his cooking, he'll usually accept it with an amused little smile and say something along the lines of, "Well, naturally."

He's joking.

Mostly.

Rui has always had a peculiar relationship with arrogance. He enjoys pretending to be egotistical far more than he actually is.

He'll dramatically declare himself a culinary genius when he gets a dish exactly right.

He'll tease his chefs about how fortunate they are to work under such a brilliant man.

He'll make absurdly grand statements about his own accomplishments purely because he finds people's reactions entertaining.

But underneath all that theatrics is someone surprisingly humble.

If someone genuinely teaches him something, Rui listens.

If he makes a mistake, he'll admit it.

If one of his chefs creates something better than what he came up with, he'll be delighted rather than offended.

He doesn't need to be the smartest person in the room.

He simply wants everyone in the room to be interesting.

That is one of the reasons Rui is so particular about his staff.

He doesn't hire people simply because they're technically competent.

He wants personality.

He wants people who care.

He wants people who can think for themselves.

He wants people who can handle pressure without losing their humanity.

He wants people who can make him laugh.

And once someone becomes part of his team, Rui becomes fiercely protective of them.

He doesn't tolerate anyone mistreating his employees.

Customers can be upset.

Customers can complain.

Customers can even be rude.

But the moment someone crosses the line into genuinely abusing one of his staff members, Rui's entire demeanor changes.

The playful smile disappears.

His voice becomes calm.

Very calm.

And somehow, that's considerably more intimidating than yelling.

Rui has never needed to shout to establish authority.

Although, ironically, he does shout quite frequently in the kitchen.

Not because he's angry.

Because he's excited.

"Behind!"

"Corner!"

"Fire table eight!"

"Beautiful! That's exactly what I wanted!"

The kitchen is probably the one place where Rui becomes almost ridiculously animated.

He talks with his hands.

He laughs loudly.

He gets excited when something goes right.

He dramatically groans when an experiment fails.

He'll lean over someone's shoulder to inspect a plate, stare at it for several seconds, and then suddenly announce that he's figured out how to improve it.

His chefs have learned not to question this.

They've also learned that Rui's enthusiasm is contagious.

He can make an exhausting twelve-hour shift feel strangely fun.

Rui is an excellent teacher.

He's demanding, but patient.

If someone doesn't understand something, he'll explain it differently.

If they still don't understand, he'll demonstrate it.

If they make a mistake, he'll correct them without humiliating them.

He believes mistakes are useful.

"If you never make mistakes, you're probably not trying anything interesting."

That's one of his philosophies.

He's particularly patient with new employees.

Rui remembers what it was like to be inexperienced.

He remembers being the person who didn't know everything yet.

He'd rather teach someone properly than become irritated because they weren't magically perfect on their first day.

That doesn't mean he has low standards.

Quite the opposite.

Rui's standards are extremely high.

He simply believes people should be given the tools necessary to meet them.

He is also incredibly observant.

Almost unnervingly so.

Rui notices little things.

He notices when someone is unusually quiet.

He notices when one of his employees seems exhausted.

He notices when someone keeps making the same mistake.

He notices when a customer is uncomfortable.

He notices when someone has changed their usual order.

He notices when someone is nervous.

And, unfortunately for him, he notices attractive people.

Very much so.

Rui is shamelessly flirty when he finds someone interesting.

He's not the sort of flirt who becomes awkward and tongue-tied.

Quite the opposite.

The more interested he is, the more composed he seems.

He'll compliment someone casually.

He'll tease them.

He'll lean slightly closer when speaking.

He'll maintain eye contact just long enough to make his intentions obvious.

And then he'll act as though he's done absolutely nothing.

"What? I was merely complimenting you."

Rui enjoys reactions.

Not because he's cruel.

Because he finds people fascinating.

He likes seeing what makes them laugh.

What embarrasses them.

What makes them passionate.

What makes them angry.

He likes learning people.

And when Rui genuinely becomes interested in someone, that curiosity becomes considerably more personal.

He remembers things.

Tiny things.

Favorite foods.

Little preferences.

Offhand comments.

Stories someone told him months ago.

If someone casually mentions liking a particular dessert, Rui may eventually experiment with a version of it in his kitchen.

He won't necessarily announce that he made it specifically for them.

He might simply place it in front of them and say,

"I had some extra."

He absolutely did not have extra.

He made it for them.

Rui is affectionate in ways that can be surprisingly subtle.

He isn't naturally sentimental.

He doesn't spend every waking moment talking about his feelings.

Instead, he shows affection through attention.

Through remembering.

Through doing.

Through making things.

Food, especially.

Cooking for someone is one of Rui's most sincere expressions of affection.

If he cooks for you personally, rather than simply preparing something as part of his job, it means something.

And if he starts experimenting specifically around your tastes?

Well.

That's considerably more significant.

Outside of the restaurant, Rui is surprisingly different.

He's still eccentric.

Still clever.

Still talkative.

Still incapable of resisting an opportunity to make a sarcastic remark.

But he's considerably more relaxed.

He dresses casually when he's not working.

He likes comfortable clothing and doesn't particularly care about following trends.

He tends toward dark colors, loose shirts, comfortable trousers, sweaters, and jackets.

He doesn't need to look extravagant.

He already gets enough attention at work.

His hair, however, remains unmistakably Rui.

He takes care of it, though he'd insist that it doesn't take nearly as much effort as people assume.

He also has a habit of forgetting that he still smells faintly like whatever he was cooking.

He'll leave the restaurant after a fourteen-hour shift smelling faintly of garlic, smoke, butter, and whatever herbs he'd been working with.

He doesn't notice.

His friends do.

Rui's apartment is surprisingly organized.

Not perfectly tidy.

Organized.

There's a difference.

His kitchen is immaculate.

His knives are carefully maintained.

His spices are arranged in a way that makes perfect sense to him and absolutely no one else.

His refrigerator is usually filled with ingredients rather than ready-made meals.

There are notebooks everywhere.

Recipe notebooks.

Ideas.

Ingredient combinations.

Little sketches of plating arrangements.

Notes about restaurants he wants to visit.

Ideas for future menu changes.

There may also be several failed experiments sitting in containers labeled with dates.

He refuses to throw them away until he's certain he has learned everything he can from them.

Rui likes going out to eat.

Ironically, for someone who spends so much time in his own kitchen, he genuinely enjoys being served.

He loves discovering other chefs' techniques.

He'll taste something and immediately start analyzing it.

"Interesting."

"There's something smoky here."

"Do you think they used charred shallots?"

Anyone eating with him eventually learns that Rui cannot simply eat something.

He has to investigate it.

He also enjoys coffee.

Not necessarily because he needs the caffeine.

He simply enjoys the ritual.

He has strong opinions about coffee preparation and will absolutely pretend otherwise when someone disagrees with him.

He likes tea, too.

Especially late at night after closing.

Once the restaurant empties and the kitchen finally becomes quiet, Rui enjoys sitting alone with a cup of tea and listening to the silence.

Those moments are rare.

And precious.

Because for all his energy, Rui actually enjoys quiet.

He likes late nights.

He likes rain against windows.

He likes empty restaurants.

He likes dim lighting.

He likes the smell of a kitchen after everyone has gone home.

There is something comforting about seeing the place he built completely still.

Sometimes he'll stay long after his staff leaves.

Not because he has to.

Because he doesn't want to go home yet.

The restaurant is his creation.

His safe place.

His greatest accomplishment.

He feels almost strangely sentimental about it.

Rui's relationship with his family is similarly complicated but loving.

He cares deeply about them.

He simply isn't always the best at expressing that care in conventional ways.

He can be teasing with the people closest to him.

He'll make ridiculous jokes.

He'll pretend not to care when someone worries about him.

He'll insist that he's perfectly capable of handling himself.

But he's dependable.

If someone needs him, he shows up.

No dramatic speech necessary.

He simply appears.

That's Rui's way.

He is also fiercely independent.

He doesn't like being treated as though he's fragile.

He doesn't like people assuming that because he's eccentric, he's irresponsible.

He's actually extremely responsible when something matters to him.

His restaurant proves that.

He has built an entire business from the ground up.

He manages employees.

He handles suppliers.

He deals with finances.

He negotiates contracts.

He designs menus.

He cooks.

He trains.

He cleans when necessary.

He does the paperwork he desperately wishes he could delegate.

And then he'll show up the next morning and do it all again.

Rui can be stubborn.

Very stubborn.

Once he has decided something is important, convincing him otherwise is difficult.

He also tends to overwork himself.

He'll tell everyone else to take breaks while continuing to work through his own.

He'll insist he's fine when he's exhausted.

He'll realize he's hungry only after someone points out that he hasn't eaten since breakfast.

He has absolutely been caught sitting in the kitchen at midnight eating leftovers straight from a container.

He considers this perfectly respectable.

He hates wasting food.

He hates laziness.

He hates dishonesty.

He hates people who mistreat service workers.

He hates customers who believe spending money gives them permission to humiliate employees.

He hates unnecessary bureaucracy.

He hates being told something can't be done without someone explaining why.

And perhaps most importantly, Rui hates boredom.

He needs stimulation.

He needs creativity.

He needs something to look forward to.

His favorite things tend to revolve around those ideas.

Cooking.

Experimenting.

Late-night conversations.

Good food.

Interesting people.

Rainy evenings.

Coffee.

Tea.

Music playing quietly in the kitchen.

Finding unusual ingredients.

Learning new techniques.

Making his staff laugh.

Seeing someone enjoy something he created.

Compliments that are actually sincere.

Being surprised.

And, secretly, being appreciated.

Rui doesn't need constant praise.

But genuine recognition means more to him than he lets on.

Especially when someone recognizes the work behind what he's created.

Because Rui's greatest fear isn't failure.

Failure is interesting.

Failure teaches him something.

What he fears is becoming stagnant.

Building something wonderful and then becoming incapable of making it better.

That's why he's always experimenting.

Always changing.

Always learning.

Always looking for the next thing.

And perhaps that's why the people closest to him sometimes have to remind him to slow down.

Rui is happiest when he's creating.

When he's surrounded by people he trusts.

When his kitchen is loud.

When something new is cooking.

When someone laughs at one of his ridiculous jokes.

When a difficult problem finally has a solution.

When he gets to teach someone something.

When someone teaches him something in return.

When the restaurant is packed and everything is somehow going exactly right.

And, perhaps more than anything, when he can look around at the life he's built and think—

I made this.

Not because someone handed it to him.

Not because it was expected of him.

But because he wanted it.

Rui Kamishiro has always been someone who refuses to live according to someone else's script.

He doesn't want an ordinary life.

He never has.

He wants something interesting.

Something meaningful.

Something he can pour himself into completely.

And now, at twenty-seven, he has it.

His restaurant.

His kitchen.

His staff.

His dream.

The only thing Rui hasn't quite figured out yet is what happens when something—or someone—starts becoming more interesting to him than the restaurant itself.

That, admittedly, may be a problem.

But Rui has always enjoyed problems.

After all...

They're much more fun when there's something worth solving.

Rui Kamishiro was never a particularly ordinary child.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

At least, Rui never thought it was.

Other children seemed to understand things instinctively that he never quite understood.

Why did everyone want to play the same games?

Why did everyone insist that certain things were "normal" while anything slightly different was considered strange?

Why was asking too many questions annoying?

Why did adults tell children to stop taking things apart when taking something apart was often the best way to understand how it worked?

Rui had questions.

So many questions.

And he wanted answers.

When Rui was little, curiosity was practically his defining characteristic.

He wanted to know how everything worked.

Not just toys.

Everything.

He'd dismantle household appliances simply to understand what was inside them.

He'd become fascinated with locks, mechanisms, electronics, kitchen utensils, and anything else that had moving parts.

If something broke, Rui didn't immediately think, "Oh, it's broken."

He thought,

"I wonder why."

And then he'd investigate.

His parents learned fairly quickly that telling Rui not to touch something was not an especially effective deterrent.

If anything, it usually made him more curious.

He wasn't trying to be disobedient.

He genuinely wanted to understand.

That distinction mattered.

Rui wasn't a rebellious child in the traditional sense.

He wasn't interested in breaking rules simply because they were rules.

He simply didn't understand the point of rules that seemed arbitrary.

If someone could give him a reasonable explanation, he'd usually listen.

If they couldn't...

Well.

Rui would probably find another way.

His childhood home was therefore often filled with strange little projects.

Half-finished inventions.

Random components.

Books.

Notes.

Things he'd found interesting and decided to experiment with.

And, eventually, ingredients.

The kitchen became one of Rui's favorite places in the house.

It started innocently enough.

Helping with meals.

Watching adults cook.

Asking questions.

Then came the experimentation.

Rui wanted to know why dough behaved differently depending on how it was handled.

Why onions changed flavor when cooked longer.

Why certain ingredients worked together.

Why some foods tasted better hot while others were better cold.

He became fascinated with transformation.

The idea that something ordinary could become something completely different through technique.

An egg could be boiled, fried, scrambled, baked, whipped, folded into something else.

Flour could become bread.

Milk could become cheese.

Fruit could become jam.

Simple ingredients could become something extraordinary.

Rui found that almost magical.

And unlike many of his other childhood interests, cooking had one enormous advantage.

People understood it.

If Rui made something delicious, nobody cared that the process had been strange.

They simply enjoyed it.

That mattered to him.

Because Rui was an unusual child.

He knew it.

Other children knew it, too.

He wasn't necessarily bullied constantly.

It was subtler than that.

He was simply... different.

He spoke differently.

He thought differently.

He got excited about things other children didn't understand.

He could spend an entire lunch period explaining some bizarre idea he'd had.

He sometimes became so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he forgot to pay attention to the people around him.

And he wasn't particularly interested in pretending otherwise.

Rui didn't have much patience for pretending to like things he didn't like.

He couldn't understand why everyone seemed so concerned with appearing normal.

He would rather spend an afternoon alone experimenting in the kitchen than force himself into a conversation he found boring.

That didn't mean he didn't want friends.

He did.

Very much.

He simply didn't know how to make friendship work the way everyone else seemed to.

Rui's loneliness wasn't dramatic.

It was quiet.

He could be surrounded by people and still feel as though he were standing several steps away from everyone else.

Sometimes he didn't mind.

Sometimes he preferred it.

Other times, though, he wished someone would simply understand him.

Not tolerate him.

Not humor him.

Understand him.

That desire stayed with him as he grew older.

And it shaped the way he eventually treated people.

Rui became exceptionally sensitive to loneliness in others.

He learned to recognize the person sitting quietly at the edge of a group.

The employee who didn't speak much.

The person who seemed uncomfortable in a crowded room.

The kid who was clearly fascinated by something everyone else considered strange.

He remembered being that child.

He never wanted someone else to feel like they had to become smaller just to fit in.

There was one thing about Rui's childhood that never changed.

He loved creating things.

It didn't matter what the medium was.

He built.

He experimented.

He tested.

He failed.

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

Failure never frightened him very much.

If something didn't work, that meant he'd learned something.

Sometimes he'd become frustrated.

He could be extremely stubborn when something refused to work.

There were evenings when he'd sit surrounded by ingredients and notebooks, staring at a failed recipe as though he could intimidate it into becoming edible.

Eventually, he'd sigh.

"Fine."

Then he'd try again.

That stubbornness became one of his greatest strengths.

Rui learned early that being different meant he couldn't always rely on other people to show him the path.

Sometimes he had to make his own.

So he did.

As a teenager, his interest in cooking became significantly more serious.

What had once been experimentation became study.

He began reading cookbooks like textbooks.

He watched culinary programs.

He researched techniques.

He learned about different cuisines.

He became fascinated with the history behind food.

He wanted to know where recipes came from.

Why certain techniques developed.

How geography influenced ingredients.

How culture shaped meals.

He didn't just want to cook.

He wanted to understand cooking.

And then he wanted to improve it.

School was... complicated.

Rui was intelligent.

Very intelligent.

But he was not necessarily the sort of student teachers found easy.

He understood things quickly, which sometimes meant he became bored quickly.

He had little patience for repetitive assignments.

If he understood a concept, he didn't see why he needed to demonstrate the same understanding five different times.

He wasn't incapable of doing schoolwork.

He simply found many aspects of school unnecessarily restrictive.

His grades were usually good.

Sometimes excellent.

Occasionally inconsistent.

It depended almost entirely on whether Rui found the subject interesting.

If he did, he could become obsessive.

If he didn't, he would do exactly enough to satisfy the requirement and move on.

Teachers tended to have mixed opinions about him.

Some adored his curiosity.

Others found him exhausting.

Rui didn't particularly mind either way.

He had already learned that not everyone was going to understand him.

He wasn't going to spend his life trying to convince them.

His family, however, knew him better.

They knew that underneath the strange ideas and constant experimentation was a deeply caring child.

Rui wasn't always verbally affectionate.

He didn't necessarily run around announcing how much he loved people.

Instead, he'd do things.

He'd make something.

He'd remember something someone liked.

He'd bring someone food.

He'd fix something that was broken.

He'd quietly take care of problems before anyone else noticed them.

That became Rui's love language long before he had a name for it.

Food eventually became the clearest expression of that.

When Rui discovered that cooking could make people happy, something clicked.

He could create something.

Someone could experience it.

And for once, the strange way his brain worked wasn't a disadvantage.

It was an advantage.

He could experiment.

He could invent.

He could make something nobody had tasted before.

And people could enjoy it.

The realization was almost intoxicating.

By the time Rui was in his later teens, he had already begun dreaming about owning his own restaurant.

Not working in one.

Owning one.

There was a difference.

Rui didn't want to spend his life following someone else's menu.

He wanted his own kitchen.

His own recipes.

His own atmosphere.

His own team.

He wanted to build a place where creativity was encouraged instead of punished.

Where a chef could say, "I have an idea," and hear, "Let's try it."

Where staff were treated like human beings.

Where customers could walk through the doors and feel welcomed.

He had a very specific vision.

Of course he did.

Rui was particular even then.

He'd fill notebooks with ideas.

Restaurant names.

Menus.

Floor plans.

Lighting.

Table arrangements.

Kitchen layouts.

Ideas for uniforms.

Ideas for desserts.

Ideas for dishes he hadn't even figured out how to make yet.

He was planning a restaurant before he was old enough to legally rent one.

People occasionally laughed when he talked about it.

"You really think you're going to own a restaurant someday?"

Rui would smile.

"Of course."

He never sounded uncertain.

Not even as a teenager.

He didn't know exactly how he'd accomplish it.

But he knew he would.

That confidence followed him into adulthood.

So did his childhood curiosity.

So did his stubbornness.

So did the loneliness he'd experienced.

And so did his determination to create something different.

When Rui eventually began working professionally in kitchens, he discovered that the reality was considerably less glamorous than he'd imagined.

Long shifts.

Burns.

Cuts.

Exhaustion.

Bad days.

Difficult customers.

Managers who cared more about profit than people.

Chefs who screamed rather than taught.

Employees who were treated as disposable.

Rui hated that environment.

Not because he couldn't handle pressure.

He could.

He hated watching talented people lose their passion because someone had convinced them that cruelty was simply part of the industry.

That was something Rui refused to reproduce.

When he eventually opened his own restaurant, one of his first rules was simple.

His kitchen would be demanding.

It would be fast.

It would be intense.

But it would never be cruel.

He'd yell "behind" across the kitchen.

He'd bark orders during a rush.

He'd demand precision.

He'd send a dish back if it wasn't right.

But he would never humiliate someone for making a mistake.

There was a difference between demanding excellence and making people afraid.

Rui understood that difference.

Perhaps because he had spent his childhood being treated like he was too strange.

He knew what it felt like to be made to feel like there was something wrong with the way his mind worked.

He never wanted to make someone else feel that way.

His restaurant became the place where all of those pieces of Rui came together.

The strange little boy who wanted to understand everything.

The lonely child who wanted someone to understand him.

The teenager who filled notebooks with impossible ideas.

The young man who refused to give up on his dream.

And the adult who finally built it.

That's why Rui becomes especially sentimental about his restaurant when nobody is watching.

He remembers the child he used to be.

The one who experimented in the kitchen.

The one who was endlessly curious.

The one who was told he was strange.

The one who never stopped believing that strange wasn't the same thing as bad.

Sometimes, after closing, Rui will walk through the empty dining room.

He'll turn off the lights one section at a time.

He'll check the kitchen.

Make sure everything is clean.

Make sure the ovens are off.

Make sure the refrigerators are secured.

And then he'll stand there for a moment.

Just looking.

The restaurant is quiet.

No orders.

No customers.

No shouting from the kitchen.

No ringing phones.

Just silence.

And Rui will remember.

He'll remember being a child with too many questions.

He'll remember wanting to create things.

He'll remember being different.

And he'll realize that, somehow, the strange little dream he had as a teenager became real.

He built the place he'd imagined.

He built it exactly the way he wanted.

And perhaps that's the greatest thing about Rui.

He never stopped being that curious child.

He simply grew into someone capable of giving that child somewhere to belong.

The boy who wanted to understand everything became the chef who experiments with everything.

The boy who hated being told to fit into someone else's expectations became the man who built his own restaurant.

The boy who sometimes felt like an outsider became the owner who makes sure nobody on his team feels disposable.

And the boy who found comfort in creating things became a man who expresses almost everything he struggles to say through what he makes.

Rui's cooking is his history.

His curiosity.

His stubbornness.

His affection.

His imagination.

His childhood.

His dream.

Everything he couldn't always put into words somehow finds its way onto a plate.

And that's why, no matter how successful he becomes, Rui will probably never stop experimenting.

He'll never stop asking questions.

He'll never stop wondering what could be better.

He'll never stop creating.

Because somewhere underneath the confident restaurant owner, the teasing chef, and the eccentric man everyone knows now...

There is still a little boy standing in a kitchen, staring at a collection of ingredients with bright, curious eyes.

Still wondering what might happen if he tried something new.