“You said that about the last batch.”
“This one’s different.” She turns back to her pot, stirring with hypnotic precision. “New ratio. More dragon pepper, less Szechuan peppercorn. The restaurant in Shanghai uses this technique for their soup base, but I think it could work for the oil if I’m careful about the temperature window.”
I move closer. The aroma intensifies. Fruity heat from the peppers, nutty warmth from toasting garlic, the complexity that only comes from ingredients handled with absolute care.
“Three years as New Vegas’s spice queen, and you’re still experimenting at 5 AM,” I say.
“Two years and eight months,” she corrects. “And I’ll stop experimenting when I’m dead.”
“Even then, I’d expect haunting via new recipe suggestions.”
She laughs. “You’d still follow them.”
“Every last one,” I admit, because it’s true.
Spicy Orc & Co. has expanded to three locations across the city. The Dragon’s Nest, our intimate chef’s counter experience next to the original bar, still has a three-month waitlist. The product line, Mei’s Fire chili oils and condiments, ships nationwide to specialty stores and directly to customers who order by the case.
We’ve been featured in every major food publication, won regional awards, turned down two reality TV shows, and said yes to a cookbook deal that gave the publisher higher pre-orders than they projected.
The Drunken Dragon still stands on the same block it always has, six blocks from the Strip. Its neon sign glows fully now. The dragon and its beer mug complete, every scale lit, the D burning steady instead of flickering.
Greta runs the bar with the same efficiency she always has. She gave me exactly one comment on the sign repair when I pointed it out. “Took you long enough.” Then she went back to polishing glasses.
Not bad for a woman who once ran from success because she feared it couldn’t last. Not bad for an orc who once thought owning a decent bar was the height of what he could build.
“It’s ready,” Mei announces, lifting the spoon to inspect the oil’s viscosity. She extends it toward me. “Taste.”
I lean forward, letting her feed me directly from the spoon. The oil hits my tongue. Complex layers of heat that bloom rather than attack, the dragon peppers dancing with the nutty base oil, garlic and shallot providing a foundation that grounds the fire. Better than the last batch. Better than anything we produced in the first year.
“Well?” she demands, those amber-flecked eyes searching my face.
“It’s good,” I say, watching her eyebrows lower in immediate disappointment. “It’s fucking transcendent, Mei. You know it is.”
She grins, satisfaction replacing the momentary doubt. “Had to make you say it.” She turns off the heat. “Think the Shanghai place will be mad I reverse-engineered their secret?”
“They’d be madder if they knew how much you improved it.” I step closer, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She fits against me perfectly, her head tucking beneath my chin as she relaxes into my embrace. “What woke you this time?”
“Dreamed about that soup from the festival last year. Couldn’t get the oil base out of my head.” She tilts her head back, exposing the line of her throat.
I press my lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear. “You could have woken me.”
“You were snoring.” Her hand reaches up to thread through my hair, holding me against her neck. “Besides, I work better alone when I’m testing something new. You’re distracting.”
“Am I distracting you now?”
“We have to be at the restaurant in two hours,” she says. But her hand stays in my hair.
Later, showered, dressed, only slightly behind schedule, we make the drive to the flagship. Mei scrolls through her phone, reading reviews.
“Someone posted about the lotus root dish,” she says, angling the screen toward me. “Fourteen fire emojis and ‘life-changing experience.’”
“Add another batch to prep,” I say.
“Already texted Lin.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Cookbook’s doing well.”
“I know.”
“The publisher wants a second one.”
