The last stop on Kotonoha's list before we headed for her home was a quick couple of minutes away. We were greeted by art museums, fancy restaurants headlined by three-starred Michelin chefs, and several humbling hotels and apartments that stood just shy of the clouds. But there was one storefront closer to my level of comfort, and it was none other than a food truck spray-painted with what looked like none other than a freelance artist's commission.

After walking less than a couple of street blocks, one of the aforementioned Michelin chefs approached us.

He was a slender man of average height, with black hair that shined from an almost unhealthy amount of hair product in his hair. He wore the typical chef's whites, a toque blanche hat, a double-breasted white coat, and stark black slacks.

"Hello, little Fumiko, how has your family been," the chef with glossy black hair asked.

He offered both of us a sample of his work, a simple street taco normally sold in food trucks. The taco was composed of a corn tortilla, cilantro, grilled onions, and what I assumed was barbacoa. An online friend of mine from America would indulge in posting mouthwatering photos he was eating on social media, one of which was tacos. He was a well-known, perhaps not well-liked, guy that regularly weaponized food porn.

"It's nice to meet you again Mister Morio," Kotonoha said before promptly biting into her offered taco.

I decided to take a bite from my food offering after hearing the moans of contentment from Kotonoha next to me.

It was some of the best food I ever tasted. The simple vegetable garnish added a subtle amount of flavor to the fatty meat that seemed to melt in my mouth. The only apparent downside was that my stomach was already half full from one taco. Food this heavy would definitely need to be adjusted to.

"Why is a chef in the Roppongi district offering tacos on the street anyway," I asked.

"It's good marketing, plus I'm honoring the roots behind the food," Morio said, stroking the subtle wisps of facial hair on his lips.

"Mister Morio is from the southern half of North America. His mother is full-blooded Japanese, and his father is Mexican," Fumiko said.

"I see. The food was delicious. I'm surprised there isn't more Mexican food in Japan."

"You're too kind Chico. When I first arrived here from America, I wanted to open a restaurant here that served Mexican food, but I had to quickly adapt and first serve food that was a little more familiar with the Japanese public. There's a certain pride within me that compels me to prove the value of my culture's food. Sometimes there needs to be a powerful push before the narrative surrounding food can change," Morio said.

"Sounds similar to something Kotonoha-san would say."

"Narrative exists everywhere you look, hermano, he retorted, beating his chest with his fist.

I noticed that Fumiko observed Morio with a sense of reverence, remaining silent the whole time he spoke.

"Fumiko would tell you the same about her current projects," Morio said.

"That's right. I've entered stories into two older light novel contests, and everyone was convinced that I couldn't write romance. That's why the first story I want to publish is a romance," Fumiko said, clenching both of her fists in front of her chest.

As much of a grandiose show she made with her hands, I appreciated the sentiment.

Pride, huh. For a split second I could visualize the last time I dunked over someone, the gust of wind that I created when I split two defenders and had them on skates. I remembered the uproar of the crowd in the bleachers, and the infectious energy that made me roar with them. It made me wonder why on Earth I tried to jeopardize that in the first place.

"It was nice meeting you, sir. Anyone that could inspire pride in someone like Kotonoha is alright with me," I said, extending my hand to the chef with glossy black hair and pencil-thin mustache. 

"You too chico! Your name was Kenta, was it," he asked, vigorously shaking my extended hand.

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"Little Fumiko told me. It was refreshing to hear her talk about something that wasn't just writing and an older children's show, hahaha."

Kotonoha avoided my gaze when I turned to look at her, whistling as she conveniently had something else take her attention.

"Well, all that's left is for us to go home," she said.