What should a Japanese restaurant's signature dish be?Sashimi? Sushi? Tempura?
In 2075, while those traditional Japanese foods could still be artificially synthesized from all kinds of strange ingredients, they'd changed so much from the originals that they were no longer the main attractions.
These days, the most popular dish in Night City's Japanese joints was yakitori—grilled chicken skewers.
Made from synthetic at, this so-called "chicken" looked more like atballs on a stick than anything resembling a skewer. The mont they sat down, Jackie ordered twenty and insisted Karl and Oliver try them.
Karl hesitated, unsure what exactly this "chicken" was made of—or if it was even safe.
anwhile, Oliver had already grabbed one and bitten into it like it was no big deal.
One bite. Then another. He was clearly into it.
Seeing how much Oliver enjoyed it, Karl figured he'd have to get used to eating bugs eventually anyway.
So, he picked up a skewer and took a bite.
And imdiately spat it out.
He wasn't trying to be rude or waste food—but his body rejected it like a bad implant. The texture, the taste, the sll—it hit him all at once.
What the hell was that taste?!
If Karl had to describe it in two words: absolutely vile.In three: fucking disgusting garbage.In four: why does this exist?And if he really let loose?
"This tastes like absolute fucking shit!"
It reminded him of those awful cheap hot dogs from his childhood—the ones that were 99% starch and even stray dogs avoided.
But worse.
Imagine a moldy, sawdust-filled hot dog soaked in soy sauce, vinegar, and chili oil.
Like chewing a soggy, over-seasoned paper towel—only sohow even more revolting.
Oliver and Jackie were mid-bite, clearly enjoying theirs.
Then they noticed Karl's scrunched-up face, his furrowed brows, and the half-chewed atball now sitting on the table.
They froze.
First thought?
Was it poisoned?
Both stopped eating, faces tense.
Then Karl finally said—
"This shit is just way too nasty."
"Nasty?"
Jackie and Oliver glanced at each other.
They looked at Karl's skewer—sa as theirs.
To be sure, Jackie grabbed Karl's rejected skewer and took a bite.
He chewed. Thought for a second.
"Wait... this isn't bad at all."
"You've gotta be kidding ."
Karl glared at him.
Even Oliver took the last atball off the stick and popped it in.
Sa reaction.
"Yeah... this isn't bad."
Seeing their honest confusion, Karl realized the truth:
These two had eaten synthetic garbage for so long, they couldn't tell it was trash anymore.
There was no point in arguing.
He just sighed.
"Compared to real chicken skewers, this synthetic crap is straight-up dogshit."
"Real chicken skewers?"
Oliver snorted, assuming Karl was joking. "Dude, real chicken's been banned in Night City since the Bird Flu pandemic. You want the real stuff, you'll have to go through the black market—and it ain't cheap."
Jackie, however, looked at Karl with wide eyes.
"Wait... you're telling you've actually had real chicken before?"
"Of course I have. That's why I know this synthetic crap is trash."
Karl shook his head. "I'm done with these fake skewers. Gim sothing else. Eating this is torture."
Oliver thought back to their first al together. Karl had gone straight for vegetarian dishes.
A suspicion ford in his mind.
"Wait... you're not so corpo rich kid, are you?"
Karl scoffed. "Yeah, right. You ever seen a corpo kid packing a fucking Lexington?"
He waved over a waitress and ordered sothing else.
What followed was basically a live food review stream.
Karl took one bite of each dish.
And rejected them all.
One after another, plate after plate was pushed aside, forming a growing pile in front of Jackie and Oliver.
By the ti they realized what was happening, their side of the table had beco a mountain of rejected dishes.
"Yo—Karl, chill the fuck out!"
Oliver clutched his stomach, ready to burst.
"You've ordered tonkatsu, sushi, sashimi, Japanese curry—dude, you've eaten your way through half the fucking nu. And you haven't found a single dish you like?!"
"This is not my fault!"
Karl looked genuinely offended. "I swear, not one damn thing here is edible. If I hadn't spent the last two days living off cold noodles, I'd probably have starved by now."
Jackie patted his stomach, now round like a damn balloon. He gave Karl a strange look.
"Damn, mano... Not just chicken? You've had real pork, beef, and fish too? What kind of place did you grow up in?"
Karl sighed.
"A place where real at wasn't a fucking luxury."
For one final attempt, he turned to the last dish—ochazuke (tea rice).
Finally.
Sothing he could stomach.
As he ate slowly, a grim realization hit him:
Out of everything he tried, the only thing he could eat was a vegetarian dish.
Was this... his future?
Was he destined to be a fucking vegetarian for life?
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