The day Moshel was scheduled to visit had dawned.
Nothing much had changed.
I woke up in the morning and flipped the open sign,
went up to the roof, and watered the herb planters.
“Boss~! Today’s the day that gourmet critic comes~! Aren’t you nervous?”
“I’m not.”
“But I am~!”
“What are you nervous for?”
Even while sweeping in front of the restaurant, Aris kept poking her head out toward the road.
“What if he comes super early?”
“The letter said afternoon.”
“Still~”
I set down the watering can and looked down at Aris.
“You’re holding the broom backwards.”
“Huh?!”
Aris hastily flipped the broom around.
I came down from the roof and headed to the kitchen.
I planned to keep breakfast simple this morning.
After all, if a guest arrived in the afternoon, I’d have to cook then anyway,
so I needed to check the ingredients once more.
* * *
Afternoon came.
Aris had been pressing her nose to the window, watching the road since a while ago.
I sat at the counter, sipping herbal tea and reading a cookbook.
“Boss, someone’s coming!”
“Okay.”
“Really~!”
“Quiet down.”
Ring-ring—
Shortly after, the door opened.
“Welcome~!”
Aris greeted energetically.
I closed the book and looked up.
Only one person entered.
An old man who looked to be past sixty.
His white hair was neatly combed back,
and he wore a dark navy coat.
He leaned on a cane, but his gait was not slow.
Eyes behind thick glasses slowly swept across the restaurant interior.
Over the tables, over the kitchen, over Aris.
Finally, they stopped on me behind the counter.
“So this is the gourmet restaurant, Slow. Hmph. In poor taste.”
A low, dry voice.
“Yes, it is. Welcome.”
The old man looked around the restaurant once more,
chose a seat by the window, and sat down.
He propped his cane beside the table,
neatly took off his coat, and hung it over the back of the chair.
Every movement was quiet and precise.
I got up from the counter and stood before him.
“You must be Moshel?”
“Indeed.”
Moshel looked up at me.
“The chef and the proprietor, are you? Younger than I expected. Are you attending to me personally?”
“A staff member could guide you, but since you are an important guest, I came out myself.”
“Hmm.”
Moshel hummed briefly and looked around the restaurant again.
“There is no menu?”
“There is not.”
“Just as written on the application.”
He placed his hands neatly on the table and spoke.
“You said you would make anything the guest desires.”
“Yes.”
“I have come to see whether that was mere bravado.”
“Pardon me a moment.”
I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
Moshel’s eyebrows rose slightly.
It was not common for a chef to sit down before a guest.
“May I ask a few things before taking your order?”
“...Ask away.”
I looked at him and asked.
“Why did you choose my restaurant?”
A brief silence passed.
Moshel quietly looked down at his hands on the table,
then raised his gaze back to me.
“Then may I ask one thing in return?”
“Please, go ahead.”
“How long have you worked as a chef?”
It was a sudden question.
“Over fifteen years.”
“Any notable establishments among those you have worked at?”
“Before opening this restaurant, I cooked while living as an adventurer.”
Moshel seemed to mull over those words for a moment.
He did not press further.
“Are you self-taught, or did you learn from someone?”
“I learned from others, and I taught myself. I still study cooking diligently.”
“Interesting.”
Moshel reached into the coat hanging on the back of the chair and took something out.
A small pocket notebook.
He opened the notebook and wrote something as he spoke.
“Today, while riding a carriage from the capital, I knew from the application that the road was rough, but I did not expect it to be this severe.”
“Was it very inconvenient getting here?”
“Inconvenient it was. I thought that anyone who would open a restaurant in such a place must surely be mad.”
Moshel looked up from his notebook at me.
“Is there a reason you insisted on opening your restaurant at this location?”
I thought for a moment before answering.
“I wished to operate quietly. Too many guests make it difficult to focus on the cooking.”
Moshel looked at me for a moment, then laughed softly.
It was closer to a scoff than a laugh.
“Arrogant, considering you have never even worked at a busy restaurant.”
“Perhaps. Who can say?”
The air in the restaurant somehow felt thick with tension.
Honestly, I had grown exhausted working at a restaurant packed to the brim with customers in my previous life,
but I could not exactly say that, so it must have been all the more incomprehensible to him.
From the moment Moshel entered the shop, I had felt it.
This man was someone who, in some ways, was similar to me.
Should I say he was stubbornly devoted to his craft,
or simply stubborn and one to march to his own beat?
Because every word and action of his carried a strange sense of locking horns,
I was simply returning the favor.
Moshel closed the notebook and tucked it back inside his coat.
Then he placed his hands neatly on the table again and spoke.
“I shall place my order.”
I straightened my posture.
“Please, go ahead.”
Moshel paused for a moment.
He looked at the tree branches swaying in the wind outside the window,
then slowly turned his head toward me.
“You said you can truly make anything.”
“That is correct.”
“As an adventurer... do you know a fish species called Belcas?”
Moshel’s sunken pupils fixed on me.
Belcas.
Sifting through my memories of my long adventurer days,
I realized immediately what he was talking about.
“Wait, are you being serious right now?”
“Indeed.”
Just to be sure, I asked again,
but Moshel only reaffirmed that the fish he had named was indeed Belcas.
What on earth was he thinking?
Belcas was technically a fish, but it was strictly classified as a demonic beast.
To sailors, it was known as the “Reaper.”
It was roughly one to two meters in length, with a swollen belly and a sharp dorsal fin.
It was infamous for rushing in to sting fallen sailors in the open sea with its venomous barb in an instant.
The problem was its toxicity.
Belcas possessed a toxicity such that a single drop of venom from the barb on its fin could wipe out an entire village.
Naturally, the internal organs within its body accumulated a lethal poison more than sufficient to kill a person.
Belcas venom was also notorious for the horrifying way it killed.
Once poisoned by Belcas,
one did not die instantly; instead, one felt the agony of one’s organs melting away, dying slowly.
There were reports of people surviving up to a week after being poisoned.
Naturally, that week was so excruciating that being “alive” was meaningless.
Because of such terrible poison,
it was also apparently a favored ingredient in poisonings born of bitter hatred—
used by those who wished for their victim to die as slowly and painfully as possible.
If someone was poisoned by Belcas,
anyone who knew of its terror would tremble in shock at the mere mention of it.
Such was the lethally poisonous fish that Moshel had named to me.
“There is a saying. The liver of a Belcas is an unparalleled delicacy. But because of its toxicity, it is considered a forbidden delicacy, forbidden to humans.”
“No one has ever eaten it, yet it is called a delicacy? Does such a thing exist?”
“It is a lethal poison to humans, but not so to other demonic beasts. Indeed, demonic beasts are often observed devouring the liver of a Belcas. The poison does not affect them. Demonic beasts, too, live in a world where the strong prey on the weak. The weak are inevitably devoured. Belcas is a fish highly favored among demonic beasts. That means it is all the more delicious.”
“.......”
I wanted to ask if he was out of his mind,
but I kept quiet and listened to the end.
“The first and last delicacy forbidden to humankind. I wish for you to prepare a dish using the liver of a Belcas. Naturally, I must not lose my life eating it. Thus, on the day it is served, you, the chef, must taste it first. Once safety is confirmed in this manner, only then shall I partake. This is my order.”
Moshel’s order, notorious even across the continent for being difficult.
It was a dish made from the liver of Belcas, the venomous demonic fish.
Was he out of his mind?
Belcas was a fish so toxic that no one dared attempt to eat it.
It was not like a pufferfish, where one could carefully trim away the organs and eat the flesh.
The only difference was the potency of the toxin; Belcas the demonic beast was poisonous through and through, flesh and all.
And even in its least toxic part,
there was enough venom to kill dozens of grown men.
He wanted me to take such a fish,
and cook its liver—one of its most poisonous organs?
I saw a faint smile form at Moshel’s lips.
‘He’ll refuse, of course.’
‘He may pretend to take cooking seriously in a place like this,
but he would not dare attempt something like this.’
The feeling that he was sneering at me stung my pride.
“Why no answer? If you cannot do it, say so now. Then my selection of this restaurant will be as if it never happened.”
Moshel said, reaching for his coat on the chair.
“Honestly, I do not understand. There is no guarantee that something a demonic beast finds delicious would suit human tastes.”
“And so? I have tasted nearly every notable dish in this world. But I have never tasted Belcas liver because no one in this world has yet succeeded in preparing it. That is the nature of cooking. Making what is inedible edible, and making it delicious—that is a skill. Since no one has ever eaten it, what is wrong with seeking to explore that unknown flavor?”
“.......”
Moshel’s words gave me pause.
Indeed, that was certainly an aspect of cooking.
The ability to make edible what humans normally could not eat.
Among the countless dishes I knew, there were indeed such things.
Some herbs are merely poisonous when eaten raw, but by blanching, drying... methods are found to extract the toxins so they can be consumed.
Dishes like lacquer chicken, made from lacquer trees that can cause fatal allergic reactions if handled incorrectly,
or pufferfish dishes that lead to death by poisoning if prepared even slightly wrong.
How people ever conceived of eating such things,
and found ways to make them edible, had always been a mystery, yet there were many such dishes.
But even taking that into account...
cooking with Belcas liver was an exceedingly dangerous challenge.
Having to taste the finished dish first... was this not, in essence, a gamble with my life?
“A delicacy made from Belcas liver. Can you do it?”
Moshel asked, already fully prepared to leave.
I felt I was beginning to understand
why no new restaurant had been featured in Today’s Gourmet for a year.
I pondered for a moment.
Then I raised my head, looked straight at Moshel, and opened my mouth.
“Belcas liver dish. Order accepted.”
“Hoo.”
“However, given the nature of the request, I cannot give you a fixed date. If you provide your address, I will send word there to inform you of the date for your visit.”
Moshel turned his body toward me, as if intrigued,
reached inside his coat, and held out a business card.
“Here. I reside in the capital at all times, so send word whenever you are ready.”
Moshel handed me the card with a faint smile,
retrieved his cane, and left the shop.
“Belcas liver, huh...”
First and foremost, procuring the ingredient would be the problem.
I prepared to send a messenger bird at once
to someone I had known during my adventurer days.
* * *