“Manager… I’m hungry…”
“Go feed yourself. I made a whole pot of stew, didn’t I?”
“I’ve been eating only that for a week…”
Ignoring Aris, who was complaining about side dishes without knowing her place,
I was examining the Belkas liver buried in rice bran inside a wooden tub.
The Belkas liver buried in the rice bran
was quietly changing under mana-based observation.
At hourly intervals, I checked its internal state with detection magic.
Temperature. Humidity. The density of the microorganisms multiplying inside the rice bran. And the concentration of toxicity.
At first, I had vaguely assumed the toxicity would break down through a chemical reaction.
But as I operated the detection magic with precision,
I detected a phenomenon different from what I had expected.
The amount of toxicity wasn’t decreasing.
The toxicity inside the wooden tub remained the same, but it was moving somewhere.
I extended my mana even more finely,
even more precisely.
To the point where I could sense the movements of each individual microorganism in the rice bran.
And there, I became certain.
The toxic substances were clinging to something produced as the rice bran fermented.
Adsorption.
The various fungi and bacteria multiplying during the fermentation process
were absorbing the toxic substances in the Belkas liver by binding them to their cell walls.
The poison wasn’t being broken down or neutralized.
The microorganisms were literally taking the poison into themselves.
In that case, what I needed was simple.
Increase the rate at which the microorganisms multiplied,
and expand the surface area onto which they could adsorb the toxicity.
I changed the way I operated my mana.
Not in the direction of accelerating the fermentation process itself,
but in the direction of selectively stimulating only the activity of the microorganisms that adsorbed toxicity.
If I made even the slightest mistake, I might fail to properly remove the toxicity,
and the fermentation environment might collapse as well, causing the Belkas liver inside the wooden tub to spoil.
But this was precisely the kind of delicate work I had devised Meta Control for in the first place.
If I concentrated enough,
I should be able to obtain the result I wanted.
And several more days passed.
“Manager! The pot is empty! I finished all the stew too!”
“You won’t die even if you don’t eat. Do you sometimes forget you’re a ghost?”
“If I don’t eat every day, I get depressed…”
“Shh—be quiet.”
Leaving Aris to whine in front of the huge, completely empty stew pot,
I focused once again on the Belkas liver that was fermenting.
The microorganisms in the rice bran possessed the property of adsorbing poison.
For the past several days, I had maintained my mana in a way that could accelerate the adsorption of toxicity.
It was a process that would normally require an enormous amount of time.
I couldn’t eliminate the toxicity itself with magic,
but just as I had accelerated osmotic pressure, I could help the toxicity itself move into the rice bran.
By now, how far had it progressed?
Since I couldn’t maintain two spells that required an extremely high level of concentration at the same time,
I had not yet used toxicity detection magic.
“It should be about time…”
I slowly withdrew the mana that had been focused on the microorganisms inside the wooden tub.
Then, changing the nature of my mana,
I used toxicity detection magic capable of detecting even trace amounts of Belkas poison.
“…!”
Amazingly, the toxic reaction had weakened significantly.
I carefully checked once more.
This time, wearing gloves, I cautiously took the Belkas liver buried in the rice bran out.
Then I used toxicity detection magic again.
Deep into the interior of the liver.
Not just the surface—I pushed my mana into every gap between the tissues.
No reaction at all.
It was quiet.
I stood there for a moment without saying anything.
It was a success.
I coated the detoxified Belkas liver with cold-air magic to preserve it,
cut two small pieces from the edge with a knife, and called Aris.
“Aris.”
“Yes?”
“Want to try this?”
“Huh? Right now? This is… poisonous, isn’t it? And it’s raw…”
“You don’t get many chances to eat something like this.”
“Eek! Absolutely not! I won’t pester you for food anymore! I’ll be a good ghost!”
Aris recoiled in horror and backed away.
But I gave that Aris a slight smile,
and, as if to show her, tossed one piece of Belkas liver into my own mouth.
“Manager?! Manager! That!”
“Hmm…”
It was very salty, like salted seafood,
but it had a very rich, unctuous flavor, like monkfish liver.
After I rolled it around in my mouth a few times, it melted smoothly.
A powerful umami lingered at the end.
This was… quite the delicacy.
Considering I was still breathing,
it seemed the toxicity had definitely disappeared.
“I told you to try it.”
I held out the piece of Belkas liver in my palm to Aris again.
“Are you… all right? What about the poison?”
“Can’t you tell from the fact that I’m fine? And why is a ghost so scared?”
“Well… even if I won’t die twice, it might still hurt a lot…”
“Don’t worry and try it.”
Aris hesitantly approached
and looked at the pickled Belkas liver in my palm as if observing it.
Then, after glancing at me, she carefully put the pickled Belkas liver into her mouth.
“How is it?”
“Mmm?!”
Surprise spread across Aris’s face in an instant.
“It’s… really salty, and like soft butter!”
“Better than you thought, right?”
“It tastes like something I’d want to spread on bread…”
After being so frightened,
Aris ended up eating it deliciously and even smacking her lips.
With this, the preparations were complete.
I immediately wrote a note to send to Moshul.
---
It is ready. Please come on any day convenient for you.
- Klaus
---
I folded the note small and tied it to the leg of a messenger pigeon.
I brought the bird to the window and opened my hand.
Then I infused it with a little mana
and set its destination as Moshul’s residence in the royal capital.
The messenger pigeon tilted its head briefly on my hand,
then spread its wings and vanished into the sky.
Aris watched from beside me, then opened her mouth.
“Manager…”
“What?”
Instead of answering, Aris’s gaze drifted to the stew pot, now completely empty.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t properly made meals because I had spent over a week removing the poison from the Belkas.
I had made about six servings of stew in advance for Aris to eat,
but the once-heaping pot of stew was now so cleanly empty it practically gleamed.
Since she had eaten the exact same stew every single day, it was only natural she’d be sick of it.
“…Shall we make some fried rice today?”
“Waaaaah! Waaaaaaaah! Yes! Manager! That sounds great!”
Watching Aris bounce around in delight,
I heated the cast-iron wok.
* * *
Moshul came three days later.
Jingle—jingle—
Moshul was wearing the same dark coat as last time.
His expression as he opened the restaurant door and came in had not changed.
Sharp, and still looking a little tired.
“Welcoooome!”
Aris greeted Moshul energetically.
Without a word, Moshul sat at his usual seat by the window.
Aris brought him water.
Moshul accepted it and quietly looked out the window.
His face was as expressionless as ever,
but the moment I entered the kitchen, I felt his gaze briefly follow me there.
As soon as I entered the kitchen, I washed my hands.
The Belkas liver had already been taken out and prepared.
After the rice bran was brushed away, the liver had turned a deep reddish brown.
Moisture had left the surface, forming a thin, leather-like membrane,
and it gave off a distinctive fermented scent.
A powerful and deep aroma.
It was the scent unique to aged preserved food,
hard to believe it had been processed in barely more than a week.
I sliced the liver very thinly.
As the knife passed through, the cut surface revealed a dense texture.
The delicate grain unique to well-fermented meat or fish.
I placed several pieces on a plate as they were.
A little salt.
A few drops of olive oil.
Lightly blanched vegetables on the side.
And instead of having Aris do it, I served it to Moshul myself.
“To start, as a pre-meal bite, this is pickled Belkas liver. Its toxicity has been completely removed through a special process.”
In front of Moshul,
I first placed a small piece of Belkas liver on the back of my hand.
Then, after confirming that Moshul’s gaze was on me,
I put it straight into my mouth.
The first thing I felt on my tongue was saltiness.
Then, the fermented umami slowly spread.
There was almost none of the chalkiness characteristic of liver.
Instead, a deep flavor lingered for a long time.
Like an extremely well-aged cheese or butter,
layers of complex, heavy taste could be felt.
As expected, there was no abnormal reaction caused by toxicity.
“Then I will prepare the next dish right away.”
I set down the plate with the pickled Belkas liver and returned to the kitchen.
While preparing the next dish, I grew curious about the situation outside the kitchen and peeked slightly into the hall.
Moshul was sitting in front of the plate,
holding his fork and staring at the pickled Belkas liver.
He stayed that way for a while.
Then, slowly, he speared a piece with his fork.
He paused in that position for a moment.
And put it in his mouth.
He chewed quietly.
I did not keep watching, and finished preparing the next dish.
* * *
Using the pickled Belkas liver, I prepared two more menu items.
One was Belkas liver pasta.
The other was Belkas liver bruschetta.
The pasta was composed relatively simply.
I used the pickled Belkas liver as the base of the sauce by melting it with heat.
Because the pickled liver was closer to very salty salted seafood, I kept the added salt to a minimum,
and instead added butter, lemon juice, and thinly sliced garlic.
The bruschetta was something I thought of after hearing Aris’s tasting impression.
—It tastes like something I’d want to spread on bread…
I sliced hard bread, like a baguette, into flat, thin pieces,
then placed various vegetables, herbs, and tomato sauce on top.
And at the end, I ground the Belkas liver into something like a spread and added it.
Both dishes were ones that clearly brought out the flavor of the Belkas liver.
* * *
Moshul looked down at the Belkas liver pasta and said nothing for a moment.
Then he lifted his fork.
He twirled up a forkful and slowly ate it.
I personally set the plate with the bruschetta on the table.
Moshul’s gaze lowered to the new plate,
then returned to the pasta.
For a while, he ate without a word.
After he had emptied a fair amount of the pasta, he picked up the bruschetta.
He took a bite.
The speed at which he chewed slowed for a moment.
A second bite.
Then a third.
Even though he knew I was standing there watching, Moshul said nothing.
He simply ate everything slowly.
At last, he put the final piece of bruschetta into his mouth,
wiped the corner of his lips, and took a sip of water.
There was a moment of silence.
“Sit.”
Moshul spoke.
I pulled out the seat across from him and sat.
Moshul held the cup of water in one hand and looked out the window.
There was a look on his face as if he were chewing over something.
“It’s been a long time.”
“…Pardon?”
“Since I ate something and felt satisfaction. I’m saying it’s been a long time.”
Moshul’s voice was low and quiet.
It wasn’t particularly filled with emotion.
It was simply the tone of stating a fact.
I said nothing.
Moshul continued.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying the foods I’ve eaten until now were terrible. There were many that were technically excellent. Good ingredients, precise preparation, beautiful to look at. But…”
He set down the water cup.
“The place the chefs were looking toward was wrong.”
I listened quietly.
“Chefs these days don’t look at the guests. They look at critics, at rankings, at next season’s reservation rate. They don’t want guests who come because the food is delicious. They want guests who come because they’re famous. In the end, it’s money.”
Moshul’s gaze returned from the window to me.
“It was back when I used to run a restaurant. We had a regular who came to our restaurant at least twice a year, and one day, when I personally went out into the hall, I saw that guest. He was explaining the dish to the people accompanying him.”
His words cut off for a moment.
“But it wasn’t talk about the food. It was only talk about how difficult the restaurant was to reserve, how famous it was, and how much one meal cost. While sitting in front of the plate.”
I could imagine the scene without difficulty.
“It made me feel disillusioned. Guests who eat food without talking about food, and chefs who become more and more extravagant and commercialized to satisfy the desires of those guests.”
Moshul took another sip of water.
“I still think so even now. The chefs of this world think of commercial value before real cooking. The number of people who cook with sincerity is dwindling more and more.”
I did not answer for a moment.
I did not think Mosyul was wrong.
The things he had seen were undeniably things that truly existed.
But—
“Mr. Mosyul.”
I spoke.
“Were you satisfied with today’s meal?”
Mosyul looked at me.
“It wasn’t bad.”
“If you don’t mind, may I tell you what I think?”
“Go on.”
I looked straight at him and said,
“Among those who decide to become chefs, not many think of money first from the very beginning. Most begin because they want to make something delicious, or because they want to see someone’s face as they eat with pleasure. In the end, in one form or another, they begin because they liked food.”
Mosyul said nothing.
I continued.
“Maintaining a restaurant is far more difficult than people think. Just keeping the doors open costs an enormous amount of money every month. I’m sure you know that as well, Mr. Mosyul. Focusing purely on cooking while under that kind of pressure is not as easy as it sounds.”
Mosyul’s gaze wavered for a moment.
Seeing that, I added carefully,
“The people you speak of have not betrayed cooking. Reality made them that way. In order to not let go of cooking, they probably had no choice but to make those decisions. I can’t think of that as wrong. After all, everyone is just trying to make a living.”
Mosyul said nothing for a long while.
He looked out the window, and then down at the empty plates.
Then he spoke in a low voice.
“……Perhaps I was demanding too much.”
It was neither denial nor agreement.
I did not force the matter any further.
“I don’t think this is a question of who is right or wrong. However…….”
I added just one thing.
“There are chefs like me in the world too, I suppose. Free from those worries, running a restaurant as a hobby.”
Mosyul looked at me.
“…….”
For a while, he said nothing.
At last, he slowly rose from his seat.
“I ate well. I’ll pay.”
Mosyul took a pouch filled with gold coins from the inner pocket of his coat,
and placed it on the table.
The cost of the ingredients for this menu had been considerable,
but it was more than enough without me needing to state the price separately.
Mosyul buttoned up his coat and walked toward the door.
Then, with his hand on the doorknob, he stopped for a moment.
“Klaus, you.”
“Yes.”
“How would you like me to write it for the newspaper?”
he asked.
Ah, come to think of it, Mosyul had come because of the Early Bird newspaper’s new column.
“If possible, I’d like you to write it so that too many customers don’t rush in.”
“Hmm… I see.”
Jingle—
The door opened and closed.
I watched Mosyul’s retreating back,
for a long time, until it disappeared from sight.
* * *