Chapter 30
Staff meals are important.
This was one of my firm convictions.
Of course, staff meals didn't have to be anything elaborate every time.
Staff meals had to be quick, plentiful, and easy to get back to work after eating.
There was no need for empty space on the plate.
The time it took to place a single herb leaf with tweezers would be better spent ladling out another scoop of soup.
So the principle was simple.
Bulk cooking, and whatever I wanted to eat. Those were the two things.
“What's for lunch today?”
Marie asked as she washed her hands.
I was stirring a large pot.
“Stew.”
“What's stew?”
“A spicy soup made by boiling meat and vegetables for a long time.”
“Another strange food you know, I suppose?”
“If it's delicious, it isn't strange.”
That day's staff meal was a stew made by boiling pork, root vegetables, dried mushrooms, and spicy seasonings.
It wasn't the kimchi stew or soybean-paste stew I had eaten on Earth.
This world had neither kimchi nor soybean paste.
But it did have a fermented bean-based paste, sour pickled vegetables, and red spices.
They weren't exactly the same, but I could get roughly in that direction.
And sometimes people hungered for a direction more than an exact flavor.
I did especially.
The stew we used to ladle straight from the pot and eat with the staff after working in the kitchen until dawn in my previous life, or the soup we all silently poured over rice after finishing the dishes.
Sometimes, you needed those things more desperately than an expensive course.
I stirred the pot once more.
A little oil floated on top, the red spices dispersed through the broth, and the flavor from the meat blended with the acidity of the pickled vegetables.
It wasn't perfect Korean food. Still, it was more than good enough poured over rice.
“Bring the bowls.”
Marie moved immediately at my words.
By now, everyone gathered on their own when it was time for the staff meal.
The villagers who had joined to handle odd jobs in the kitchen, Thomas, Marie, and even Uncle Bernard quietly took a bowl when their schedules allowed.
At first, Uncle Bernard had hesitated a little.
Apparently, he felt it wasn't proper for a butler to eat food from the same pot as the servants in the kitchen.
But after eating it once, he spoke less, and after eating it twice, he brought his own bowl.
People's social ranks loosened a little in front of hot soup.
They didn't disappear completely, though.
“It might be spicy today.”
When I said that, the middle-aged woman from the village who handled odd jobs smiled.
“You said that last time, too, and it was fine.”
“It's spicier than last time.”
“How much?”
“Not enough to regret it, but enough to make you forget about work for a little while.”
Marie muttered as she accepted a bowl.
“Is that supposed to be fine?”
“Yeah.”
The staff gathered around the long wooden table.
It wasn't a high-end table. There were no silver tableware, candlelight, or wineglasses like those in the parlor.
Wooden bowls, large spoons, roughly sliced bread, and grain porridge.
There were no explanations of the dishes, either. If anyone asked for an explanation before eating, I wouldn't have been able to complain if I hit them with a spoon.
But everyone fell silent as soon as they took their first spoonful.
Marie was the first to look up.
“It's delicious.”
“I know.”
“No, it's really delicious.”
“I know. I made it. How could it not be delicious?”
Thomas also kept eating without stopping, sweat running down his face.
“It's spicy, but I can't stop eating it.”
“That's the point.”
One of the young men from the village sniffled but ladled himself more grain porridge.
“Chef, can I dip bread in this broth?”
“Do whatever you want. There are no table manners for staff meals.”
The moment I said that, everyone began tearing off bread and dipping it into the broth.
It looked like a mess, but I liked the sight.
That's how staff meals were supposed to be.
If a guest's course was tension, stories, and price, a staff meal was speed, calories, and comfort.
People who worked in kitchens made food for others all day, then tended to eat carelessly themselves.
If that happened repeatedly, their eyes died.
I had seen it far too often.
It had happened in my kitchen in my previous life, too.
The more elaborate the plates going out became, the more likely someone in the back was eating cold rice while standing.
Just because a restaurant was good didn't mean its staff always ate good food. In fact, the busier the place, the more miserable things could become.
So at least in my kitchen, I made sure the staff ate properly.
Of course, properly didn't always mean something high-end.
Sometimes it was fried rice made by mincing leftover meat trimmings, sometimes noodles boiled with every leftover vegetable end, and sometimes a potato pancake made by grating potatoes.
Some days, I made something like spicy stir-fried meat that left everyone drenched in sweat, while on others, I put noodles in clear chicken broth to soothe their stomachs.
I made things roughly, but I never made them carelessly bad.
That was important.
“Kyle.”
Marie asked after nearly emptying her bowl.
“Aren't you going to serve this to guests?”
“No.”
“Why? It's delicious.”
“It won't taste like this if we serve it to guests.”
“Why?”
“Because they didn't sit down after sweating and scrubbing plates.”
Marie thought about it for a moment.
“Then just make them hungry and feed them.”
“Starving nobles would cause problems.”
“Oh.”
In truth, there was an even bigger reason: staff meals had a different structure from food for guests.
A guest course slowly built up emotions.
It designed a flow from the first plate to dessert, then added wine, lighting, and explanations.
A staff meal, on the other hand, had to be delicious the instant you ate it.
The first spoonful had to loosen your body, the second had to make you stop talking, and by the end, you had to scrape up every last bit of broth and regain the strength to stand up and work again.
In other words, it was a different genre.
The problem was that it was hard to hide delicious food.
The rumor started in the kitchen.
Apparently, a woman from the village who came to work there went home and talked about it.
That at Monbel Manor, the food served to guests was impressive, but the soup the staff ate was unbelievably delicious.
There was especially a strangely spicy soup and a stir-fried meat dish that made you sweat and somehow put you in a good mood.
The story went to the village bakery, then from the bakery to the tavern, and from the tavern to the servants of noble houses waiting for reservations.
The servants told their masters.
Of course, the servants of noble houses probably didn't openly tell their masters that the food Monbel's staff ate was delicious.
But it likely came up naturally while they managed their masters' dining schedules and the rumors surrounding Maison Monbel.
“Apparently, even the servants there eat unusual food.”
“I hear there's a secret dish made by the chef that isn't served to guests.”
“They say it's a spicy soup dish that makes your insides grow hot and somehow gives you strength when you eat it.”
The words probably changed along those lines.
And nobles were weak to hidden things.
Unofficial menus instead of official ones, food the chef fed only to his own people instead of formal courses.
Things other people didn't know about, things that couldn't be bought immediately even with money.
The moment words like that were attached to something, the nobles' eyes lit up.
A few days later, a countess who had been our lunch guest asked at the end of her meal,
“Kyle Pratt.”
I went out to the parlor and bowed my head.
“Yes, my lady.”
“I hear that your kitchen has food that isn't served to guests?”
I paused for a moment.
‘Here it comes.’
It had happened sooner than I expected.
“Are you referring to the staff meal?”
“The staff meal.”
The countess slowly repeated the words.
“So it has a name, too.”
“It's simply the food eaten by the people who work here.”
“For something called simply food, the rumors about it are quite interesting.”
“Rumors usually come with a lot of seasoning.”
“I heard it's a heavily seasoned dish.”
This woman was good with words.
I sighed inwardly.
The countess continued with a smile.
“Would it be possible to taste that staff meal sometime?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Is the price the problem?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
I thought for a moment before answering.
“That food is made for the staff to eat. It is prepared in large quantities and quickly, to satisfy the hunger of people who have been working. The moment it's served to a guest, its purpose changes.”
The countess looked at me with interest.
“Does its flavor change when its purpose changes?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“That answer makes me want to eat it even more.”
‘Why do nobles become more interested when you turn them down?’
When I returned to the kitchen, Marie immediately asked,
“What did she say?”
“She wants to eat the staff meal.”
Marie's eyes widened.
“Why?”
“I guess there's a rumor that it's delicious.”
“Oh.”
Marie looked at her empty bowl, then quietly hugged it to herself.
“No. It's ours.”
“Who's trying to take it from you?”
“Nobles always try to buy everything with money.”
She wasn't wrong.
Thomas spoke seriously, too.
“We have to protect the staff meal.”
The young man from the village nodded.
“That's right. We especially have to protect today's soup.”
A strange sense of solidarity formed.
Today's soup had been jjageuli, a thick stew that had been especially well received. I had made twice as much, expecting everyone to eat about two bowls each, and it still hadn't been enough.
Some bastard had definitely eaten three bowls.
I smiled a little as I watched the scene.
But it wasn't merely something to laugh about.
The fact that guests had begun showing interest in the staff meal meant that even the inside of Maison Monbel was becoming a product.
At first, it had been the meals.
Then the reservation experience, lodging in the village, wine, and the atmosphere of day and night.
Now they were curious about the food the staff ate, too.
This was both an opportunity and a danger.
If we sold the staff meal as it was, we would be finished.
At that moment, the staff would feel that their own food had been taken away and sold to guests, while I would lose the kitchen's last breathing space.
A kitchen needed an area guests couldn't invade. That's how people endured.
But the rumor itself could be used.
“Kyle.”
Elysia quietly entered the kitchen.
She had probably heard what the countess said.
“I think the staff meal has made it into high society.”
“Yes. I just confirmed it.”
“Apparently, several nobles are interested. They say it's the chef's real food, not something served to guests.”
“The real food? Does that mean the food served to guests is fake? It's much more expensive and takes far more effort.”
“Nobles like those phrases. Hidden truth, food only selected people can eat, a meal the chef serves only to his own people.”
“Nobles seem like crazy people.”
“I am a noble, but I agree.”
I looked down at the pot.
Red oil floated on the remaining broth.
It was completely different from the food sold dot by dot on a plate.
Rough, hot, and blatantly meant to fill your stomach.
Could we sell it?
We shouldn't sell it.
But we could adapt it.
“My lady, we don't sell staff meals.”
Marie's face brightened.
“But someday, we could create a course that started from a staff meal.”
Marie's face grew anxious again.
“Isn't that the same thing?”
“No.”
“How is it different?”
“It means I'm not taking your food away.”
“Then that's fine.”
Elysia asked with an intrigued expression,
“A course that starts from a staff meal?”
“Yes. With the concept of a kitchen meal. Hot, powerful flavors nobles have never tasted. But we can't serve it exactly as it is. We have to preserve the strength of the staff meal while refining it for guests.”
“So you're turning commoners' food into a noble's course.”
“It's a little obnoxious when you put it that way, but roughly speaking, yes.”
Elysia laughed.
“Do you smell money?”
I thought for a moment.
“A lot of it.”
Marie groaned softly.
“No. They're going to sell our soup…”
“I told you, we aren't selling it.”
“You always say that and sell it in the end.”
“Not this time. I'll sell something else.”
“That makes me even more nervous.”
I looked at the empty pot.
We don't sell staff meals.
As long as I was the chef, that was a rule I had to uphold without exception.
But we could sell the rumor of the staff meal.
The fact that there was food the chef didn't serve to guests—the more nobles believed it was beyond their reach, the more curious they became about it.
Someday, I would turn this into a course.
I didn't know its name yet.
‘The Servants' Feast?’
No, that sounded dangerous.
If things went wrong, nobles might show up wanting to play at being servants.
The thought alone was horrifying.
“The staff meal is over for today.”
Marie said as she scraped the bottom of the pot.
“What's tomorrow?”
I thought for a moment.
“Fried rice.”
“What's that?”
“Rice stir-fried with every leftover ingredient thrown in.”
Marie's eyes sparkled.
“Is it delicious?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren't you serving it to guests?”
“It's a staff meal.”
“Good.”
She nodded with satisfaction.
Maison Monbel had now begun to develop rumors not only about the food it sold to guests, but also about the food it didn't sell.
I didn't know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but one thing was certain.
It was a difficult world when even eating one staff meal in peace was so hard.