Chapter 33
Elysia received an invitation to a social gathering from Marquis Reinfeld.
It wasn't actually all that surprising.
The House of Baron Monbel had paid off its debts, and Maison Monbel had become one of the most talked-about names in high society.
The story of a fallen noble lady saving her dying family with food was exactly the sort of subject nobles liked.
The problem was the final line of the invitation.
[I would appreciate it if you brought Kyle Pratt.]
I stared at the sentence in silence for a long while.
“My lady, I'm a commoner.”
“I know.”
“Is it all right to bring a commoner chef to a social gathering?”
Elysia looked at the invitation again and tilted her head.
“Knights were commoners once, too, and they sometimes attend social gatherings without holding a title.”
“Is that the same thing?”
“Isn't it similar?”
“I carry a kitchen knife instead of a sword.”
“There are times when that's more dangerous.”
It was strangely difficult to argue with that.
Uncle Bernard said quietly beside us,
“Strictly speaking, it isn't impossible by custom. Kyle's name has been coming up frequently in high society lately, and since the invitation specifically names him, it might actually be rude not to bring him.”
“So you're saying I should go?”
“Yes.”
“What if I don't?”
Elysia looked at me.
“Do I go alone?”
That stopped me cold.
Elysia had grown much stronger lately, but I still felt uneasy about leaving her alone at a gathering like that.
Besides, it was obvious that Maison Monbel would come up in conversation.
Someone would praise Elysia, someone would sound her out, and someone would calculate whether they could poach a chef named Kyle Pratt.
I sighed.
“Let's go.”
Marie said from behind me,
“What about clothes?”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Are you really going like that?”
I looked down at my clothes.
They weren't kitchen clothes, but they weren't suitable for a social gathering, either.
For a commoner to blend in among nobles, he needed at least enough polish not to be thrown out at first sight.
In the end, I had a new outfit made that very day.
It was a dark formal suit, nearly black.
It wasn't as ornate as a noble's clothing, but it didn't immediately mark me as a chef, either.
Marie looked at it and nodded.
“You don't look shabby.”
“Is that your way of complimenting me?”
“Yeah.”
“You've learned well.”
Elysia glanced at me for a moment, then looked away.
“Not bad.”
“Your reaction is the most ambiguous of all, my lady.”
“I said it's not bad.”
“Yes.”
I didn't ask anything else.
Lately, reading Elysia's expressions had become a little difficult.
Before, all I had to distinguish was the madness of wanting to die and the excitement of catching the scent of money, but lately, something else had appeared between them.
People's feelings were truly troublesome.
The gathering was held at Marquis Reinfeld's estate.
The moment we entered, eyes poured toward us.
Many gazes went to Elysia, but quite a few fixed on me as well.
Some people stared openly, some scanned me from behind their fans, and others whispered quietly among themselves.
“Is that Kyle Pratt?”
“The chef from Maison Monbel, right?”
“I hear he cuts up live sea fish right in front of you.”
The Marquis and Marchioness Reinfeld welcomed us warmly.
“Miss Monbel. And Kyle Pratt. We're delighted you could come.”
“Welcome to my estate. Enjoy yourselves before you leave.”
Elysia gave them a proper greeting.
“Thank you for inviting us.”
I bowed my head.
“Thank you for having me.”
“You don't have to be so stiff here. You didn't come to cook today, did you?”
Several nobles nearby laughed at that.
I thought to myself,
‘It's more dangerous when I'm not cooking.’
When I'm cooking, at least my work is clear.
I just have to chop, grill, season, and wash the dishes.
But at a social gathering, a single word goes sour faster than sauce.
At first, everything was unremarkable.
Someone praised Maison Monbel's wine, and someone else said they wanted to try the Kitchen Table.
One noble asked whether The Sea's Duel really tasted as dangerous as it sounded.
I answered as briefly as possible.
“If the fish is in good condition, it's not dangerous.”
“Then what if it's in poor condition?”
“We don't serve it.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Good cooking sometimes begins with not serving something.”
Several nobles who heard that seemed strangely impressed.
I had just said whatever came to mind, but they seemed to have taken it as something profound again.
Nobles really had it easy.
The problem came after the alcohol began to circulate.
As I grew slightly tipsy after several glasses of wine and champagne with incredible aromas, a man called Viscount Servan suddenly approached me.
I had never seen him before, but one look at Elysia's expression gave me a pretty good idea.
‘What a colossal asshole.’
And I soon learned why.
“Kyle Pratt.”
He was smiling, but the corner of his mouth was twisted.
“Getting a reservation at Maison Monbel is quite difficult.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn't a compliment. I failed four times.”
“That's unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?”
“Yes. The reservation rules are the same for everyone.”
Viscount Servan's expression stiffened slightly.
The nobles around us began to prick up their ears.
An atmosphere like this spread quickly. When someone picked a fight and someone else answered, a social gathering immediately became a stage.
Viscount Servan swirled his glass and said,
“Still, haven't you gotten a little too full of yourself? Just because one restaurant is doing well doesn't mean every dish in the world comes from your fingertips.”
I didn't answer.
I could let that much slide.
“To be honest, our family's chef is better.”
My eyebrow twitched.
A small flame caught somewhere inside me.
Normally, I might have let it pass.
I couldn't control whether he thought another household's chef was better.
Everyone had different tastes, and there was nothing wrong with cherishing one's own chef.
But those words weren't really about that. They were simply frustration from failing to get a reservation four times.
I could never let that attitude of insulting food he hadn't even tasted pass.
“Is that so?”
When I asked through clenched teeth, Viscount Servan smiled.
“It is. Our chef doesn't put on pointless airs and makes proper food. He doesn't do strange things like calling raw fish a man's cooking or selling staff meals for 100 gold.”
The area around us fell silent.
Elysia looked at me quietly.
Her eyes told me to endure it.
I genuinely tried to.
But my mouth moved first.
“Then bring him here.”
Viscount Servan stopped.
“What?”
“That chef of yours. If he's so much better, bring him here. We can have a match.”
The air around us changed completely.
Elysia closed her eyes very slightly.
She had probably folded my neck once in her mind, then straightened it again.
Viscount Servan's face turned red.
“Are you challenging me to a duel?”
“No.”
I set down my glass.
“I'm challenging that chef to a cooking competition.”
The moment those words fell, the social gathering began to buzz.
“A cooking competition?”
“Chef against chef?”
“Maison Monbel's Kyle Pratt against the chef of House Servan?”
Only then did I realize that I had caused a disaster.
But it was already too late.
Viscount Servan had painted himself into a corner.
He had been the one to say his chef was better, and I had answered him publicly.
If he backed out now, it would make his household's chef look like a braggart.
A noble's pride was expensive, and it burned just as fiercely.
Then a very familiar voice cut in.
“How interesting.”
It was Count Kleber.
I didn't know how long he had been listening, but he slowly lowered the glass in his hand and approached us.
His eyes were shining.
He had the face of a man who had caught the scent of money.
I cursed inwardly when I saw that face.
‘Fuck, we're screwed.’
Whenever Count Kleber wore that expression, nothing ever ended quietly.
“A cooking competition. Wouldn't it be a shame to end it inside the kitchen?”
Viscount Servan looked at him in confusion.
“Count?”
Count Kleber smiled.
“High society is already interested in Kyle Pratt and Maison Monbel. Viscount Servan has said that he possesses an excellent chef, and Kyle Pratt has accepted the challenge. Therefore, this need not be a personal argument. We can turn it into an event.”
I wanted to press a hand to my forehead.
That man charged like a madman whenever money came up.
“An event?”
The Marchioness Reinfeld asked with an intrigued expression.
As though he had been waiting for that question, Count Kleber said,
“Yes. We invite a limited audience, and have the two chefs prepare a meal around the same theme. The audience can taste both sides' food and judge them. Naturally, the seats must be limited. Too many people would diminish the prestige.”
One appealing word after another came out for the nobles.
“We could charge an admission fee, too.”
A count said.
Count Kleber smiled smoothly.
“Some of the proceeds could cover the cost of preparing the event, while the rest could be put to suitable use in the name of both families' honor.”
That was what Count Kleber said when he was about to handle money.
Elysia shot me a slight glare, then moved her eyebrows.
The meaning of that gesture was obvious.
‘You already caused trouble, so charge them dearly.’
I slowly exhaled.
“I have conditions.”
When I spoke, everyone's eyes returned to me.
“The theme will be revealed on the day. We will use some of the same ingredients, but each chef will be free to interpret them. And the chefs must stake their own names. Hiding behind their masters' pride would be boring.”
Viscount Servan's face hardened.
“How dare you…”
Count Kleber immediately cut in.
“That makes it fairer. If it's a cooking competition, the chefs should be the protagonists.”
The Marchioness Reinfeld smiled as well.
“I would rather see it that way, too.”
The mood had already tipped in our favor.
Viscount Servan gritted his teeth.
“Fine. I will bring our chef.”
“I look forward to it.”
I bowed my head.
I regretted it a little inwardly, but at the same time, my blood was strangely racing.
I had competed in cooking competitions in my previous life, too.
Usually they had been for television, and sometimes they had been events.
Back then, the cameras, writers, and sponsors had driven people crazy, but this time, the audience was made up of nobles.
There was no real difference.
A chef only had to stand before the fire, wherever he was.
Count Kleber already looked as though he were selling tickets in his head.
“Where would be a good venue? Maison Monbel would be fine, but the audience would be limited. If it were an annex of the House of Reinfeld…”
“Wait a moment.”
I stopped him.
“Are you already deciding on the venue?”
“Time is money, Kyle Pratt.”
“I haven't even agreed to do it yet…”
Elysia said quietly beside me,
“You did.”
“Pardon?”
“You just agreed.”
I shut my mouth.
Viscount Servan was furious, the nobles were excited, and Count Kleber had caught the scent of money.
When those three things came together, the event was as good as underway.
The Marchioness Reinfeld raised her glass and said,
“It looks like it will be an entertaining evening.”
I couldn't smile.
‘Fuck, I came to a social gathering and got myself a cooking battle.’
Elysia gave me a tiny smile as she watched me.
“Kyle, you just have to win.”
“That's easy for you to say.”
“You're the one who started this story, aren't you?”
‘Fuck.’
I glared at Viscount Servan, whose face was still bright red in the distance.
I didn't know what sort of person his household's chef was.
He might truly be an expert, or he might simply be someone who had spent a long time working in a noble household's kitchen.
But one thing was certain.
That man hadn't really done anything wrong.
His master had simply said the wrong thing.
I set down my glass and thought,
‘I'm sorry, chef whose name I don't know.’
But it couldn't be helped.
I was a chef whose pride was second to no one's.
In this match, I intended to give it everything I had and win.