Chapter 34
The cooking competition grew bigger much faster than I expected.
Count Kleber really had a talent for sniffing out the scent of money.
Within three days of the idea being raised at the social gathering, the venue had been chosen, the audience list had been drawn up, and the admission fee had been set.
It was supposed to be an event where people watched chefs cook, but before long, grand phrases had been attached to it: a clash between two kitchen philosophies, a battle between traditional noble-house cuisine and Maison Monbel’s rising gastronomy.
The venue was an annex of Marquis Reinfeld’s estate.
It had enough room for a small dining hall and a temporary kitchen, as well as enough space for a reasonable number of spectators.
Not too many, but enough for the people who paid to feel as though they were attending something special.
That was important.
People were misled by the number of seats before they were misled by the content.
My opponent was Oldren, the personal chef of Viscount Servan’s household.
He looked to be around fifty, with a sturdy build.
The knife marks and burn scars on his hands made it clear that he had worked in kitchens for a long time.
Looking at him, I felt a little sorry for him.
He had been dragged out here because his master had said the wrong thing at a social gathering.
But pity and competition were separate matters.
When two head chefs stood before the same fire, the plates would speak in the end.
“Are you nervous?”
Marie asked from beside me.
“A little.”
“So you do get nervous.”
“Why? I’m human, too.”
“You seem like the type who would enjoy this.”
“Enjoying something and not being nervous are different things.”
In truth, this wasn’t a completely unfamiliar situation.
In my previous life, I had appeared on television quite often.
I had won a survival competition on a cooking network two times in a row, and I had once finished as runner-up in a survival show made by a major streaming service that gathered a hundred chefs together.
Thinking about it now, it had been a truly insane program.
They brought together celebrity chefs, hotel executive chefs, hidden masters, young geniuses, and artisans from market alleys, then made them compete in a survival show.
The cameras were pushed right up against the chefs’ faces, the production crew threw out ridiculous missions, and the judges judged people’s lives with a single fork.
I made it all the way to the finals.
I didn’t win, and even now, I occasionally get pissed off when I think about it.
‘Fuck, if I’d only reduced that final sauce a little less.’
Anyway, I received quite a few offers to appear on variety shows after that.
One of them was a program where you opened someone else’s refrigerator and cooked something on the spot with whatever ingredients were inside, and I appeared on it several times as something close to a semi-regular cast member.
Even if the refrigerator contained dried-out green onions, expired yogurt, unidentified side dishes, and frozen chicken breasts, I somehow turned them into a dish.
I stopped appearing after some webtoon artist tore me to shreds like a dog every time I went on, leaving my pride badly wounded.
The first two times, I laughed it off as something that could happen, but by the third time, I was angry, and by the fourth, I was terrified.
‘I still get PTSD whenever I see chili oil…’
Because of that, I learned something.
Flavor alone wasn’t enough. On television, your hands had to be visible.
The knife had to be visible, the fire had to be visible, and your expression had to be visible.
Since viewers couldn’t smell the aroma or taste the food, you had to make them eat with their eyes first.
Today’s audience was the same.
The nobles could eat my cooking, but during the competition, most of them would only watch.
That meant I had to win during the process itself.
“I guess I have to put on a bit of a show today.”
“Does cooking need a show?”
“When there’s an audience, it does.”
“Are you a clown?”
“I have been before.”
Marie stared at me incredulously but didn’t bother answering.
The competition’s theme would be revealed that day.
Count Kleber announced it with an exceptionally pleased expression.
“Today’s theme is forest and fire.”
Forest and fire. Vague, but good.
The forest could be interpreted through mushrooms, herbs, game, and root vegetables.
Fire meant grilling, charring, smoke, and heat.
It was easy for a traditional noble-house chef to approach, and it gave me room to play.
Oldren nodded and immediately got to work.
Just as Viscount Servan had boasted, he was a genuinely skilled chef.
He butchered venison, prepared a rich sauce, sautéed mushrooms in butter, and tied herbs together to draw out their aroma.
He seemed exactly like the sort of chef who had survived for a long time in a noble household: stable, refined, and unlikely to make mistakes.
Then I had to take a different approach.
It would be boring to compete through stability.
I picked up my knife and deliberately moved a little more dramatically.
Normally, I disliked pointless movements in the kitchen, and if someone under me acted like that, I’d call them over and chew them out immediately.
A knife should move in short, precise strokes.
If you lose a finger while striking a pose, you’re an idiot.
But today, the kitchen was a stage.
On a stage, you had to show the kind of knife work that belonged on a stage.
I put the mushrooms down and sliced them quickly, deliberately applying a little more force.
As the tip of my knife struck the cutting board in a steady rhythm, producing five sharp clacks, I saw the nobles lean forward.
‘The sound is working.’
“Is it all right to chop that quickly?”
One of the nobles muttered.
“He hasn’t cut his hand.”
‘Of course not.’
If I did, it would be a broadcasting accident.
Next came the herbs.
I crushed them with the back of my knife, burst their aroma with my palm, then deliberately raised my hand and smelled it.
“Sssniff—”
“Mmm~”
I deliberately made my breathing loud and gave a small nod.
It was something I did normally, too, but today, I made it a little more visible.
It was a trick I’d learned from television.
There were no cameras, but there were gazes, and when there were gazes, they were similar to cameras.
Next, it was time to prepare today’s main ingredient: partridge.
Normally, I would prepare it slowly and roast it quietly.
But today, I had to show the fire.
I scored the skin, rendered out a little fat, and placed it in the pan.
The audience reacted to the sizzling sound.
Cooking normally involved all five senses, but once it became a performance, sound and movement took on greater importance.
I shook the pan to spread the fat around.
The bird’s skin turned golden brown, and the aroma of mushrooms began to rise.
Thomas frantically assisted beside me, while Marie held her breath in tension.
“Thomas, the wok.”
“Pardon?”
“The large pan.”
“Ah, yes!”
This world didn’t have an Earth-style wok, but it did have a large, deep, rounded pan.
I had prepared one in advance.
Oil, finely chopped root vegetables, mushrooms, spices, and meat trimmings.
The theme was forest and fire.
‘Then I have to show the fire itself.’
I heated the pan, coated it thinly with oil, and added the ingredients.
Then I poured in a little liquor and gave the pan a sharp flick of my wrist. Flames shot up in an instant.
An exclamation burst from the hall.
Marie nearly screamed behind me.
“Kyle!”
“It’s fine. I’ve done this plenty of times.”
A fire show was dangerous, but when controlled, it was a useful weapon.
I’d done it several times on television, too.
The production crew loved it, the viewers loved it, and the judges pretended to hate it but remembered it inwardly.
Of course, if you couldn’t control the fire, you just became an idiot who burned down the kitchen.
I gave the pan one large shake.
The flames wrapped around the ingredients, the aroma of liquor burned away, and only the roasted scent remained.
The nobles were completely won over.
They weren’t used to watching fire.
At banquets, the food was already brought out fully prepared, and they had no idea what happened in the back of the kitchen.
But now, they were watching ingredients become a dish after being engulfed in flames right before their eyes.
It must have looked like magic.
In reality, it was cheaper than magic and tasted better.
I saw Count Kleber smiling from the audience.
That man was probably thinking about raising the admission fee even higher.
I placed the mushrooms and root vegetables infused with the aroma of fire into a small bowl.
I sliced the partridge thinly and arranged it on top, then added a little acidity to a sauce made from richly reduced forest-mushroom stock.
Finally, I sprinkled on a very small amount of herb powder lightly charred over coals.
The name of the dish came to me immediately.
‘Wildfire.’
The concept was a mushroom-and-bird dish evoking a wildfire.
Oldren’s dish was textbook perfection.
Roast venison, mushroom sauce, and potatoes and root vegetables infused with the aroma of herbs.
It looked good, smelled good, and tasted reliable.
As Viscount Servan had boasted, Oldren was a genuinely excellent chef, with the seasoned touch of someone who had honed his skills in a noble household for many years.
To be honest, it tasted good, but today wasn’t a place where people judged flavor alone.
The audience had already seen my knife work and flames.
A story had formed before they even tasted the food.
That was the power of a show.
The judging method involved a portion of the audience and invited gourmets tasting both plates and evaluating them.
I watched my plate being carried out and took a deep breath.
Of course I was nervous.
I had felt the same way during the finals of a cooking competition in my previous life.
I had pretended to be calm in front of the cameras, but inwardly, my heart had been pounding like crazy.
A chef was always anxious until the results came out.
No matter how delicious I thought something was, the mouth eating it wasn’t mine.
‘If I’d known that back then, I might have beaten that webtoon artist at least once with my demonic-cult cuisine.’
The first reaction came from the Marchioness Reinfeld.
She tasted my dish and gently closed her eyes.
“I once passed through a forest where a wildfire had broken out. This is exactly what it felt like.”
That description was enough.
The other nobles reacted as well.
“The aroma is strong, but not heavy.”
“Can mushrooms really come alive like this?”
“The bird meat is tender.”
“Is that aroma from the fire we saw earlier?”
The last comment was important.
The process and the flavor had become connected.
The moment the audience felt that the fire they had seen had turned into an aroma in their mouths, they were buying an experience.
Oldren’s plate also received good reviews.
“A refined flavor.”
“It has that same reliable taste we always eat.”
“A traditional flavor. Good.”
Those comments weren’t bad.
But in a competition, being called reliable was sometimes dangerous.
The audience hadn’t paid to watch something merely reliable.
The result was my victory.
It wasn’t a huge difference—I’d simply won by a reasonable margin.
Oldren was skilled, and his plate had been more than good enough.
But in today’s competition, I had edged him out little by little in everything: the theme, the audience, the atmosphere, and the showmanship.
Viscount Servan’s face hardened like stone, but Oldren remained calm.
After hearing the result, he approached me and bowed his head slightly.
“It was a fine dish.”
I immediately bowed my head in return.
“Your dish was good as well.”
“I’ve never seen anyone use fire like that before.”
“It’s a little dangerous.”
“It looked that way.”
“I’m happy to have won, of course, but I’m worried you might suffer some disadvantage because of this, Mr. Oldren.”
“That won’t happen. I’m a man who refused offers from nearby dukes and marquises out of loyalty to House Servan. The viscount knows better than anyone that if he threw me out, he wouldn’t have anyone to cook for him tomorrow.”
He gave a quiet chuckle.
Seeing that smile put me a little at ease.
At least that man was a head chef.
He had been dragged here because of his master’s pride, but he had spoken through his plate and accepted the result.
Viscount Servan had not.
He tried to say something, but the atmosphere had already shifted.
The nobles were talking about my fire show, while Count Kleber was discussing the possibility of another event with the Marchioness Reinfeld.
“It would be a shame to end the cooking competition after just one round.”
Count Kleber said it.
I immediately turned my head.
“Wait a moment.”
He smiled.
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to participate every time.”
“That’s even more frightening.”
“High society wants new forms of entertainment. There are plenty of concerts, readings, and dueling exhibitions, but events where a chef handles fire right before your eyes and you eat the result are rare.”
The Marchioness Reinfeld folded her fan and said,
“Today was truly entertaining. And delicious, too.”
That was dangerous.
A delicious meal could end after one occasion, but an entertaining event could be repeated.
Elysia approached me from the side.
“You won. I thought my heart was going to stop when the flames rose.”
“It was calculated.”
“Really?”
“For the most part.”
“For the most part?”
I didn’t answer.
Elysia looked at me and sighed.
“I knew you’d cause trouble if you came to a social gathering, but I didn’t expect it to be like this.”
“I didn’t know either. I’m sorry.”
Around us, the nobles were already talking about the next cooking competition.
Who would issue the challenge, what the theme would be, and how they could get tickets.
Count Kleber was gathering that momentum as naturally as possible.
Even without a broadcasting station, a broadcast could be created.
Even without cameras, there was an audience, and with an audience, there was a show.
The nobles had come to taste food, gotten excited watching the fire, and I had put my pointless television experience from my previous life to use here.
I never expected that experience to work on nobles at a high-society gathering in another world.
Life was truly strange.
I smelled the charcoal scent lingering on my hands and muttered,
“Fuck, looks like I’m going to be doing variety shows even here.”
Elysia asked,
“What’s a variety show?”
I thought for a moment before answering.
“It’s when other people enjoy watching someone suffer.”
Elysia looked around at the nobles, then nodded.
“Then that’s accurate.”
That was the essence of variety shows, after all.