Chapter 36
Seeing someone kneeling in front of the mansion's main gate, I initially thought they were people who hadn't managed to get reservations.
Even these days, the occasional unhinged servant loiters around the mansion before Uncle Bernard sends them away with dignity.
Despite laying down a rule that they had to go down to the village, there were always idiots who believed they would be the exception.
But this time was a little different.
The people kneeling weren't servants.
One man wore an apron, another carried an old bag with a knife sheath stuck in it, and a young woman had burn marks all over her hands.
All three were dressed shabbily, but there was something strangely desperate in their eyes.
The gatekeeper said with a troubled expression,
“Chef, they keep asking to be allowed to work in the kitchen…”
“What?”
When I asked again, the man in the apron bowed until his forehead nearly touched the ground.
“Please hire me!”
The man beside him immediately shouted.
“I'll work without pay!”
The last woman spoke a little later.
“I can't work for free, but I can do the job well.”
The third person at least had some grasp of reality.
Marie muttered quietly behind me,
“I've never seen anyone kneel out front before. Maison Monbel must have gotten really famous.”
“I didn't want to confirm it like this.”
I helped the three of them to their feet.
“Before we discuss hiring, I should point out that Maison Monbel properly pays even apprentice chefs.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If you're going to make someone work, it's only right to pay them, and people take responsibility for their work when they're paid.”
In my previous life, I paid the young rookies working in my kitchen more than minimum wage, too.
It was an industry rife with exploitation in the name of passion, and I'd suffered some of it myself, but at least the person I called my master never treated people that way.
As someone who claimed to be that person's disciple, I at least made sure people were paid properly and on time.
“Where are you from?”
The man in the apron spoke first.
“I worked in the kitchen of an inn near the capital. I heard Maison Monbel's chef had handled fire in front of nobles, so I came.”
The second man said,
“I worked at a restaurant run by a southern merchant guild. When I heard you prepared live sea fish right before people's eyes, I couldn't just sit still.”
The last woman said briefly,
“I worked in the kitchen of an inn in Monbel Village. People said there was a lot to learn here, so I came.”
I was silent for a moment.
A kitchen that chefs seek out because they want to work there is a kitchen that's being managed and run extremely well.
It had been the same in my previous life.
Once a restaurant had found its footing and its name became known, résumés started coming in.
At first, people with vague or questionable experience; then people who had seen us on television; and eventually, people who genuinely wanted to learn.
Half came chasing an illusion, and half couldn't hold out and left.
Still, the fact that people came mattered.
A kitchen ultimately runs on people.
The problem was that today was my day off.
And Count Kleber was supposed to come today.
There was a discussion about the village hotel business, followed by what he had called a simple meal.
You couldn't take the words “simple meal” at face value when nobles said them.
Even a simple meal meant the kitchen had to move.
I pressed a hand to my forehead.
“Come inside for now.”
Marie asked in surprise,
“You're taking all of them?”
“I'm taking only one. I'll test them and choose whoever's best.”
The expressions on the three people's faces changed.
I took them to the kitchen and had them wash their hands.
You can get a rough idea just by watching someone wash their hands: the guy who barely wets them, the one who checks under his nails, and the one who checks his hands again before picking up a knife.
In a kitchen, hands are more honest than a résumé.
The first man was quick, but missed the dirt beneath his nails.
The second man's hand-washing was far too brief.
The woman silently used soap twice.
I made a mental note.
“I'll have you make something simple.”
Marie whispered beside me,
“You're going to say it's simple and then give them something that isn't, right?”
“I'll give them something simple by my standards.”
“So you're going to give them something difficult.”
First, vegetable prep.
I watched to see whether they cut everything to the same size.
The first man was quick, but his cuts were uneven.
The second man cared about the shape, but was far too slow.
The woman wasn't fast, but she was consistent.
Next came making a soft scramble with eggs.
The first man's heat was too high.
The second man skimped on butter.
The woman knew how to wait before the fire.
Last, I had them make one plate of staff food from the remaining ingredients.
The first two tasks had been warm-ups. This was the real test.
A chef's true limits show when making something edible out of awkward leftover ingredients, more than when making something with expensive ingredients.
You can learn and imitate a plate for noble guests, but staff meals reveal genuine, unadulterated skill.
The first man made a stir-fry.
The aroma was good, but the seasoning was too strong.
The second man made soup.
There was effort in it, but it was boring.
The woman finely chopped meat scraps and vegetables, then pan-fried them into something like a thick jeon.
The outside was crisp and the inside moist, and she topped it with finely chopped sour pickled vegetables as an accompaniment.
The moment I tasted it, the winner was decided.
“What's your name?”
“Nina.”
“Nina.”
“Yes.”
“Start tomorrow.”
The faces of the man in the apron and the man with the knife bag fell.
I immediately continued,
“The two of you can't start in Maison Monbel's kitchen just yet.”
They lowered their heads.
“But the village hotel needs kitchen staff. It's an establishment Count Kleber is preparing to operate. If you work properly there, we can take another look at you later.”
The expressions on their faces changed slightly.
They hadn't been rejected outright; another path had opened.
Marie said quietly beside me,
“You almost seem like a good person today.”
“I'm sending them because we're short-staffed. And if the hotel's food improves, our guests will be less disappointed, too.”
Then I heard applause.
When I turned around, Count Kleber was standing at the kitchen entrance.
I had no idea when he had arrived.
Uncle Bernard was beside him.
“……”
Seeing Uncle Bernard's expression, which looked like he had a lot to say, I could tell he'd tried and failed to stop him.
Count Kleber had an intensely interested look on his face.
The face of a greedy businessman who had caught the scent of money.
It was the expression this money-mad bastard always wore whenever he saw me.
“Count. How long have you been watching?”
“Since the hand-washing.”
“Isn't that practically the beginning?”
“Indeed. It was entertaining.”
“You should have said you'd arrived.”
“If I had, I wouldn't have been able to enjoy this amusing sight properly.”
I immediately grew wary at those words.
Whenever Count Kleber said something was entertaining, someone usually ended up paying.
“There's nothing entertaining about it. It's a hiring test.”
“That's precisely why it's entertaining.”
He looked around the kitchen.
“Chefs who came here on a whim because they want to work at Maison Monbel. The head chef tests them, chooses one, and sends the others to different kitchens. Isn't that wonderful?”
“What's so wonderful about it?”
“As a performance.”
I was speechless for a moment.
“Count, wasn't one cooking competition enough for you?”
“That was a competition. This is growth and selection.”
It was genuinely insane.
Yet strangely, I could see the structure.
Applicants come.
You give them a theme, have them cook, and evaluate the results.
One person is chosen, while the eliminated contestants aren't discarded entirely but are connected with hotels or other kitchens.
The nobles watch the process.
They watch to see who has talent, who breaks down, and who has guts.
A cooking survival show from my previous life came to mind.
Survival-show viewers couldn't eat the food, so instead they consumed who made it, how they won, where they cried, and who they fought.
Cooking survival didn't sell flavor; it sold stories and people.
“What are you planning to do?”
When I asked, Count Kleber's eyes lit up.
“I'm thinking of recording it and selling it.”
“Pardon?”
“We have magitech equipment. Recording devices used in the capital's theaters and by some academic societies. They can capture images and sound for a set period, then display them again through a magic stone. They aren't common yet, but nobles pay for novelty.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
So this world had something like cameras, too.
‘Fuck, I'm screwed.’
“You want to record the process of hiring chefs with that?”
“More precisely, we'll turn it into a selection competition.”
Count Kleber already looked as though he were selling tickets in his head.
“A selection of rookie chefs personally judged by Maison Monbel's head chef. A limited audience can watch live, and the recording can be screened at social gatherings or salons. We might even attract sponsors. The Rosenhart family will likely be interested. It would let them promote their ingredient supplies.”
“Good heavens.”
Nina and the other two chefs couldn't follow the conversation properly.
People who moments ago were taking an employment test were now becoming material for a content business.
Count Kleber took a step toward me.
“Kyle Pratt, this isn't bad for you, either. Wouldn't it be good if lots of talented chefs came looking for you?”
That was true.
Maison Monbel was expanding now.
We constantly needed people, but we couldn't let just anyone in.
A kitchen could be ruined the moment one wrong person entered it.
If we gathered people through a selection competition, at least the number of applicants would increase.
Some of them might genuinely be useful.
If we sent the eliminated contestants to hotels or village restaurants, the quality of food throughout the region would rise.
Then the guests who came to Maison Monbel would also eat better food in the village, improving their overall experience.
The structure wasn't bad, and as the count had said, it was entertaining, too.
“It would be entertaining.”
As soon as I said that, Count Kleber smiled.
“But you mustn't turn the kitchen into a toy. This concerns the applicants' lives, and the food still needs to be done properly.”
“Of course.”
“Whether it's filming or recording, we'll stop immediately if the equipment gets in the way of the kitchen's workflow.”
“I accept that condition as well.”
“I'll set the evaluation criteria.”
“Naturally.”
He's accepting everything far too readily.
That means the scent of money must already be overwhelming.
I folded my arms and thought it over.
In my previous life, when I appeared on television, those bastards at the network turned my kitchen upside down.
This time, I could set the rules.
At least then, I wouldn't have to force the applicants to squeeze out pointless tears.
Count Kleber said gently,
“I'll handle the production, equipment, audience selection, and screening arrangements. You just evaluate the chefs.”
“That's the hardest part.”
“That's precisely what makes you valuable.”
This bastard always manages to say things in the most irritating way.
“All right.”
Count Kleber's smile deepened.
“Does that mean you agree?”
“Let's try it as an experiment first. Keep it small.”
“Of course. We should start small.”
I didn't believe that.
When someone who smelled money said “small,” it generally grew quickly.
“Then we'll need to expand the kitchen, too.”
Marie’s eyes widened.
“Tear it all up again?”
“Once more people come in, the kitchen will get too small again.”
Uncle Bernard let out a very quiet groan.
Count Kleber laughed cheerfully.
“Excellent. The word ‘expansion’ is always a pleasant one. Then how about this? I'll cover the costs required for the expansion. In return, grant me exclusive rights to record, edit, and distribute this production.”
“This sounds like something I should discuss with my lady, not decide myself.”
“Of course. It would be impossible without Miss Monbel's consent.”
After hearing the conditions, Elysia agreed to them.
It was the moment the first survival variety show in a romance-fantasy world was born.