Chapter 40
The Imperial Newspaper article came out three days later.
It used the exact words Leon had said when he left as its title.
<The Hands Behind the Plates>
I nodded when I saw the title.
“Not bad.”
Marie nodded beside me, too.
“He used those exact words. They were pretty good for a title.”
The article was better than I expected.
Leon Verck didn't lapse into pointless sentimentality.
Nor did he dress Maison Monbel up as some sacred temple of fine dining or simply hype me up as a genius head chef.
Instead, he calmly described what he had done over the course of the day.
Entering through the back door before sunrise, shedding tears while peeling onions, and getting scolded while peeling potatoes.
The endless stream of pots and dishes during preparations for the Kitchen Table at lunch.
How, while the marquis's course was being served elegantly at dinner, the waterlogged hands behind the scenes kept moving.
And at the end, there was a sentence like this.
[Maison Monbel's prices aren't simply for the meat and sauce on the plate. They include the time, labor, and tension of the unseen hands striving not to make a mistake.]
I read that sentence three times.
“He wrote it well.”
I meant it.
Elysia looked over the newspaper and said,
“That reporter's onion peeling paid off.”
“It certainly did.”
“Should we call him back and have him peel potatoes, too?”
“Excellent idea, my lady. I agreed yesterday, and so did Marie.”
The CEO, head chef, and front-of-house manager had all agreed on the matter.
Soon, we'd have to snag another reporter under the pretext of an interview and work him just as hard.
Just as Elysia and I were snickering and checking whether reporting requests from other media outlets would come in, Uncle Bernard appeared out of nowhere and stopped us with polite but firm insistence.
“It's not right to work reporters for free. It might be fun, but please don't.”
As expected, he was Maison Monbel's sole conscience and restraint.
Regretfully, we gave up our plan to recruit an unpaid grunt.
The article spread faster than expected.
The Imperial Newspaper was mainly read directly by nobles, officials, and members of merchant guilds, but its contents soon made their way down to the village.
At taverns, literate patrons read the article aloud, while at inns, servants waiting for reservations passed its contents on to their masters.
At first, there were people who said Maison Monbel was simply too expensive.
How could one meal cost 150 gold? Wasn't the 100-gold Kitchen Table ultimately just commoners' food? Wasn't charging 600 gold for raw fish a scam?
Was it really right for nobles to enjoy absurdly expensive banquets while commoners sometimes went hungry because they had nothing to eat or had to eat utter garbage?
Honestly, they had a fucking point.
Especially charging 600 gold for raw fish was the kind of price that would make even the scammers at Sorae Port give a standing ovation and ask for the trade secrets.
But after the article came out, such comments became less common.
They didn't disappear entirely.
The more money you charge, the more curses follow, and there's no way to eliminate them.
But at least people could no longer dismiss Maison Monbel's prices as nothing but a scam.
Because the article had shown that before a single plate went out, someone had to peel onions, wash potatoes, do the dishes, prep ingredients, and stand before the fire.
Good publicity doesn't make excuses. It simply changes the angle from which people look.
Elysia folded the newspaper and said,
“It's a good article. Thanks to it, there are fewer complaints.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“And there's even more interest now.”
That wasn't good news.
Maison Monbel was already noisy enough.
But once the article was published, a new kind of inquiry began coming in.
Not just meal reservations, but requests to see the kitchen, offers to sponsor the chef selection competition, and even letters from nobles who had read the piece about staff meals and wanted to try the Kitchen Table.
One noble even asked whether they could eat a dish made with the onions the reporter had peeled.
“That's not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because we ate all the onions he peeled that day…?”
“Hmm. So there are people who attach meaning to the ingredients themselves… In that case?”
Elysia nodded, then suddenly raised one corner of her lips and gave an evil smile.
It was such a similar smile that I would have believed Count Kleber had bashed Elysia's head in and taken over her body.
My body refused to recognize it as Elysia, but unfortunately, my soul was screaming that it really was that crazy bitch.
I was wondering whether to call this symptom the money-fever virus or Kleber syndrome when Elysia's words suddenly snapped me back to reality.
“Kyle, I have an idea.”
“Go ahead, my lady.”
“What if we bundled a one-day kitchen experience course with a meal and sold it? Maybe 250 gold, including a Kitchen Table meal. We'd have them work all morning from sunrise, then let them eat around one in the afternoon.”
“My lady, where in the world would you find an idiot willing to pay to come work? What noble would reserve that?”
“Want to bet? If no one reserves it, I'll grant you one wish. If I win, you peel a whole box of onions by yourself.”
At least according to my common sense, there was no idiot in this world who would pay money—not receive it—to come work in a kitchen.
Even if this was a romance-fantasy world that didn't give a single goddamn fuck about worldbuilding, logic, or plausibility.
But for a moment, I'd forgotten that there were always people in this world who were far removed from logic and reason.
Astonishingly, there were several crazy bastards who really wanted to do it.
“See? I was right, wasn't I? Baron Pye and Baron Nova said they'd do it.”
Elysia cackled as she teased me over the reservation letters, while I stubbornly argued because I didn't want to lose.
“They could be prank letters. They might no-show on the day.”
“The deposit came with them, though. Would you pay 250 gold and not show up? I'm telling you, they're definitely coming.”
The following week, at the crack of dawn on the day of the reservation, a carriage carrying the two crazy bastards came racing toward us from a distance.
I came out rubbing the sleep from my eyes, but seeing it drove it all away, and Elysia cackled as she looked at me.
The two barons got out with solemn expressions and firmly shook Elysia's hand.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to Maison Monbel.”
“Miss Monbel, is it true that the Kitchen Table can be imbued with both nobility and meaning, and still be enjoyed as a truly delicious meal?”
“Of course. This is Chef Kyle Pratt, who will be showing you around the kitchen this morning.”
“Ah, so this is the famous Kyle Pratt. A pleasure!”
“…A pleasure.”
I bowed to the two nobles, then glared at Elysia with a look half fury and half disbelief.
‘For fuck's sake, now you're selling one-day job experiences, too? You really are relentless.’
I made the two barons do all sorts of tasks, from peeling onions and paring potatoes to washing herbs.
Of course, unlike when I worked the reporter like a dog, I'd taken some precautions in advance.
I'd prepared gloves, had them peel the onions underwater so their eyes would sting as little as possible, and didn't curse them out for hacking the potatoes into huge chunks.
And most importantly, I guided their hands from behind and gave them a fire-show experience.
The two of them were wildly excited.
“Oh-ho!”
“So this is the flame! Are you using magic?”
“No. The key is exquisite control of your wrist strength and knowing how to modulate it through years of experience.”
I worked their bodies just hard enough to tire them out over several hours, while keeping their minds entertained with plenty of fun.
Even while exhausted, the two men kept laughing, and at the end, I served them a meal made from the ingredients they had personally prepared and trimmed.
The two nobles left after finishing their meal in tears, saying they had never known food could be this delicious. As soon as they were gone, Elysia wiped the customer-service smile off her face, waved the gold coins at me, and rubbed it in.
“Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!”
“……”
“A promise is a promise, Kyle, right? Peel a whole box of onions by yourself after dinner service. Who was assigned to it today?”
“I was.”
Baron tried his best to control his expression, but he couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from rising.
Seeing that, I gritted my teeth and laid into Baron.
“Baron.”
“Yes, yes! Chef!”
“Control your expression…”
“Yes, sir!”
That day's course ended smoothly, too.
Normally, I had planned to finish organizing the ingredients, leave the remaining work to the rookies, and clock out, but when I saw the kitchen newbies grinning as they clocked out before me, I ground my teeth. Still, a man can't take back his word once he's given it.
In the end, I had to peel a whole box of onions by myself, weeping tears of blood.
“Fuck…”