Chapter 57
Restaurant consulting had been profitable from the start.
The question was who would turn that money into an even larger sum.
“Who else? That money-grubbing bastard.”
A few days after returning from the Servan Viscounty, Count Klever came to see me.
He came to Maison Monbel and thrust a list of candidate restaurants, contracts, and recording equipment at me all at once.
Several small crystal balls glimmered faintly inside a silver box.
I sighed the moment I saw them.
“Haa.”
“No, if all the preparations for making money are complete, why do you look like that?”
“Your Excellency, I’m starting to think I don’t like money quite as much as I thought.”
“Haha, as if.”
Count Klever smiled brightly, as though I had said something utterly absurd.
I looked at Elysia without saying anything.
Elysia was reading the contract when she paused at the section describing the distribution of sales revenue.
“Forty percent of the sales revenue from the recordings goes to Maison Monbel.”
“That’s right.”
“Is Count Klever taking the remaining sixty percent?”
“After deducting the travel expenses, the cost of hiring filming experts, and all other editing and distribution costs, the remainder will be my share.”
“That’s still a lot of money.”
“It is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it.”
He was nothing if not consistent and trustworthy.
This bastard would probably do anything profitable except commit treason.
He probably wouldn’t commit treason either—not out of loyalty, but because the numbers wouldn’t work. Probably.
In the end, I climbed into the carriage fitted with recording equipment.
Marie entrusted Maison Monbel’s hall to Uncle Bernard that day and came along both to observe and assist me.
Technically, she was my assistant, but what I really needed was someone to fill the Jo Bo-ah role.
I said to Marie inside the carriage,
“Don’t eat with us from the beginning today.”
“Why?”
“I’m focusing solely on the food, so you watch the dining room. See how the staff move and listen for what the guests complain about before you come back.”
Marie nodded with a slightly tense expression.
“Got it.”
The first restaurant on our consulting list was not far from Monbel territory.
It was called ‘The Swan Beneath the Crown’ and was located on a street in the southern part of the capital.
From the outside, it looked quite decent. The sign gleamed with gold leaf, and well-kept flowerpots stood in a row by the entrance.
It stood on a broad street where noble carriages could pull up easily, and its windows were large and ornate.
But as soon as I opened the door, the smells of old oil and damp dishcloths rushed at me simultaneously.
Mixed in with them was a strange smell that clearly came from the meat.
I stopped and drew in a very slow breath.
Behind me, one of the crystal balls glowed quietly.
Marie said softly beside me,
“Kyle, the recording caught you making a really bad face.”
“I know.”
The restaurant was eerily quiet.
Even though it was lunchtime, there were only three occupied tables.
An elderly couple sat by the window, while two men who looked like merchants waited for their food by the wall.
There were far more empty tables in the spacious dining hall, while the floor staff moved around as if busy, their faces somehow already looking tired.
I gestured to Marie.
“Go.”
Marie casually made her way toward the back of the dining hall, passing by the other guests as she surveyed the situation.
A short while later, a man who appeared to be the restaurant owner approached us.
He wore a flashy vest that concealed his bulging belly and several gold rings, while his mustache had been groomed with excessive precision.
Everything about him proclaimed that he owned an expensive restaurant.
“You’re Kyle Pratt of Maison Monbel?”
“That’s right.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Berman, the owner and general manager of this establishment. I used to work as a butler for House Lants, but I acquired this place and became its owner and general manager.”
“I see.”
“I’ve taken plenty of inspiration from Maison Monbel’s success. A meal shouldn’t simply fill a guest’s stomach; it should be an experience that gives them a story.”
I accepted the menu and replied,
“If the story comes before the food, that’s a problem.”
Berman’s smile wavered for the briefest moment.
“Of course, the food is excellent as well.”
“Then I’ll have the signature course, please.”
The first page of the menu read:
<The Emperor’s Lost Tears of Dawn>
In tiny letters beneath it was the actual name of the dish: onion soup.
I closed the menu and tilted my head for a moment.
‘Did Emperor Adeline get permission for this?’
Even though Emperor Adeline had visited our restaurant twice, eaten happily, and drained about ten years from my life before leaving, I still hadn’t been allowed to name the 1,000-gold course the Emperor’s Course. If Emperor Adeline had allowed a restaurant like this to use the name for a menu like this, I was ready to quit being a chef.
Otherwise, he had used the emperor’s name without permission. Did this bastard not value his life?
‘Maybe he knows his neck is so damn thick it can’t be cut.’
Just to be sure, I asked,
“Did you get imperial approval for the menu name?”
“Since I didn’t say ‘Emperor Adeline, Your Imperial Majesty,’ wouldn’t it be okay?”
“Bullsh… No, just change it so there’s nothing to hold against you.”
“I’ll change it to The Grand Duke’s Tears.”
If the Grand Duke of the North found out, I wondered whether the Grand Duke would throw this bastard to the bears. But let’s let it go. That’s none of my business.
“Let’s try it first.”
The first thing served was the bread, which looked perfectly fine on the outside.
But when I tore it apart by hand, the inside was damp and stuck together, and a damp smell rose from it that freshly baked bread should never have.
The butter was the same.
When I scraped off some of its yellow, hardened surface with a knife, a faint sour smell pricked my nose.
I set down the bread and looked around.
Marie was talking to one of the floor staff.
The employee initially shook their head, but after seeing Marie’s face, they began to open up little by little with a slack-jawed grin.
‘Does she know how to weaponize her looks, too? Is she really that pretty?’
Meanwhile, the soup arrived.
A thin layer of gold dust had been sprinkled over the soup, and a piece of bread cut into the shape of a swan floated in the center.
I took a spoonful and immediately frowned.
I considered spitting it out, but I didn’t want to pick a fight, so I swallowed it for now.
The onions hadn’t been sautéed enough, leaving a bitter taste behind.
The stock was far too salty, and an unnatural sweetness rose afterward, as if sugar had been added to hide the salt.
Above all, the stale, heavy odor peculiar to stock that had cooled once and been boiled again clung to my tongue.
I set down my spoon.
Berman waited for my reaction with an expectant expression.
“How is it?”
“When did you make this soup?”
“This morning.”
“Precisely what time?”
He hesitated for a moment.
“Is that so important?”
“It is.”
“We must have started preparing it at dawn. Our head chef is a diligent man.”
“You didn’t see it yourself?”
“I don’t personally check every task in the kitchen.”
I looked down at the soup again.
“This soup wasn’t made this morning.”
Berman’s expression hardened.
“What do you mean?”
“This stock was cooled and boiled again at least once. The onions don’t taste as if they were sautéed today, either. The flavor of something simmered for a long time is different from the flavor of something left sitting for a long time.”
“Aren’t you being too sensitive, Mr. Pratt? Many restaurants use stock that has been aged for a long time to create a deeper flavor.”
I looked up at him.
“Aging and leaving something sitting are different, Mr. Berman.”
He fell silent.
That was when Marie turned toward me.
She looked displeased.
When she came closer, I quietly asked,
“Did you hear anything?”
“Yeah. Apparently, the staff here can barely apologize to the guests.”
“Why?”
“They were told that if food came out late or wrong, the owner must not apologize first because it would lower the restaurant’s standing. If guests complained, they were supposed to recite that waiting was part of the experience of fine dining.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
“What about the guests?”
“The couple by the window waited nearly an hour. They complained that the fish was undercooked, but the floor staff told them that was the intended texture.”
The moment she finished speaking, the fish finally arrived.
Blue sauce flowed over the white-fleshed fish, while flower petals and gold dust were scattered around the edge of the plate.
In the center was a small, lit scented candle.
I stared at the candle for a long time.
“Why did you put this candle here?”
“It’s a sensory experience through scent. The guests need to feel a special memory before they even eat the food.”
“Did you use the candle to cover up the smell of the fish?”
“No. It’s for the atmosphere.”
I cut into the fish with my fork.
The center was cold and firm.
Calling it merely undercooked would have been too generous; the inside was chilled as though it had just come out of a refrigerator.
I quietly set down my fork and called to Marie, who was standing on the other side of the dining hall.
“Jo-Marie, come on down here.”
It was time to put my pretty garbage disposal to work.