Chapter 58
At my words, Marie’s expression stiffened slightly.
She already knew what I meant by that.
It was something I said whenever I messed something up and called her over to use her as a garbage disposal; every time, she came, complained, and ate it all anyway.
‘Fuck, is that why she’s putting on weight? She looks prettier with a little meat on her bones than when she’s all skin and bones.’
Marie made her way through the guests to stand in front of my table.
Berman watched with an uncomfortable look.
“Is it really necessary to have an employee taste it too?”
I didn’t answer him and held the plate out to Marie.
“Try this.”
Marie looked at the plate for a moment.
“Is it fish?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are there scented candles?”
“I asked that too.”
Marie cautiously tore off a bit of fish and put it in her mouth.
After chewing once or twice, her face stiffened.
After hesitating over whether to spit it out, Marie finally squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed the food in her mouth, and drank some water.
“It’s way too fishy. The sauce is sweet, which makes it even stranger, and the inside of the fish is cold.”
Berman laughed immediately.
“It seems Miss Marie isn’t accustomed to such refined cuisine yet. There is a technique of leaving the center slightly undercooked to preserve the fish’s texture.”
The instant he said that, something inside me snapped.
It was true that Marie was a commoner without a family name, and I knew she was there to serve high-end meals, not enjoy them, but she was still someone who made a living on the food I cooked.
Telling someone like her that she didn’t know good food was an insult to me.
I slowly raised my head.
“What did you just say?”
Berman still had an awkward smile plastered across his face.
“No, what I meant was… You’re still young as an employee at Maison Monbel, so I meant that such a delicate cooking method might be unfamiliar to you.”
I got to my feet.
The restaurant fell silent.
The crystal orb turned toward me.
“No, fuck this.”
My voice wasn’t loud.
If anything, it was so low that it carried clearly throughout the hall, which had grown even quieter.
“How can you say that in front of a customer?”
Berman’s face stiffened.
“You’re being rather crude.”
“Crude?”
I pointed at the plate of fish.
“The center of this fish is ice-cold. You covered up the fishiness with scented candles, covered up the sauce with sugar, and told anyone who found it tasteless that they lacked a palate.”
Berman opened his mouth.
I raised a palm to stop him.
“Don’t say anything. I’m still trying to put this as nicely as possible.”
He closed his mouth.
I called over one of the hall staff.
“Excuse me, could you come over here for a moment?”
The young employee approached with a stiff face.
“Y-yes.”
“What do you usually say when a customer tells you the food is undercooked?”
The employee glanced at Berman.
“Well…”
“It’s all right. I’m the one asking.”
After hesitating for a long time, they said in a small voice,
“I was taught to explain to customers that aristocratic-style fish dishes are sometimes eaten that way.”
“Who told you to say that?”
In the end, the employee looked at Berman.
At that moment, I nodded.
“I see.”
This time, I approached the elderly couple sitting by the window.
“Excuse me. I’m the person advising this restaurant today. May I ask you something?”
The old woman hesitated a little before nodding.
“How long ago did you place your order?”
“Nearly an hour. I was going to leave, but my husband said we’d already made a reservation, so we should wait.”
“How was the food?”
The old woman looked at her husband.
Her husband hesitated for a long time before sighing.
“The meat was tough. And the sauce was far too salty.”
“Did you say something?”
“The employee told us that aristocratic-style lamb is meant to have a strong flavor.”
I briefly closed my eyes.
Then I looked at Berman again.
“Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Berman looked flustered.
“Now?”
“Yes. Let’s go now.”
“There are still other dishes left, and if you behave this way in front of the customers, the restaurant’s image…”
“The restaurant’s image?”
I stared straight at him.
“The customers have been waiting for an hour and are being served garbage, and you’re worried about the restaurant’s image?”
When he tried to say something again, I spoke even louder.
“Let’s go to the kitchen. Before we waste any more time.”
The moment I opened the kitchen door, the restaurant’s true face was exposed.
In the dining hall, scented candles and flowers had more or less covered everything up, but in the kitchen, the stench of rot they had masked hit my nose.
Oil and water had pooled on the floor, and the sink was piled high with dishes still crusted with food.
Blood had dried beneath the cutting board.
When I opened the refrigerator, unlabeled containers were crammed inside as if they were about to spill out.
Discolored cream, sauce with its lid left open, potatoes no one knew when had been boiled, and meat sitting in pooled blood.
And on the lowest shelf was fish saturated with a powerful fishy smell.
I shut the refrigerator door.
Then I opened it again.
I wondered if I had seen it wrong.
I hadn’t.
I turned toward Berman.
“What is this?”
His lips moved briefly.
“Ingredients.”
“Ingredients?”
I pointed inside the refrigerator.
“Do these look like ingredients to you?”
“They can still be used. Ingredients aren’t cheap, so isn’t it only natural to use what’s left?”
At that, I slammed the refrigerator door shut.
A heavy thud echoed throughout the kitchen.
“Make use of them?”
I took a step toward Berman.
“You call serving this to customers ‘making use of it’?”
“Mr. Pratt, calm down.”
“Calm down?”
This time, my voice truly exploded.
“Fuck, is this a kitchen? It’s a morgue!”
The entire kitchen froze.
Neither the head chef, the dishwashing employee, nor Marie, who had followed us in from the hall, could move.
I didn’t stop.
“This fish could have died days ago for all we know, there’s a fucking rotten smell coming from the cream, blood from the meat has pooled on the floor, and you served this to customers?”
Berman’s face reddened.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Then eat it.”
I took the container of fish from the bottom of the refrigerator and set it down in front of him.
“Eat it. You said it can still be used.”
“I’m not in a situation to eat right now…”
“Then why are your customers eating what even you, the owner, won’t eat?”
Berman couldn’t say anything.
I picked up the knife lying on the worktable.
When I lightly pressed the blade with my thumb, the completely dull edge merely pressed against my skin.
“When was this knife last sharpened?”
The head chef cautiously spoke up.
“More than a month ago.”
“Why? A knife this dull should have just been replaced. Didn’t anyone say so?”
“The owner said buying a new knife when this one could still be used would be wasteful…”
Berman shouted immediately.
“Don’t say pointless things!”
“Shut your mouth.”
Berman froze.
“What did you say?”
“Keep your mouth shut. Don’t say a word until I ask you something.”
Berman could no longer argue back.
I asked the head chef,
“What’s your name?”
“Luca.”
“Mr. Luca. What was this restaurant’s best-selling dish originally?”
The head chef hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Lamb stew.”
“Why don’t you make it now?”
“You said an aristocratic restaurant shouldn’t sell such ordinary food…”
I glared at Berman.
He couldn’t say anything.
“So, to summarize what you’ve done…”
I spoke in a very low voice.
“You threw out the food customers liked, sprinkled gold dust on tasteless dishes, put scented candles beside them, and made the staff tell customers who complained that they lacked a palate.”
Berman’s eyes wavered.
“I only wanted to make the restaurant more high-end.”
“High-end?”
I nearly laughed.
“High-end doesn’t mean pretending to be expensive. It means knowing how to make the food your customers eat properly.”
He lowered his head.
I looked around the kitchen.
Exhausted staff, rotting ingredients, dried blood on the floor, and knives that hadn’t been properly sharpened.
And an owner who had blamed every problem on the staff and customers.
“This restaurant is closing for three days, starting now.”
Berman’s head shot up.
“No. Do you know how much of a loss that would be?”
“You don’t have any customers now anyway.”
“But if we suspend business…”
“Then keep doing things this way.”
I said coldly,
“You can sit back and watch to see whether customers get sick after eating the food, the staff runs away first, or word gets out and the restaurant goes completely under.”
He couldn’t say anything.
“For the next three days, throw out every unlabeled container in the refrigerator. Dispose of all spoiled ingredients. Scrub the kitchen starting with the floor, sharpen every knife, and cut down the menu.”
“Then it won’t be a high-end restaurant anymore.”
I looked at Berman with contempt.
“It isn’t a high-end restaurant now.”
A brief silence passed.
I added one last thing.
“And never put scented candles beside the food again. If I see them there next time, I’ll make you eat them instead of a meal.”
For three days, The Swan Beneath the Crown was completely turned upside down.
More than half the ingredients in the refrigerator were thrown away.
The unlabeled containers were discarded without room for excuses, and the encrusted pots and dirty cutting boards were replaced as needed.
Only after the kitchen floor and drains had been cleaned did the old grease smell gradually begin to disappear.
At first, Berman kept muttering that throwing away the ingredients was a waste.
Then I held up a container of spoiled cream and asked,
“Are you going to eat this?”
He fell silent after that.
The menu was reduced to warm bread and freshly made butter, properly simmered lamb stew, mashed potatoes, and apple tart.
Berman stared at the new menu for a long time before saying,
“Isn’t this too ordinary?”
“Are you ashamed of ordinary food?”
He remained silent for a long time.
“No.”
“Then make it properly.”
When I said this through clenched teeth, Berman could only lower his head without saying anything.
This entire spectacle was captured beautifully on the crystal orb.