Chapter 69
I went downtown to check on One Bowl.
The restaurant was doing so well that it made me uneasy.
A restaurant has problems when business is bad, of course, but doing too well can also be a problem.
If customers suddenly flood in, the kitchen falls apart, and when the kitchen falls apart, the quality starts to waver.
If the quality starts to waver, customers may put up with it at first, but eventually they leave.
I had seen plenty of restaurants like that in my previous life too.
After a single television appearance, a long line would form; three months later, people would start saying the taste had changed, and six months later, the verdict would be that it wasn’t like it used to be.
So I often went to One Bowl to check on it.
Pretending to be a customer.
Marie had told me several times that I was the only one who thought I still hadn’t been found out, but regardless, keeping up the pretense was important.
That day too, I pulled my hat low and sat in a corner, checking the broth.
The spicy broth’s aroma was as consistent as ever.
The clear meat broth wasn’t bad either.
The staff had gotten faster at handling extra meat orders, and we’d switched the takeout broth to a separate small pot so the strength of the main pot wouldn’t fluctuate.
It was fine.
The problem was that the moment I thought things were fine, a new problem would walk through the door.
The restaurant door opened, and a man entered.
His clothes were ordinary.
He wore a worn coat that made him look like a traveler, and his forearms were permanently dusted with flour.
His hands were thick, but his fingertips looked deft.
They were the hands of a cook who had spent a long time handling dough.
He looked around the restaurant, then cautiously asked a staff member near the register.
“Are you perhaps hiring someone here? I’m a noodle maker. I made noodles in my hometown, and I’ve come all this way looking for work.”
I set down my spoon.
Countless noodle dishes from my previous life came to mind.
Kalguksu, janchi-guksu, bibim-guksu, naengmyeon, ramen, jjamppong, things resembling udon.
Of course, I couldn’t reproduce them exactly with the ingredients of this world.
But the moment noodles entered the restaurant, its horizons would expand dramatically.
Broth and noodles went together incredibly well.
I stood up.
The employee looked at me in surprise, and the man turned to look at me too.
“You make noodles?”
The man didn’t seem to realize who I was.
“Yes. I can make noodles by mixing flour and grain. I also know how to let dough rest, and I can make both thinly rolled noodles and thick-cut noodles. It’s just that there are already so many bakeries in this city, and it’s been difficult to find a place where I can put my skills to use…”
“Come into the kitchen.”
The man blinked.
“Pardon?”
“Let’s see you make noodles.”
Only then did the employee hurriedly say,
“This is Chef Kyle Prat.”
The man bowed at the waist almost reflexively.
I took him to One Bowl’s kitchen.
His name was Viro.
He said he was from a small city between the west and the south.
He said that there, people had a custom of boiling long, hand-pulled noodles during festivals and eating them in meat broth.
Normally they ate more bread, but the artisans had preserved a separate tradition of making noodles.
I had him make dough immediately.
Viro carefully measured the water and salt.
He judged the dough’s condition with his fingertips, then rolled it out, folded it, and rolled it again.
The noodles were on the rustic side, more like kalguksu from my previous life.
They were different from the thin, smooth strands of naengmyeon, but sturdy enough to stand up to broth.
I put the boiled noodles into clear meat broth.
Not bad.
I put them into the spicy broth too.
Good.
The spicy version was especially good.
The noodles soaked up the broth, bringing the spicy aroma and meaty flavor into my mouth together.
It was a completely different satisfaction from dipping bread into the broth.
I took another mouthful and said,
“You’re hired.”
Viro froze.
“Really?”
“Yes. But the noodles we make here will be very different from what you know. We’ll have to adjust the noodle thickness to match the broth and standardize the cooking time. When customers flood in, we won’t have time to make each bowl like a work of art.”
Viro immediately bowed his head.
“I’ll learn. If it involves making noodles, I’ll do anything.”
Good. He had the right attitude, too.
And just like that, noodle dishes were added to One Bowl’s menu.
At first, there were two: clear meat noodles and spicy meat noodles.
The customers’ response was faster than expected.
Carriage drivers and porters especially liked them.
They were easier to eat than bread and kept them full longer.
It would have been nice if it had ended there, but one day I went to check on the restaurant and got myself into trouble.
I was in a good mood that day.
The restaurant was running well, Viro was useful, and the noodles were getting a decent response.
Normally, I tended to crave spicy food when I was stressed.
It had been the same in my previous life too.
When a TV shoot went wrong, a customer made an absurd demand, or the person in charge of meal kits changed the sauce’s consistency on a whim, I’d go home from work and eat something insanely spicy.
But strangely, even though I was in a good mood that day, I craved something spicy.
It was probably because seeing the noodles had brought too many memories of my previous life rushing back.
I said to Viro,
“Make one for me. Use the spicy broth, and triple the spicy seasoning.”
Marie immediately spoke from beside me.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“You always regret it when you say things like that.”
“I’ll be fine today.”
“You say that every time too.”
I ignored her.
A short while later, an intensely red bowl of noodles appeared, terrifying just to look at.
The moment the aroma hit me, my nose reacted first.
Two employees stepped back, and even Viro, who had made it himself, looked uneasy.
I picked up my chopsticks, pretending I was fine.
The first bite was fine.
The second was, well, a little dangerous.
By the third, I was looking for water.
But a chef couldn’t drink water right then without losing face.
I didn’t know why I had such pointless pride, but it was already too late.
I scooped up a spoonful of broth.
And immediately started choking and coughing.
“Kyle!”
Marie came running over with water.
I shoved the water into my mouth, but tears still sprang to my eyes.
Viro had gone pale.
“Chef, I’m sorry. I used too much seasoning…”
“No. I ordered it.”
“Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not.”
Marie patted my back and said,
“I told you not to.”
“It tastes good.”
“Is that what matters right now?”
It mattered.
It was insanely spicy, but it tasted good.
The fat in the meat broth and the MSG complemented the spices, and the noodles had absorbed the broth properly.
My mouth hurt and sweat beaded on my forehead, but I didn’t want to put down my chopsticks.
In the end, I ate it all.
Even the broth.
I couldn’t speak for a while afterward.
The problem was that the customers had seen the whole thing.
The bigger problem was that one of those customers was a carriage driver.
The rumor began spreading that very evening.
They said One Bowl had a hellishly spicy bowl of noodles that made Kyle Prat choke and cough.
They said you were a real man if you finished it, broth and all.
I don’t know who started it.
But from the next day on, men crowded outside the restaurant.
Carriage drivers, mercenaries, young knights, merchant guards, even the second sons of noble families who had snuck out.
They all had the same strange look in their eyes.
It wasn’t the look hungry men wore, but the look of men who had come to prove something.
“Do you have those spicy noodles?”
That was what the first customer asked.
The employee looked at me in confusion.
I was silent for a moment.
Could I sell this?
Then I thought,
‘Of course I should. The customers want it.’
But I couldn’t just sell it as-is.
I gave it a name.
<Manly Man Noodles>
Marie stared at me for a while when she heard the name.
“Are you serious?”
“They’re already coming in with that kind of attitude.”
“What’s a manly man?”
“Someone who cries because it’s spicy but pretends he isn’t crying.”
“Then that’s you.”
“Be quiet.”
We decided to charge a high price for the Manly Man Noodles.
There were several reasons. They used a lot of spices, the broth had to be extra rich, and we had to discourage people from ordering it as a joke and leaving it unfinished.
But there was another, more important reason.
It had to be expensive for it to feel like a challenge.
But we also set a condition.
Finish an entire bowl, and it’s free.
Every noodle, piece of meat, and drop of broth.
If you left anything, you paid the full price.
Once we posted this policy, even more men came flocking in.
Men sometimes stake their pride on the most absurd things.
There had been spicy food challenges, giant pork cutlet challenges, and extra-large naengmyeon challenges in my previous life too.
If they failed, they paid; if they succeeded, their picture went on display, and people laughed as they looked at it.
This world was no different.
There were no successful challengers on the first day.
On the second day, a mercenary from the north succeeded.
After drinking the last drop of broth, he stood up from his chair with a bright-red face and shouted,
“This is nothing. Compared to northern winters, it’s practically warm!”
And the moment he went outside, he grabbed a water jug and poured it into his mouth.
But it was already too late.
His name went up on the restaurant wall.
<Manly Man Noodle Finishers>
The list became a lure.
Within a few days, we had to rent the shop next door too.
There were so many noodle customers that their traffic got mixed up with that of the restaurant’s regular broth customers.
If people who wanted a hot bowl of broth and people who had come to prove their manhood with spicy noodles stood in the same line, the atmosphere in the restaurant became strange.
After hearing my report, Elysia said immediately,
“Open a separate place next door.”
“A noodle specialty shop?”
“Yes. Leave One Bowl as it is, and make the place next door noodle-focused. Put Viro in charge, and you just set the menu and standards.”
“What should we call it?”
Marie immediately said,
“Manly Man Noodles?”
I looked at Marie.
“That’s a little…”
“Everyone already calls it that.”
She had a point.
In the end, we softened the sign a little.
‘Noodles for a Hot-Blooded Man.’
I objected until the very end, but Elysia said it would sell better this way.
Count Kleber applauded the moment he heard it too.
Then that settled it.
A name that two merchants liked at the same time was generally a name that sold.
The noodle specialty shop was packed with men as soon as it opened.
The basic noodle dishes were sold normally.
Clear-broth noodles, spicy noodles, noodles loaded with meat.
But everyone’s eyes were drawn to the challenge menu posted on one wall.
Free if you finish the Manly Man Noodles.
Full price if you fail.
We were making money hand over fist.
From one side of the new shop, I watched the first challengers receive their noodles.
Viro boiled the noodles with a serious expression, and the employees poured in the broth.
As the red, spicy aroma spread through the shop, the men’s expressions began to waver.
But none of them backed down.
Because of their pride.
Watching them, I muttered,
“Why are men like this?”
Marie said from beside me,
“You started it.”
“I ate it because I wanted to.”
“While choking and coughing?”
“I told you, it tasted good.”
Marie shook her head.
At that moment, the first challenger drank the broth and immediately began coughing.
Laughter erupted inside the shop.
But he picked up his chopsticks again.
The spicy food challenge from my previous life had come back to life in another world.
It wasn’t what I wanted.
But sometimes business does even better when it heads in a direction I never intended.