Chapter 74
The next morning, I decided to go look at some meat.
Even after thinking about yesterday's events all night, I still hadn't found an answer.
Cooking has answers.
If there's not enough salt, you add it; if the heat is too low, you turn it up; if the meat is tough, you change the cooking method.
People's hearts aren't like that.
Turning up the heat doesn't necessarily cook it, and adding salt doesn't make the seasoning right.
So I went to look at meat.
It was a rational escape.
“You're going to the slaughterhouse yourself?”
Uncle Bernard stopped for a very brief moment when he heard me.
“Yes.”
“If you tell me which cuts you want, I'll send word to our trader to check and confirm them. There's no need for you to go yourself…”
“You have to see meat for yourself.”
“That place has a strong smell, and you, my lady…”
“I've already told my lady.”
I left a note.
[I'll go look at some meat.]
That was all.
Elysia probably narrowed her eyes when she saw the note.
Even after yesterday's atmosphere, she probably thought that this man had really gone to look at meat the next day.
'What am I supposed to do about it?'
Marie folded her arms when she saw me at the kitchen entrance.
“Running away, are you?”
“I'm going to look at meat.”
“You're running away to look at meat.”
“Good meat doesn't wait.”
“People might not wait either, you know?”
I paused for a moment.
Marie smiled even after saying that.
Her face looked much more like her usual self than yesterday.
That was more frightening, if anything. It seemed she hadn't been lying when she said she wouldn't force me to answer.
That made it even harder.
In the end, I picked up my hat.
“I'll be back.”
“Okay. Don't spend too long talking to the meat.”
“Meat is more honest than people.”
“I'll throw those words right back at you later.”
I didn't know what she meant, but I got out of there for the time being.
The slaughterhouse was on the outskirts of the city.
It was the obvious location. Places that produced blood, smells, and by-products couldn't be located in the middle of a glamorous street.
Even in this world, meat was a refined food on a noble's table, but the place where that meat was produced wasn't considered a respectable one.
As I neared the slaughterhouse, the smell reached me first.
The smell of blood, animals, wet straw, hot water, and long-washed wooden floors.
It wasn't a familiar smell.
It was different from Majang-dong in my previous life too.
There, the smells of refrigerators, delivery trucks, plastic, and metal had all mingled together, but here, everything was much more direct.
But the essence was the same.
Meat begins here.
The elegant steak on a plate, the tender veal dish served with wine to nobles at Maison Monbel, the meat broth served at One Bowl, and the pieces of meat atop the Manly Man Noodles all began here.
A chef who doesn't know that is only half a chef.
When I entered the slaughterhouse, people looked at me.
At first, their eyes were wary.
It was understandable.
The people who worked here belonged to the less respected side even among commoners.
Because they handled blood, killed animals, and did work that left them smelling of it.
Fortunately, slavery had been abolished long ago in this world, and society was divided only between nobles and commoners, but that hadn't stopped an unspoken hierarchy from existing among commoners.
Nobles ate meat, but didn't want the people who slaughtered it anywhere near their tables.
Some commoners looked down on them a little too.
The head chef of Maison Monbel had come there in person.
From the slaughterhouse workers' perspective, I must have been a rather strange customer.
I bowed my head to the middle-aged man at the entrance.
“Good day. I'm Kyle Prat of Maison Monbel. I've come because I'd like to see some good cattle and pigs for myself.”
The middle-aged man was momentarily flustered.
He had probably expected me to speak informally or issue orders from the moment I addressed him.
But I had no intention of doing that.
It had been the same in my previous life.
A chef who truly understands meat doesn't treat butchers with disrespect.
In Majang-dong, money mattered when you wanted good meat, but relationships mattered too.
The people who knew which shop handled which meat well, who was good at trimming which cuts, and whether a delivery that came in on a certain day was any good were ultimately the artisans on the ground.
It was foolish to ignore them and expect to get good meat.
The middle-aged man belatedly bowed at the waist.
“Ah, yes. I'm Raul, the man in charge here. I didn't expect you to come in person.”
“When you use meat in the kitchen, seeing it is the quickest way. May I see the cattle and pigs that came in today?”
“Of course. It's just that the inside is a little…”
“It's fine.”
Raul led me farther inside.
The slaughterhouse was rough, but not chaotic.
The floor was constantly being washed, and channels had been set up so blood wouldn't pool.
The knives hung separately, and people were assigned to move around each trimming table.
By this world's standards, it was fairly systematic.
With little refrigeration, speed and the order of butchering mattered more, and the workers' hands moved all the faster.
I saw a young man trimming a pig off to one side.
He was skilled with a knife.
He cut into it only as far as necessary, without going against the grain of the meat.
It would be hard to call it sophisticated butchery yet, but there was a feel for it in his fingertips.
“Has he worked here long?”
Raul said with a slightly surprised look,
“Yes? Ah, that boy's still a rookie. His name is Dano. His father worked here too, and he started handling a knife when he was young, but he only began working properly not long ago.”
“He has good hands.”
At that, the people around us murmured softly.
The young man named Dano looked at me too.
He had a face that hadn't expected to hear praise.
I walked over to him and examined the meat.
“If too much fat is left attached to this cut, it's good for broth, but it can be greasy when grilled. Still, this is excellent. The line where the meat and fat separate is clean.”
Dano answered cautiously,
“We usually send the cuts with whiter fat to noble households, and the cheaper ones to the market.”
“Maison Monbel needs both. The cuts for grilling, broth, and sauce are all different. From now on, let's discuss them separately.”
Dano's eyes widened slightly.
“By cut?”
“Yes. Not all meat is the same. You need to know what each cut is good for.”
Raul slowly nodded at that.
He seemed pleased by my words.
These people knew meat.
But that knowledge was usually traded for very little.
Noble households paid high prices for finished dishes; the butchering that came before was treated as mere lowly labor.
So when someone took a concrete interest in their work and gave names to those differences, they couldn't help but look puzzled.
I looked at the cattle too.
The loin still wasn't at the point where one could judge marbling as in my previous life.
This world's methods of raising cattle made it difficult to produce consistent meat.
But there was a difference between cattle that got plenty of exercise and cattle that received good feed.
I had to examine everything: the color of the fat, the firmness of the meat, the smell, and the age.
Raul gradually grew more talkative.
“The cattle from farms around here are strong, but the meat is a little tough. The broth they make is deep, though. The ones over there are on the tender side, but there aren't many of them. Fewer pigs have been coming in lately because the northern road is blocked.”
“Good. We can use the tough beef for long simmering. We'll use the tender meat for Maison Monbel's mains, and set aside the pork with good fat. And don't throw away the bones; send them as clean as possible.”
“You use the bones too?”
“Bones make broth.”
Raul looked at me silently for a moment.
His expression was a little funny.
He looked like someone who had just watched a person turn nobles' discarded goods into money.
That's right.
Turning discarded things into money is one of a chef's jobs.
I walked around the slaughterhouse and spoke with a few more people.
What surprised me was that the people here were quite courteous to one another.
Of course, their speech wasn't refined.
They cursed, shouted, and moved around roughly amid the smells of sweat and blood.
But strangely, they observed certain boundaries.
When passing a knife, they turned it so the handle faced the other person, and when passing beside a worktable, they always made a sound to announce their presence.
If a younger worker made a mistake, they scolded the worker, but if that worker looked about to injure a hand, they grabbed it first.
Everyone here occupied some place between commoner and outcast.
In high society, they had no names, and in noble households, they were people allowed in only through the back door because the smell clung to them.
But in here, they knew each other's work, knew each other's dangers, and knew that the day wouldn't run without one another.
That's why there was courtesy.
Watching them, I smiled faintly.
‘When everyone is holding a big knife in one hand, people become polite.’
Of course, that couldn't be the whole reason.
But it was a fairly convincing one.
When a person across from you is holding a tool that could sever your finger, your speech suddenly becomes more polite.
Human civilization is thinner than you think, and blades are thicker than you think.
Seeing me smile, Raul asked,
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I was thinking that you have a good way of working.”
“We do?”
“Yes. People who work with dangerous tools tend to have a certain respect for their work. I use fire and knives for a living too, so I know the feeling.”
Raul couldn't answer.
He turned his head away for a moment.
He looked a little embarrassed.
I decided on the meat we'd bring in today.
Tender cuts of young beef for Maison Monbel, bones and tough cuts for long-simmered broth for One Bowl, pork for the noodle shop's toppings, and some by-products for sauces.
By-products can produce excellent flavor if cleaned properly.
I would have to package the names very carefully because nobles might dislike them, but packaging was my specialty.
If I'm getting paid for it, it's packaging.
And a little pork intestine so I could make sundae for myself.
Raul was a little surprised when he heard the order volume.
“That's quite a large order.”
“It'll grow even larger from here on.”
“Then we'll adjust our preparations accordingly.”
“But there's one condition.”
Raul tensed.
After looking around the slaughterhouse once, I said,
“If the meat isn't in good condition on a given day, tell me it isn't. If you send it pretending it's good, I'll let it pass once, but it'll be difficult to do business after the second time. On the other hand, if something truly good comes in, let me know first. I'll pay you properly.”
Raul's eyes changed.
They were the eyes of a businessman.
“Really?”
“Good meat is worth its price. If you don't understand that, you're no chef.”
The surroundings fell silent.
I didn't dislike the silence.
Raul slowly extended his hand.
It was the hand of someone who worked in a slaughterhouse. Hard, rough, and worn by years of washing in blood and water.
I took it without hesitation.
“I look forward to working with you.”
“We should be saying that to you, Chef.”
“You can call me Kyle.”
Raul looked flustered, then smiled.
“Then we'll call you Chef Kyle. That's easier for us too.”
“Good.”
As I left the slaughterhouse, Dano came over carrying a small bundle.
“Chef.”
“Yes?”
“This came from the cuts we trimmed today, and we wouldn't get much for it at the market. But I thought it might work for the sauce you mentioned earlier…”
I opened the bundle.
It wasn't bad.
It was a cut that could be used as a sauce base or in staff meals if the odor was removed properly.
“Good. Include this in the bill too.”
Dano blinked.
“I was just going to give it to you.”
“Then you'll end up giving it away next time too. Good ingredients need to be paid for if they're to keep coming.”
It was the first time he smiled properly.
“Understood.”
I climbed into the carriage.
Some of the smell had seeped into my clothes.
The smell of blood, animals, hot water, and meat.
If I walked straight into Maison Monbel's sitting room, Elysia might step back.
Marie would probably immediately say I smelled, and Uncle Bernard would quietly prepare bathwater.
But I didn't feel bad.
No matter how well you wield a knife in the kitchen, if you don't know where the ingredients come from, the plate becomes weightless.
Today, I confirmed that weight once more.
Behind the guests smiling in front of their plates are people inspecting meat on bloodstained floors.
My cooking can truly stand only if those people do their work properly.
That was how it had been in Majang-dong in my previous life.
The dawn air, the smell of meat, the hands of the butchers, the offhand remarks like, “Chef, this is good today.”
The dishes made with the meat I received there were sold to customers under entirely different names.
That's how the world is always connected. Things that begin in low places end up on high tables.
I looked out the carriage window and thought.
Monbel would become a count's house, I would become a baronet, and Marie might get a name too.
But meat would still come from the slaughterhouse.
I mustn't forget that fact.
As soon as I returned to the estate, Marie covered her nose.
“Wow. Did you fight with the meat?”
“I went to find good meat.”
“You really smell…”
“I'll take a bath.”
“Do it right now.”
Elysia also appeared at the end of the hallway.
She stopped for just a moment when she saw me.
“Kyle.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You really went to the slaughterhouse.”
“I left a note.”
“That wasn't what I doubted…”
Elysia searched for words, then finally laughed softly.
“I thought, That's so like you.”
Marie muttered beside me,
“It is. He can inspect ingredients well, but he's an idiot who can't read people's feelings.”
I pretended not to hear.
“My lady, I found a good supplier. From now on, Maison Monbel, One Bowl, and the noodle shop should all be able to receive a steadier supply of meat.”
Elysia looked at my face.
She probably knew I was avoiding the subject too.
But she didn't ask for now.
“Good. Tell me all about it later. And go wash up first.”
“Yes.”
People's hearts are difficult.
But meat is a little easier.
You know good meat when you see it.
Of course, that includes showing proper respect to the people who handle that good meat.
I recalled the rough sensation left on my hands.
It hadn't been a bad day.
For an escape, it had been a fairly productive one.