Chapter 77
Originally, it was my day off, but I came down to the kitchen again today.
Thomas came down too, even though I hadn't asked him to.
“Watching again? There's nothing in particular for you to do today.”
“I'll watch anyway.”
“Good attitude. Still, take it easy and go rest when you're done.”
Lately, the phrase “day off” had been gradually losing its meaning.
Maison Monbel was closed, while One Bowl and the noodle shop each had their own managers running them.
Elysia had also been trying to push me out of the kitchen, and Marie had told me several times since morning to really rest today.
Regardless, I came down to the kitchen.
Now that we'd decided to introduce an open kitchen, I had to prepare cooking scenes that could be shown to guests.
The idea that all you need is good taste is true.
But that applies when guests aren't watching the kitchen.
If guests are watching from beyond the glass, the way the knife moves, the moment the flames rise, and even the angle at which the pan is held all become part of the meal.
We wouldn't just be selling the finished dish on the plate; we'd also be selling the scene of that dish being completed.
In other words, I had to practice a fire show.
I'd done it once before, but honestly, it still wasn't at a level I was satisfied with.
I put a pan over the flame.
I waited until the oil had spread into a thin layer and a very fine wisp of smoke rose from the surface.
The instant I added the finely chopped vegetables and meat all at once, a harsh sizzling sound erupted from inside the pan.
I flicked my wrist to toss the ingredients upward, and at that moment, flames briefly licked the rim of the pan.
Whoosh.
Thomas sucked in a breath behind me.
“Chef, wasn't that dangerous just now?”
“It was.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because it looks cool in front of the guests.”
Thomas had a look on his face like he had lost his words.
Of course, I wasn't doing it simply to look cool.
The moment the fire rose along the pan, moisture on the surface of the ingredients quickly evaporated, and a distinctive aroma clung to them.
To even imitate the smoky wok flavor the Chinese cooks in my previous life used to talk about, simply stir-frying over high heat wasn't enough.
I had to catch with my hands that brief moment when fire, oil, and ingredients met.
The problem was that I wasn't an expert in this field.
I was basically a chef specializing in Western cuisine.
Sauces, stocks, roasting, cooking temperatures, plating. Those were things I had an instinctive feel for.
But Chinese-style cooking was different.
The technique of driving things forward with intense heat in a short time still wasn't familiar to me either.
I'd done it for research and television in my previous life, but I wasn't at the level where I could pretend to be an expert in front of a proper Chinese chef.
So I had to practice more.
I couldn't put on a clumsy imitation in front of Maison Monbel's guests.
I'd served East Asian-style dishes to a few guests on a trial basis before.
They were dishes of thinly sliced meat and vegetables quickly stir-fried over high heat, then coated in a salty sauce rich with the savory flavor of seafood.
The response had been good.
The sauce made by reducing oysters and shellfish had been especially effective.
It wasn't exactly the same as oyster sauce from my previous life.
But it was heading in the right direction.
I slowly reduced oysters I'd received from the coast, then balanced the savory flavor, sweetness, and saltiness with MSG, and the result was a fairly usable sauce.
Even a single spoonful suddenly made the meat and vegetables taste as though they were working hard.
As expected, oyster sauce was a chef's eternal ally.
It was also a wonderful friend that let even non-chefs make dishes that were at least passable.
Based on that, I was thinking about a new course.
An East Asian-style meal that would look exotic to the Empire's nobles.
A meal that maintained the flow of a Western-style course while showing a completely different direction in its cooking methods, aromas, and sauces.
Adding an open kitchen to that would make the effect even greater.
Guests wouldn't just receive the food; they'd also see the flames rise and the ingredients dance in the pan.
It would make money.
But before that, I had to learn to handle that fire properly.
I picked up the pan again.
This time, the flames caught too late.
‘The oil wasn't hot enough.’
In the next attempt, the flames rose too strongly, and because I was late pulling my arm away, a wave of heat brushed the inside of my forearm.
The skin immediately reddened.
“Ah.”
Thomas came running.
“Chef!”
“I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine.”
“It's a minor burn.”
I cooled it roughly with cold water and wrapped it in a clean cloth.
It was hardly proper treatment, but it didn't interfere with moving my hand for the time being.
Thomas looked almost horrified.
“I'll call a healer.”
“No need. I have to try again while I can still feel the sensation.”
“It's a day off today.”
“That's why it's good for practice. There are no guests.”
When I took hold of the pan again, Thomas could no longer stop me.
I turned up the flame again and changed the angle of my wrist.
I also lowered the height to which the ingredients flew through the air.
I changed the rhythm with which I shook the pan.
Western-style pan work wouldn't do.
Here, my movements had to be shorter and faster, without fearing the fire but without letting it devour me either.
The meat and vegetables went back into the pan.
I kept the spices from taking center stage, letting them emerge afterward.
Nobles might find a strong aroma that hit the nose from the very beginning overwhelming.
The more unfamiliar the flavor, the more elegantly its first impression had to be packaged.
I finished a dish and tasted it.
“…It's salty.”
The sauce must have reduced too quickly.
I tried again.
This time, the vegetables had gone limp.
I tried again.
This time, the outside of the meat was fine, but the inside was tough.
I tried again.
Cooking ultimately comes down to repetition.
A dazzling idea alone isn't enough to serve a dish in front of guests.
To draw the scene in your head out through your fingertips, you have to chew up and swallow failure over and over.
You have to repeat it until your tongue catches what is wrong, your wrist remembers the timing, and your nose recognizes the moment the aroma takes hold.
I picked up the pan again.
Just then, I saw someone beyond the glass.
It was Marie.
Beyond the temporary glass window we'd set up to test the open kitchen, she was staring blankly at me.
At first, she seemed to have come to say something.
But when she saw me raise the heat and shake the pan, she seemed to stop right where she was.
I paused for a moment and opened the door.
“Why are you standing there?”
Marie answered after a slight delay.
“Nothing. I was just passing by.”
“On your day off?”
“It's your day off too, but you're in the kitchen.”
She was right, so I couldn't argue.
Marie frowned when she saw the cloth wrapped around my arm.
“Are you hurt?”
“A little.”
“You just wrapped it carelessly again, didn't you?”
“That can happen when you're practicing.”
Marie sighed.
If this had been before, she would have come straight in and showered me with nagging.
But today was a little different. Her face was worried, but her eyes as she looked at me through the glass were strangely dazed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
Marie looked away for a moment, then looked back at me.
“It's just that I realized all over again that a man who cooks well is kind of sexy.”
This time, I faltered.
Thomas nearly dropped the pan behind me.
“Marie.”
“What? It's true.”
“Don't say things like that in the kitchen.”
“You said it was a day off.”
Marie smiled faintly.
She'd said it like a joke, but it hadn't been entirely a joke.
I had no idea what I looked like right now.
There was a carelessly wrapped cloth around my arm, my shirt was soaked with sweat, and my face was probably flushed from the heat.
To me, I was simply a fool of a chef, repeating the same thing in front of the fire.
But Marie saw it differently.
A hand that held the pan without fearing the fire, a body that returned to the same spot even after failure, and a stubbornness that refused to stop even on a day off when the taste wasn't right.
It was still strange to me that such things could look attractive to someone.
Marie came inside and took hold of my arm.
“Sexy or not, getting hurt makes you an idiot. Wrap this properly.”
“It's a waste of time.”
“Kyle.”
It was only one short word.
I obediently held out my arm.
Marie brought a fresh bandage and wrapped it again.
Her fingertips were practiced, and her expression had grown slightly stiff.
Ever since then, we'd grown strangely closer, and that had made us more careful with each other.
We still seemed to exchange words as freely as before, but points where our words caught had appeared here and there.
“Thanks.”
“If you're grateful, take it easy today.”
“That's difficult.”
“I knew you'd say that.”
Marie shook her head.
“Still, stop before dinner. If the young lady sees you, her expression will get strange again.”
“Why would she?”
Marie stared straight at me.
“Are you really asking because you don't know?”
I shut my mouth.
That was something I heard often these days.
I really must be ignorant of a lot of things.
Marie didn't press any further.
Instead, she stepped back outside the glass and, this time, watched openly.
I became unnecessarily self-conscious.
I picked up the pan and raised the heat.
The ingredients leaped in the pan, and the flames rose briefly.
This time, it was good. The flames didn't flare too wildly, and the aroma clung well.
I added the oyster sauce at the end to give it a sheen, and the spices came through afterward. The color looked fine once I plated it, too.
I tasted a bite.
It was still lacking, but the direction was right.
Marie clapped softly beyond the glass.
I cleared my throat for no particular reason.
“It must be pretty nerve-racking when guests watch like that.”
Thomas said cautiously from behind me.
“Even so, that was really impressive just now.”
“Why are you getting in on this too?”
“I mean it.”
I glared at him, but Thomas didn't back down.
Marie was smiling beyond the glass too.
The East Asian-style course I meant to show guests in the open kitchen was still a long way off.
I still had to get the smoky wok flavor right and refine the oyster sauce into something more sophisticated.
Since it was different from the Western-style cooking methods I was familiar with, I needed more time for it to become fully ingrained in my muscle memory.
But the sensation was settling into my fingertips.
That was enough.
My day off had vanished again, but the plate had come a little closer.
In the end, that's how chefs live.
People who know they need to rest, yet stand before the fire again for the single feeling that their fingertips are better than yesterday's.
I took hold of the pan again.
Beyond the glass, Marie was still watching me.
This time, without realizing it, I think I shook the pan with a little more flair.