A Recipe to Die For
Ominous portents or not, morning broke over London all the same.
As usual, there was nothing remotely refreshing about it. A thick, sooty haze crawled up against the sky outside, and when the River Thames below ran thick as raw sewage, expecting a brisk, pleasant morning was practically a sign of mental defect. Because my expectations were already buried in the gutter, my mood wasn't particularly foul either.
After choking down another flavorless breakfast, I arrived at the hospital.
"How are we feeling today?"
"Hsshh."
I began rounds on my patients—specifically, the factory girls I had operated on two days prior. Miraculously, neither looked to be on the verge of immediate death. There was no foul discharge, no feverish flush, not a single telltale sign of rampant infection.
Well, I suppose after being thoroughly scrubbed down with industrial bleaching solution, developing a bacterial infection would be the real miracle.
The concoction had been so caustic that my rubber gloves had literally begun to dissolve during the procedure. Since proper disposable gloves didn't exist here, I had intended to reuse them until hygiene made me squeamish. I never imagined I would have to discard a pair because the chemical wash melted the fingertips right off.
Still, progress was progress.
"Open wide for me. Say 'ah.'"
The internal swelling in her airway was subsiding remarkably fast. The speed of recovery was astounding. People of the nineteenth century truly were built from sterner stuff.
No matter how hardy they are, though, it's not like teeth sprout out of their muscle tissue.
It was an absurd thought, but part of me had harbored a faint, desperate curiosity. Even now, I wasn't entirely certain if this world was the exact same Earth I had left behind. Judging by the miserable trajectory of human greed and politics, it certainly seemed like the real thing, yet whenever I looked at the medical horrors surrounding me, doubt crept back in. Naturally, human anatomy remained stubbornly mundane.
"Alright, I'm taking this out now."
Confident that the edema had cleared enough for her to breathe unassisted, I extracted the iron cannula from her throat. Leaving it embedded any longer was an invitation to disaster. Unlike modern medical-grade plastic, raw iron oxidized rapidly. Prolonged contact meant heavy metal poisoning, or worse, a lethal bout of tetanus. When lockjaw strikes from an open wound in the neck, you can't exactly amputate the affected limb; you simply drown in your own convulsions.
"Khhk, hack!"
"If you wish to speak, press here. Yes, just like that. But only press with this sterile cloth, understand? Because it has been disinfected."
"D-dis... infected?"
"It is a complicated concept. Just understand that if you do not use it, you will die."
"D-die... Yes, yes, Doctor."
Perhaps because I delivered the warning with utter, clinical seriousness, the stark reality terrified her. She nodded vigorously, eyes wide with genuine panic.
At least her articulation is far clearer than before the incision. With speech like that, she ought to find basic employment somewhere.
If a person cannot earn a crust of bread to survive, curing their ailment offers little more than prolonged starvation. Back in modern South Korea, such grim calculations had rarely crossed my mind. Perhaps it was because I practiced in an elite university hospital, or simply because the modern republic enjoyed a standard of living beyond comparison. Most likely both. The wealthiest patrons sought out top tertiary care, and modern societal welfare bore zero resemblance to the bleak squalor of nineteenth-century London.
"Ah, Pyeong."
As I finished my post-operative checks and dressed a few minor abrasions, Liston strode over. Fresh flecks of crimson dotted his cheeks, indicating he had already lopped off an extremity or two this morning. Suspecting he deliberately left the blood on display as a badge of surgical prowess, I refrained from pointing it out.
"Good morning, brother."
"We received an answer regarding the matches. It seems Sir Jamie spoke on our behalf again today."
"Oh?"
"I must say, you fawned over him quite shamelessly yesterday. You have a remarkable talent for stroking aristocratic egos."
"Haha... Well, consider the circumstances. The poor man was freshly gelded; would it please him to have his physician treat him like an ordinary eunuch?"
"Fair point. Lord knows where he procured that ghastly prosthetic mustache, but in any case, it appears production within London will be completely halted."
"Marvelous! Wait... just within London?"
Not a total ban across the country?
"It seems production is already expanding rapidly across the northern provinces. Jamie mentioned there is no longer any need to rely on French imports. Isn't that wonderful? White phosphorus is a strategic military supply; we hardly want to be beholden to the bloody French for our munitions."
"Wait a moment... It remains utterly lethal to the workers, regardless of where the factories sit!"
"Haha! What can one do? Do you intend to save every mortal soul on this wretched earth? That is beyond our station. Out of sight, out of mind—your conscience will rest easier once the chimneys are elsewhere."
"Is... is that so?"
He spoke with such breezy, unshakable conviction that my own moral compass momentarily spun in circles. He was genuinely confusing me.
"Leaving that aside, I hear a splendid new establishment has opened nearby. Would you care to join me for a meal?"
"An eating establishment...?"
"Come now, don't make that face. Even our dear Britain possesses culinary triumphs."
"Hrm..."
I would have preferred he stick to confusing moral philosophies. Anything was better than his culinary recommendations. Could he please, just once, not drag me to an eatery? Had a single dish he ever praised turned out remotely edible?
No. If it merely failed to provoke immediate gastrointestinal revolt, I considered it a miraculous mercy.
"Urrgh."
"Good heavens! Retching at the mere mention of dining? That is profoundly impolite."
"Forgive me, brother. But... do you remember that monstrosity you fed me? The stargazy pie?"
"Ah, that. Worry not. That particular scoundrel will never bake again."
"Did you murder him?"
"Hardly! If I slew every cook who offended the palate, half the chefs in the British Empire would hang from the gallows. I merely fractured his arm in three places."
"Ah."
To an outside observer, breaking a man's bones over a poorly baked pie might sound monstrously excessive. Yet having tasted it, I maintained the wretch had gotten off leniently. The lunatic had baked a pastry crust with whole, rotting pilchards jammed upright, their dead, glassy eyes staring toward the heavens like a horrifying floral arrangement. Sardines were inherently oily, but properly salted and crisped over open coals, they could be tolerable. Shoving them whole into soggy dough, however...
"Gag."
"Hahaha! This will never do! I must cleanse your corrupted memory with proper fare today!"
"Is Pyeong accompanying us?"
Blundell suddenly appeared around the corner.
"Naturally! If fine food awaits, how could the Three Musketeers leave one behind?" Liston boomed.
"Quite right. Mind you, Pyeong, keep this quiet from the apprentices. They would be terribly hurt if they found out we slipped away without them."
Seeing both senior surgeons buzzing with such genuine excitement, a sliver of hope dared to flicker in my chest. Could this time be different?
No, allowing hope to take root was the path to ruin. The last time they had put on such a fanfare, they had forced me to consume haggis. A minced concoction of sheep's pluck, suet, and oatmeal boiled inside the animal's stomach lining... If you have never encountered it, do not indulge your curiosity. Some horrors are best left unimagined.
"Huurgh."
"Hahaha! You wound my national pride, lad!"
"Admittedly, our national cuisine can be a trifle eccentric," Blundell conceded, "but genuine wonders do exist! You shall be thoroughly astonished."
Before my dry heaves fully subsided, I found myself hauled bodily into a waiting carriage. Liston had hoisted me through the door with one arm as easily as a sack of flour. Both men appeared genuinely wounded by my skepticism, though not truly offended. If they possessed even an ounce of conscience, they couldn't possibly be angry; Victorian cuisine was objectively far more barbaric than Victorian surgery.
"Wait... what is that?"
Despite having had my trust betrayed a dozen times over, the sight that greeted us when the carriage pulled up stirred undeniable intrigue.
Before a shopfront boasting a freshly varnished sign, a colossal crowd had assembled. Ordinary townsfolk stood alongside plainly wealthy gentlefolk dressed in silk waistcoats and fine wool broadcloth. While the social strata maintained separate queues, the sheer fact that the two classes gathered at the same storefront was extraordinary. In Victorian Britain, establishments for commoners and venues for high society rarely occupied the same street corner, let alone the same doorstep.
"See there? I told you it was magnificent," Liston said, looking anxious. "We were delayed on your account; we might not even secure a portion at this rate."
"How long has this place been drawing such crowds?"
"Only a few weeks, by my reckoning. It gained tremendous notoriety right after Sir Jamie paraded that emerald waistcoat of his at the grand ball."
"Is the fare truly that remarkable?"
"Splendid, from what I gather. Exorbitantly priced, of course, but reputedly divine—and above all, breathtaking to behold."
Liston and Blundell whispered like giddy schoolboys standing before a sweetshop. Given the abysmal state of English gastronomy, their desperate yearning for delicious food was entirely understandable. The tragedy lay in the fact that British cravings always seemed to manifest in grotesque mutations—haggis, fish heads peering out of pastries, and the like.
"I shall halt the carriage here, gentlemen," the driver called down. "The congestion ahead is impassable."
"Very well."
Carriages jammed the thoroughfare hub-to-hub. The lane was narrow to begin with, and attempting to maneuver any closer risked being hopelessly pinned. Stepping down, I carefully averted my gaze from the mountains of steaming horse manure littering the cobblestones and forged ahead toward the bakery.
Parting the crowd should have been an ordeal, but with Liston lumbering at my flank, the obstacle vanished. People scattered left and right like the parting of the Red Sea, frightened by his towering frame and blood-flecked apron. Even so, the crowd refused to yield their places in the queue. We managed only to push our way up against the gleaming glass bay window of the shop.
"Ah..."
"Haha! Just as I anticipated! Astounding, isn't it?"
"How on earth did they produce such pigmentation?"
Arranged behind the polished glass pane was an assortment of confectionery desserts. What arrested my gaze was not their delicate crumb or intricate frosting, but the sheer, blinding brilliance of their colors.
Such hyper-saturated hues were practically impossible to find even in the trendiest luxury cafes of Gangnam or Cheongdam in the twenty-first century. While I hadn't spent much time outside hospital wards in my previous life, I had endured countless blind dates, every single one staged in boutique cafes or European bistros. I knew commercial patisserie well enough to know that achieving such electric, radiant tones in foodstuffs was no simple feat.
Is there another reincarnator here?
The thought slammed into my mind instantly. When I stopped to consider it, the notion that I was the sole soul dragged back through time had always felt faintly illogical. Whether by some bizarre twist of providence or cosmic accident, if it happened to me, why not another? If an industrial chemist from the modern era had landed in nineteenth-century London, the rapid modernization of certain trades suddenly made perfect sense. One lone surgeon could hardly reshape an empire alone.
"W-we must go inside!"
"Haha! I knew you would come around," Liston chuckled. "Though we shall still have to wait our turn."
"How much time do we have before afternoon rounds? We'll miss our chance entirely!"
"You should have made haste earlier. Still, where there's a will, there's a way."
I had to meet the proprietor. Sampling the sweets was secondary; I needed to know who possessed the knowledge to synthesize such pigments in this era. The sole problem was the impenetrable mob standing between us and the counter.
"Hah... I feel a profound urge to sever a limb," Liston muttered under his breath.
"P-please, keep your surgical impulses to yourself in public," Blundell hissed.
Ignoring him entirely, Liston stepped forward and tapped the leather sheath at his hip.
"Why shouldn't I? Surely someone in this rabble requires urgent amputation. You there! My good man!"
"W-what? Who, me?" a portly fellow stammered, shrinking back.
"That arm of yours looks distinctly gangrenous."
"I-it's merely a small boil, sir!"
"Nonsense! That is advanced putrefaction! We must take the arm off at once, right down to the bone—"
"Aaaaargh!"
The man shrieked in absolute terror, abandoned his spot, and fled down the street at a dead sprint. Liston promptly occupied the vacated cobblestone with a smug grin. A few patrons cast venomous glares in our direction, but none possessed the suicidal bravery required to lock eyes with a six-foot-two berserker wearing an apron stained with human blood.
I was well aware that exploiting fear to cut a queue was morally bankrupt. Yet pressing circumstances demanded compromise. I chose to align myself with practical corruption.
Thanks to our barbaric escort, we crossed the threshold into the shop within moments.
Looking at them up close... this color saturation is utterly unnatural.
Nineteenth-century food science could never produce this. Food-grade synthetic dyes? Impossible. A contemporary chemist from the twenty-first century had to be behind this counter.
"Brother," I whispered urgently, nudging Liston's sleeve. "Could you ask him how he crafts these colors?"
"These are proprietary trade secrets, Pyeong. Would a baker surrender them so easily?"
"You always find a way to make people speak, don't you?"
"That I do. Ho, baker!"
Overcome with urgency, I wielded Liston like a blunt instrument once more. Fortunately, violence proved entirely unnecessary. The confectioner beamed with immense pride the moment he looked our way. Furthermore, given that Liston and I had recently become local celebrities throughout London's medical circles, the baker practically puffed up like a peacock.
"Ordinarily, these recipes are guarded under lock and key," the baker boasted, dusting flour from his apron, "but seeing as distinguished gentlemen such as yourselves would hardly open a rival pastry shop, I am delighted to enlighten you!"
"Splendid fellow! I admire an open spirit!" Liston roared with approval.
"You see, gentlemen, achieving such brilliant vibrancy requires the finest modern compounds," the baker explained grandly, gesturing to the gleaming confections. "For this radiant blue, we incorporate copper sulfate; for this luscious emerald green, arsenic trioxide; and for this striking scarlet red, we blend in mercury cinnabar."
"...Excuse me?"