Chapter 17
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Food Spoils When It's Hot, Right? (2)
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Dominic was pointing to raw oysters.
"Chef, these oysters... are they the ones that were delivered yesterday?"
"Those? Yeah, they are. Ah, don't worry. I packed them with plenty of ice, so they shouldn't have spoiled."
"Did a tall soldier with reddish curly hair happen to help with receiving or sorting these?"
"You're talking about Mickey! Yeah, he did. The kid loves shellfish so much that he always volunteers whenever we get a delivery of them."
"And you made him a snack out of them, right?"
"Of course. I'm not the kind of guy who lacks heart. Heh heh. I whipped up some ceviche for him to enjoy. But why do you ask?"
It wasn't common, but people in this region did have a culture of eating seafood raw.
Ceviche was a prime example.
Fish or various shellfish were marinated in sour lemon or lime juice, mixed with vegetables and herbs, and served chilled. In coastal villages like Evergreen, where seafood was abundant, it was more frequent than in inland areas. Still, it wasn't an everyday dish.
At any rate, for Dominic—who had been a raw fish killer in his previous life—this was a very welcome development.
'But eating it raw always comes with risks like this.'
Dominic pried open one oyster and gently squeezed the meat.
"I told you it's not spoiled. I checked them all myself."
"It's spoiled."
"Jeez. Look for yourself. The meat isn't mushy, no weird smell, no sticky slime. The Village Chief might think this doesn't meet standards living in a fishing village, but it won't hurt you if you eat it."
The chef spoke with a hint of irritation.
This was only tolerated because some camaraderie had built up between them. Normally, with the chef's fiery temper, it would have been nitpicking worthy of a beating and being chased out.
In truth, the oyster looked perfectly fine on the surface.
"It's Shellfish Flu."
"...? Pfft hahaha! Listen, Village Chief. You even know about Shellfish Flu? You've learned a thing or two. But Shellfish Flu only happens in winter."
Shellfish Flu.
In 21st-century Korea, it was called norovirus.
The viral infection that struck terror into countless oyster enthusiasts—a type of food poisoning.
Unlike typical food poisoning, shellfish infected with norovirus don't look spoiled on the outside.
And since norovirus survives in cold, dry conditions, it was seen as a winter illness, accounting for a high percentage of cold-weather food poisonings. That meant tension dropped a bit in summer.
"Shellfish Flu usually peaks in winter, but it doesn't vanish in summer."
Talking about bacteria or viruses wouldn't land with them, so he had to explain simply.
"The reason it's not spotted much in summer is just that inland folks avoid raw seafood in the heat, worried it might spoil. They don't eat it raw."
"You sound so sure...?"
"That soldier Mickey? He's vomiting nonstop right now, diarrhea's kicked in, chills and muscle aches too. Started this morning, right?"
"Oh my god!"
The symptoms matched exactly what Shellfish Flu victims showed.
"As a newbie, he couldn't sneak outside food like the veterans, so everything he ate came from the mess hall. If it was another dish, way more soldiers would be sick by now."
"Urgh."
"No one else ate it, just Mickey. And within the last day or two. So, Chef, what do you think that was?"
The chef grew uneasy at Dominic's confident words.
If he was right and they ignored it, serving infected oysters to the soldiers would spell disaster.
Normally it might be fine, but this was peak heat training season. And the Lord himself was coming to inspect.
'Troop losses? I'd lose my position for sure. What do I do?'
The color drained from the face of the everyman chef whose life goal was "don't get fired."
'Let's see, with my savings, could I open a restaurant in the market district? No, that'd eat up tuition for my eldest at the academy. Can't do that... Gasp! If they blame me for mishandling ingredients and causing losses, prison? The Old Lord who could save me isn't even here!'
The worst scenarios played out in his head.
That's when he spotted Dominic furtively scanning the kitchen, lips pursed.
"Help me out, Village Chief!"
He was the only one he could trust.
"I was planning to anyway. Ignorance is one thing, but now that you know?"
His tone was snippy, but everyone in the kitchen knew he meant business.
"Knight, when's lunch for the soldiers?"
"The Lord's inspection means it'll be later than usual. But what are you planning?"
"We change the menu."
"That's all we can do, huh..."
Ian's voice darkened. The chef slumped to the floor at the same time.
"What's wrong?"
"Heat training assumes real combat conditions, meals included. Poisoned food happens often in the field, so ingredients are approved by the commander at least half a day ahead. Same here."
"The commander... the Lord! Oh no!"
Ian continued, punctuated by the chef's wails.
"Sudden ingredient changes need full justification, responsible party named, and re-approval. It's training, so no real penalties, but the chef will catch hell."
"K-Knight! I won't get fired, right?"
"Maybe a pay cut. Ingredient management is your job."
"Oh no! Th-then what about the supplier?"
"They supplied bad goods, so contract ends, penalties. Intentional? Prison."
Ian answered per military law, but shadows lingered on his face.
'Village Chief said Shellfish Flu can't be seen from outside. So it's not the chef's fault, or the supplier's...'
But someone had to take the blame, and it was obvious it'd fall on the powerless two.
Still, Ian valued knightly duty as much as his life.
Seeing their undeserved fate made him deeply uncomfortable.
'Is ignorance a crime too?'
Ripples stirred in the heart of this talented young knight, brought from the capital by the high-realm Old Lord himself to mentor.
"What're you saying? We just toss it?"
"Shellfish Flu means we have to, Village Chief. No choice."
These oysters were prepped with extra effort to tempt heat-weary soldiers. Marinated in ample lemon juice and sugar, mixed with onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, turnips, corn—expected to wash away fatigue, if only briefly.
Maybe even the Lord's inspection was tied to these oysters.
The Old Lord, secluded in the tower, loved meat and offal. But his son, the current Sinclair Count, craved fish and seafood.
"Such a waste to throw them out. Just cook them."
"Cook them? The Shellfish Flu batch?"
"Yeah. Hot food and a good sweat cures a cold, right?"
"True."
"Same for Shellfish Flu. Boil or cook at high heat, and it's gone."
Explaining protein denaturation at 85°C for 90 seconds would brand him a fraud.
So it was a vague bluff.
"Makes sense! As expected, Village Chief knows all about ingredients. So, what do we do with these oysters now?"
The chef's near-dead face bloomed with life. His gleaming middle-aged eyes were a bit much.
If they repurposed the oysters, no need for change orders. Recipes varied naturally; reports went to commanders on ingredients, not final dishes.
"Coat the oysters in egg batter, plenty of oil, and fry 'em up. Quick, squeeze lemons, mix with sugar—needs that tang to whet appetites."
Dominic took command. No one objected. Even the chef moved briskly to follow.
'I'm not needed here.'
Ian slipped out quietly. Lingering in the cramped kitchen would just hinder.
"Chop the tomatoes, onions, corn—mix with greens and boiled beans for a cob salad. Fine-chopped so they can spoon it. And soup! Hot soup on a scorching day pulls sweat and feels refreshing."
Sometimes, boiling soup was the trick for summer appetites.
'Fight heat with heat.'
Gulping down a steaming bowl, sweat pouring—pure bliss.
"I was gonna shred chicken for salad, but we need it. Can it make soup?"
A kitchen hand asked.
"Chicken... yeah! Let's do Spicy Chicken Soup. Time for some spice."
Clear chicken soup crossed his mind, but time was short. Broth wouldn't develop fully.
'No MSG here anyway.'
Spice might worry, but village Fishing Cooperative folks always enjoyed chili dishes after initial shock.
'Call it a treat, and starving soldiers will devour anything. Hunger's the best sauce. Rolling in the sun—they'll love it.'
He trusted their stomachs.
He dumped all his carry-on chili powder; supplier could repay later.
Saved their deal—small price!
Bubble bubble.
The blood-red soup with veggies and shredded chicken boiled up. Spice-naive hands coughed lightly.
But more gulped hungrily at the aroma.
Confidence: not a total flop, despite divided tastes.
Chili short for Dominic's taste, but chef's nod said perfect.
Sizzle!
Soup bubbling, they chopped oysters and scallions, thickened batter, and started fritters.
Oil and batter met, savory scents wafting anew.
Soldiers peeked blatantly at the tent from alternating smells.
Village Chief's retainers too.
Finally, the provocative Oyster Fritter and Spicy Chicken Soup aromas hit the Lord.
"What on earth is today's lunch to smell this good?"