2. Baking Contest
I started kneading the dough at the workbench next to Pierre's.
The flour's milling is a mess, and mixing in the rye flour isn't ideal either.
There were two conditions for the contest: a blind taste test and using the exact same ingredients. That meant both Pierre and I had to make bread with poorly milled flour and rye flour.
Did that mean there was no way to succeed?
"Can I use a bit more water here?"
"You're saying you'll add more water on top of that?"
"Yeah, probably about double."
"...Hmph, do as you please."
Pierre smirked, clearly thinking my judgment was off. He already looked like he was certain of victory.
He wasn't entirely wrong. From a quick glance, he seemed to be aiming for around 60% hydration—a textbook dough moisture level.
But with rye flour mixed in, keeping it from turning tough meant increasing the hydration higher than usual. And that required one more technique.
I took about 10% of the total flour and mixed it with water to make a thick paste.
"Too much water, and it gets all sticky like that."
"......"
"Just in case you didn't know. Dumping water into dough isn't the answer."
Pierre didn't hold back his advice as he watched my sticky dough—though it sounded more like mockery. It really did look more like a starch paste than dough.
I left it like that.
"Done already?"
"No, I'm doing an Autolyse."
"Auto...?"
"It's a thing."
Autolyse. Paired with high hydration, it was the second technique to flatten Pierre's smug nose.
The name sounded fancy, but it was simple: mix just flour and water first and let it rest.
No commercial yeast means I have to ferment it this way.
The ingredients for the baking contest included some leftover dough from yesterday. In medieval times, they'd use beer foam or save dough from the day before to replenish yeast. Naturally, the yeast content would be lower than modern powdered yeast.
Low yeast means insufficient gas, resulting in flat, dense bread. But using the Autolyse technique gave the flour's own enzymes time to soften the gluten. It was only natural for the dough to become smooth and pliable.
Good, the Autolyse is done.
I mixed in the remaining flour and rye flour, the leftover dough from yesterday, and more water to form the main dough. Finally, for shaping, I scored a cross on top with a knife. That cut allowed the bread to expand without bursting when it rose.
"Dough ready?"
"Yeah."
"Then let's bake right away."
"Hold on. I'd prefer to bake separately if possible. Whether I go first or you do."
"...? Understood."
Pierre took his typical bread dough to the oven. He lit the pizza-oven-like hearth and slid in the dough. The shape was standard—no issues there. So he really was a baker from a ducal house. At best, though, he was medieval-level. Compared to me, with all my modern baking knowledge, it was night and day.
"It's done baking. Your turn, young master."
"Right."
"...But why are you holding that water?"
As I slid my dough into the oven with a long peel, I said,
"Step back."
"Pardon?"
"I warned you."
"What do you— Whoa!"
Hisss!
The moment I put the bread in, I doused it with water. Pouring water into the hot oven turned it instantly to steam, which burst out. I'd already stepped aside, but Pierre took the full blast.
"Ack, cough cough!"
"Told you to move."
"W-what kind of ridiculous...!"
His mustache damp, he sputtered. If I weren't the count's son, he'd probably be cursing up a storm.
Ignoring him, I checked the oven.
Just as expected—baking nicely.
Spraying steam into an oven is called steam heating. The steam keeps the dough's surface from setting too soon, letting the bread rise more for a light, fluffy texture. The crust turns thin and crisp—the classic "crispy outside, soft inside" we all know.
With Autolyse, high-hydration dough, and steam heating, there was no way it'd be tough and chewy.
"Alright. It's done."
"...Very well. Let's hold the tasting now."
Gulp.
He swallowed hard, staring at my bread fresh from the oven. Was it because it looked delicious, or from nerves? Hard to say.
Meanwhile, at that moment.
"Young master and Pierre are having a baking contest...?"
"For real?"
"Pierre's got a high nose, but challenging the young master?"
"Shh, he'll hear you."
The kitchen buzzed with whispers. A seasoned baker from the ducal house versus the count's wastrel son—in baking, no less. For these cooks living the same routine day in, day out, it was prime entertainment.
Naturally, the big question was who would win.
"Pierre's an arrogant jerk, but he's got experience."
"True. The young master's never baked in his life, right? I've been here over ten years and never seen it."
"He's in for some serious embarrassment this time."
"It's just judging by taste—no faking votes..."
"Do we have to vote for the bad one on purpose?"
As the cooks chatted, Pierre appeared holding two plates. Cloches—dome-shaped lids—covered the contents, hiding them from view.
"Call as many other cooks and servants as possible. We'll vote purely on which bread tastes better—make sure everyone knows."
Head chef Marco gathered the staff with a stern warning. Pierre and young master Taylor watched from afar.
The cooks gulped nervously, waiting for the cloches to lift. Servants who'd finished their shifts soon crowded in too.
"Enough people now... Reveal them."
Clink!
Marco lifted the cloches with a grave expression. On the left: a flat, earthen-colored loaf that screamed Pierre. The right made everyone gasp.
"Why's that bread so huge?"
"What...? Weren't we using the same ingredients?"
"Y-yeah."
"No way that's the young master's?"
It was nearly double the size of the left one. A unique cross score crowned the top—like a work of art, not bread.
"What bread looks that pretty?"
"Did Pierre know how to make that? Then why doesn't he usually...?"
"How do you know it's Pierre's?!"
"The young master making that? Impossible!"
"Quiet, everyone!"
Marco stepped in with a knife, fed up.
"We've got kitchen work to do—let's taste. Better cut them small for everyone."
His knife went to the left loaf first.
Screeech.
It barely cut, making an awful noise. Thick, hard crust; tough interior. But no one complained—that was standard noble bread.
Marco wiped sweat from his brow and finished slicing.
"Now... this one."
He paused, admiring it like art. But as the knife sank in—
Crunch!
"...?!"
"What was that sound?"
"More like, the knife just slid right in?"
The sharp crunch from the thin crust stunned them. Inside: airy holes, fluffy as could be. Just fingering it cracked the crust inward.
"Chef, cut gently. You're squishing it."
"Wonder if it tastes good."
"My mouth's watering already—looks delicious."
"Ehehe, wipe your drool, man."
The cooks waited like eager puppies as Marco sliced. Finally, portions for all.
"One piece each. Start with the left."
"Why?!"
"For a clear comparison."
They bit into the left slices.
"Mm..."
"Just like the leftovers we sneak. Fresher and warmer, though."
"Ugh, water?"
"Here."
Even small bites: hard crust, chewy inside. Needed stew or water to swallow. They passed the jug around to finish.
"Next... the right."
This time, hands darted like lightning. But instead of eating, they sniffed, poked, licked—analyzing.
Over half were veteran kitchen staff, hypersensitive to food's taste, aroma, look.
And even by their palates—
"Can bread taste like this?"
"C-crispy!"
"Crispy's amazing, but this chewy texture... no gumminess, eats dry."
"Bread can be this good?"
Thin crust shattered crisply, not tough. Inside: soft, springy chew—thanks to perfect rise. Polar opposite of the left's density.
"Tasting ends here. Vote for your favorite by taste. Take a moment."
Servants and cooks exchanged glances, pondering.
"How do we even vote?"
"Left looks like young master's style."
"Nah, left's pure Pierre flavor. Trust me."
"So right's the young master's?"
"Either way, shocking. Left's solid too."
"Argh! Whatever! I'm voting for the tasty one!"
"Me too."
"S-same."
Exhausted by debate, they trusted their tongues.
"Vote for the better bread. Hands up for left."
Silence. Not even clothing rustled. No takers for the thick, chewy left.
"For right...?"
Whoosh!
Hands shot up before he finished. Unanimous, no debate.
Taylor, watching from afar, smiled.
"Looks like I win."
"......"
Pierre's mustache quivered; he couldn't retort. His face burned red as oven logs—pure humiliation.