Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Culinary Acclaim and Merchant's Plea
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Silence blanketed the contest hall interior.
Dozens of eyes were locked on just one spot—the judges' lips.
Meylin's dish: the monkfish skin and flesh stir-fried to a crisp, rough around the edges as could be.
The moment it landed on the judges' tongues...
Crunch.
A cheerful burst shattered the heavy quiet.
A moment later, Princess Yuria's eyes went wide as she chewed with elegant poise.
The crispy batter crunched satisfyingly, revealing tender, springy flesh within, all wrapped in a velvety sauce that coated the tongue.
She gazed down at the plate in front of her in disbelief, letting out a sigh of admiration.
"My goodness..."
She dabbed her lips with a napkin and smiled lightly.
"This one little piece holds the full briny essence of the sea and the monkfish's rich nuttiness. It's like magic on a plate."
Marquis Frederick, seated beside her, stroked his signature mustache with a serious expression.
"...I judged too hastily by appearances."
He picked up his fork again, generously dipping another piece of monkfish into the sauce before popping it into his mouth.
Closing his eyes, he savored it slowly, every sense attuned to dissect the flavors, then offered his verdict.
"Years ago, in a coastal territory, I was served a monkfish soup. The whole fish simmered for half a day, extracting every bit of essence from the bones—a masterpiece. And yet..."
Marquis Frederick shook his head in disbelief.
"I taste that same deep, intense broth in this dish. How on earth did you coax such profound flavor in this short time?"
Meylin rubbed under her nose and grinned proudly at the judges' rave reviews.
"Hehe, here's the trick! I fried the bones and skin first to draw out the oils!"
Brimming with excitement, she gestured animatedly, passionately explaining her process.
"Stock takes forever, but roasting bones in scorching oil pulls the flavor out in seconds. Then frying the flesh in that oil? No way it wouldn't soak up all that monkfish goodness!"
Sir James nodded heavily as he listened.
"Perfect."
Even from the famously picky Grand Chef, the praise flowed freely.
"No fishiness at all. The spices are masterfully balanced. And that flashy mid-cook fire show... the flambé wasn't just for show. It was to burn off the off-flavors from the bones and skin with the alcohol, right?"
"Yes, exactly! High-proof liquor is best for killing fishy smells! Burn it off, and you're left with just the aroma."
Her cooking had no complex theories or precise calculations.
Just instinct honed for maximum deliciousness—a dish born of raw talent and intuition.
Sir James crossed his arms, fixing the girl with a serious gaze.
"That bold method demands flawless oil temperature control, or it's impossible. Purely on technique, you rival me. Pass."
The Grand Chef's highest accolade.
Murmurs rippled through the other contestants. 'That good?' 'Can't underestimate her just 'cause she's young...'
Princess Yuria nodded in agreement, declaring her pass.
Only Marquis Frederick added a stern note with a strict expression.
"A great chef moves people three times with one dish: first with looks, then aroma, last with taste."
He gestured at the sloppily plated dish.
"This moved me twice—with aroma and taste. But... work on presentation next time. It's like hiding a gem in a plain wooden box."
"Yes! I'll keep that in mind! Thank you!"
Meylin bowed deeply to the judges, then bounced down from the judging table with a beaming smile.
Watching her lively figure, I clenched my fist.
'Perfect! The story arc is nailed!'
String this scene right, and she'll gain tons of cheering viewers going forward.
And in a survival show, a fandom means higher survival odds.
Producers can't cut fan favorites without tanking ratings.
Well...
Even without rigging, her skills should carry her anyway.
Meylin's judging shocked the other contestants too.
A discarded-ingredient dish getting rave reviews? No more excuses about bad ingredients.
"I can do that too!"
"It's all about the flavor!"
Emboldened, contestants stepped up one by one.
But reality is harsh.
Most failed to breach the judges' iron wall, passes and eliminations alternating nonstop...
Then, the blond nobleman Dave, hair neatly combed back, strode confidently to the judging table.
"Monkfish liver terrine with lemon cream sauce."
His plate was a work of art.
The monkfish liver rapidly chilled in a magic freezer for shape, sliced thick.
Lemon-yellow cream sauce cascaded like sunlight atop it, dotted with paper-thin lemon zest.
The judges carefully sliced small pieces and tasted.
As if by agreement, satisfied smiles spread across all three faces.
"Melts like snow on the tongue—no teeth needed."
"Excellent harmony with the sauce."
Princess Yuria smiled contentedly too.
"The lemon's acidity perfectly cuts the rich oiliness. Balanced to perfection."
Unanimous raves led to a clean sweep pass.
Dave bowed gracefully in thanks.
But instead of stepping down, he posed a polite question.
"If I may humbly ask..."
"Speak."
Dave's gaze flicked briefly to Meylin below the stage, then back.
"Between Meylin's dish and mine... which was superior?"
The praise for 'trash' ingredients clearly nagged at him.
Princess Yuria covered her mouth with a light laugh at the bold query.
"Meylin's was excellent, but... yours struck me as more refined. For a royal banquet, I'd choose yours without hesitation."
"I'd back you as well."
Marquis Frederick nodded.
"Tough call, but your plating was far superior. It carries the Potail family's dignity. Be proud."
Dave's face finally lit up.
He bowed once more, descending triumphantly.
But...
One judge hadn't answered: Sir James, eyes closed in deep thought.
'Indeed... Right now, Dave Potail edges out in polish. Technique and senses both refined.'
Yet the image lingered in his mind: Meylin grinning joyfully amid the flames, flipping her pan.
'But Meylin... she has a talent I've never seen in my life. She instinctively pierces to flavor's core. If Dave gets complacent... she'll surpass him anytime.'
To the master who'd devoted his life to cuisine, the unpolished gem's inner glow shone clear.
Ding-!
"Stop! All contestants, hands off your dishes! Anyone unfinished is eliminated!"
Lucius's shout marked the end of the 1 hour 30 minutes.
Samuel's last-second salmon coulibiac—salmon wrapped in pastry and wood-oven baked—earned raves and passed, closing the brutal Round 1.
"45 survivors from Round 1! Give a big round of applause to those who delivered outstanding dishes!"
Roooar-!!!
Cheers and thunderous applause filled the hall.
Survivors hugged in joy; the eliminated wiped tears, packing up.
As joys and sorrows crossed...
Lucius's final words echoed.
"Next round in four days, right here! Even more fun and thrilling. Stay tuned!"
"Cut! Okay, that's a wrap—great job!"
I signaled the end of shooting.
Tension released, forgotten fatigue crashed in at once.
"Ow, my back..."
I massaged my stiff neck, gathering the crystal orbs with today's footage.
Shooting done, but my day was just starting.
Check dozens of orbs, pick highlights, splice scenes... at least two all-nighters ahead.
"What kinda grind is this..."
I pressed my temples, sighing.
Wanted a lazy life, started this gig—why's it busier than ever?
Something's off, for sure.
Well, can't quit now.
It's my chosen path... and kinda fun, too.
Quick nap at home, then editing.
But life doesn't follow plans, as they say.
Back at the mansion, editing shelved—I had an unexpected guest.
"Who?"
"Leader of Greenwood Merchant Group. Insists on seeing you, Young Master. He's waited outside since morning. Shall I send him away and reschedule?"
Greenwood?
Never heard of 'em.
Some rural outfit?
Almost said send him packing, but the all-day wait tugged at me.
Might as well hear him out.
Boot him if it's nonsense.
I dragged myself to the drawing room.
The man the butler brought in was far plainer than expected.
Brown hair, brown eyes. Early twenties at most.
Like any passerby—no standout features.
'Too young for a merchant leader... and that outfit's awfully plain.'
But he dropped to his knees the second he saw me.
"Pleased to meet you! Leban BlackStone, Young Master! I'm Gilbert, head of Greenwood Merchant Group!"
"...Uh, right. Up you get. What's this about?"
Gilbert didn't rise.
He bowed low, nearly forehead to floor, pulling a thick stack of papers from his robe.
Lists of spices and ingredients his group handled.
"I was blown away by your videos. Could you feature our goods?"
"Not interested in sales pitches."
"Not selling! All free—just air our stuff on the show, please!"
'Ho ho... interesting.'
I shifted in my seat, eyeing the kneeling youth with intrigue.
"In exchange... could you flash our name in a corner? Or show contestants praising our products, even briefly...!"
Conviction and desperation laced Gilbert's voice.
No-name group like mine? Probably a startup, small-scale.
But this guy's insight rivaled the continent's top tycoons.
Advertising's a vague concept here.
Just flyers or barkers yelling.
Yet he'd grasped it instantly from my videos.
How massive the promo boost is from appearing in front of tens of thousands.
My lips curled into a grin.
This talent's worth cultivating under me.
I approached and offered my hand.
"Gilbert, was it?"
"Y-yes! That's me!"
"On your feet. I think we'll get along."
I shook his hand, whispering low.
"Contract now. You've... hitched to the right star."
Far in the future...
The historic moment when Ispell Kingdom's greatest merchant and the world's top PD joined forces.