Spicy Solution
My words made Marie’s expression stiffen a little.
She already knew exactly what that meant.
Whenever I messed something up and called her over to use her as my trash can, she’d complain the whole time—but she always came anyway and finished every bite.
Shit, so that’s why she’s putting on weight? Well, a little flesh is prettier than being skin and bones, I guess.
Marie pushed through the customers and came to stand in front of my table.
Berman watched her with an uneasy look.
“Is it really necessary to have one of the staff taste it?”
I ignored him and held the plate out to Marie.
“Try this.”
Marie looked down at the plate for a moment.
“Is it fish?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why is there incense on it?”
“I asked that too.”
Marie carefully tore off a little of the fish and put it in her mouth.
After chewing once or twice, her face went rigid.
She seemed to waver for a moment, whether to spit it out or not, but in the end she squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed the food, and took a sip of water.
“The fishy smell’s way too strong. The sauce is sweet, which makes it even weirder, and the inside of the fish is cold.”
Berman laughed at once.
“Miss Marie doesn’t seem to be accustomed to refined dining yet. There are techniques where the center is left a little undercooked to preserve the grain of the fish, you know.”
The moment I heard that, something inside me snapped clean in two.
Sure, Marie was a commoner with no family name, and sure, she was there to serve fine dining, not enjoy it—but she still ate the food I made to survive.
Calling her taste blind was an insult to me.
I slowly raised my head.
“What did you just say?”
Berman still had that awkward smile plastered on his face.
“No, I mean… I was only saying that the employees of Maison Montbell are still young, so they may find such delicate cooking methods unfamiliar.”
I stood up.
The restaurant fell silent.
The crystal orb turned toward me.
“No, fuck this.”
My voice wasn’t loud.
It was so low, in fact, that it carried all the more clearly through the now-silent dining room.
“You say that in front of a guest?”
Berman’s face hardened.
“You’re speaking very rudely.”
“Rudely?”
I pointed at the fish.
“This fish is ice-cold in the center. You covered the fishy smell with incense, covered the sauce with sugar, and when someone said it tasted bad, you told them they lacked a palate.”
Berman opened his mouth.
I lifted a hand to stop him.
“Don’t speak. I’m still being as polite as I can.”
He shut his mouth.
I called over one of the floor staff.
“Excuse me, could you come here for a moment?”
A young employee approached with a stiff face.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“If a guest says the food is undercooked, what do you usually answer?”
The employee glanced toward Berman.
“Well….”
“It’s fine. I’m the one asking.”
After hesitating for quite a while, he answered in a tiny voice, “I was taught to explain that some aristocratic fish dishes are eaten that way because it brings out the texture.”
“Who told you to say that?”
The employee ended up looking at Berman.
The moment he did, I nodded.
“I see.”
This time I walked over to an elderly couple sitting by the window.
“Excuse me. I’m the consultant overseeing this restaurant today. May I ask you a quick question?”
The old lady hesitated a little before nodding.
“How long have you been waiting since you ordered?”
“Almost an hour. I was just about to leave, but my husband said we’d already made the reservation, so we should wait and see.”
“And the food?”
The old lady looked at her husband.
After some hesitation, he let out a sigh.
“The meat was tough. And the sauce was far too salty.”
“Did you mention that?”
“The staff told us that strong flavors are normal for aristocratic lamb dishes.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Then I looked back at Berman.
“Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Berman looked flustered.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“There are still other dishes left, and if you behave like this in front of the customers, the restaurant’s image—”
“The restaurant’s image?”
I stared him straight in the eye.
“Your customers are sitting there waiting an hour to eat garbage, and you’re worried about your image?”
When he tried to say something else, I raised my voice.
“To the kitchen. Before it gets any later.”
The moment we opened the kitchen door, the restaurant’s true face came pouring out.
Everything that had been vaguely hidden by incense and flowers in the dining room hit me full in the face here as the smell of rot.
Oil and water pooled together on the floor, and the sink was piled high with plates still crusted over with food.
Blood had dried beneath the cutting boards.
When I opened the refrigerator, it was crammed so full I half expected the containers to spill out, and not a single one had a date label.
Changed-colored cream, sauces with the lids left open, potatoes no one could say had been boiled when, and meat sitting in its own bloody liquid.
And in the very bottom compartment sat fish so rank with stench that the smell clung to it thickly.
I shut the refrigerator door.
Then I opened it again.
Just in case I’d seen wrong.
I hadn’t.
I turned to Berman.
“What is this?”
His lips twitched for a second.
“Ingredients.”
“Ingredients?”
I pointed into the refrigerator.
“Does that look like ingredients to you?”
“They’re still usable. Food costs aren’t exactly cheap, so naturally we should make use of what’s left.”
The moment I heard that, I slammed the refrigerator door shut.
The bang echoed through the entire kitchen.
“Make use of it?”
I took one step toward Berman.
“You call serving this to customers ‘making use of it’?”
“Mr. Pratt, please calm down.”
“Calm down?”
This time my voice truly exploded.
“Fuck, is this a kitchen? It’s a morgue!”
The entire kitchen froze.
Even the head chef, even the staff washing dishes, even Marie, who had followed in from the dining room—none of them could move.
I didn’t stop.
“This fish could have died days ago for all I know, the cream reeks of rotting filth, there’s blood pooling on the floor, and you served this to your customers?”
Berman’s face flushed red.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Then taste it.”
I pulled the fish container from the bottom of the refrigerator and set it down in front of him.
“Go on. Taste it. You said it was still usable, didn’t you?”
“I’m not in a position to eat right now—”
“Then why should a guest eat something even the owner won’t touch?”
Berman had no answer.
I picked up the knife lying on the worktable.
When I pressed my thumb lightly against the blade, the dull edge only shoved back against my skin instead of biting in.
“When was this sharpened last?”
The head chef answered carefully.
“It’s been over a month.”
“Why? A blade this dull would have been better off replaced altogether. Didn’t anyone say anything?”
“The master said buying a new knife when this one could still be used would be a waste….”
Berman immediately barked, “Don’t say unnecessary things!”
“Be quiet.”
Berman stiffened.
“What did you say?”
“I said be quiet. Don’t say another word until I ask you something.”
For once, he couldn’t argue back.
I turned to the head chef.
“What’s your name?”
“Luca.”
“Mr. Luca. What was this restaurant’s best-selling dish originally?”
He hesitated briefly before answering.
“Lamb stew.”
“Then why isn’t it on the menu now?”
“Because I was told an aristocratic restaurant shouldn’t serve such ordinary food….”
I glared at Berman.
He couldn’t say a word.
“So if I sum up what you’ve done…”
I spoke in a very low voice.
“You threw out the food your guests actually liked, sprinkled gold flakes over terrible dishes, topped them with incense, and made it so that whenever customers complained, they were told they lacked taste.”
Berman’s gaze wavered.
“I only wanted to make the restaurant more refined.”
“Refined?”
I almost laughed.
“Refined isn’t pretending to be expensive. Refined means knowing how to make even a single bite worth eating.”
He lowered his head.
I looked around the kitchen.
Tired staff, rotting ingredients, blood dried onto the floor, knives that hadn’t been properly sharpened.
And the owner who had blamed every problem on his staff and his customers alike.
“This restaurant will be closed for the next three days.”
Berman jerked his head up.
“That won’t do. Do you know how much money we’d lose?”
“You don’t have customers now anyway.”
“Even so, if we suspend operations—”
“Then keep doing it this way.”
I said coldly, “Let’s see whether the customers all get food poisoning, whether the staff runs away first, or whether this place gets a bad enough reputation to collapse completely.”
He had nothing to say to that.
“For three days, every container in the refrigerator without a date gets thrown out. All spoiled ingredients get discarded. Scrub the kitchen from the floor up, sharpen every knife, and cut the menu down.”
“But then it won’t be an aristocratic restaurant anymore.”
I looked at Berman with naked contempt.
“It isn’t an aristocratic restaurant now.”
Silence fell for a moment.
Then I added one last thing.
“And don’t ever put incense beside the food again. If I catch you doing it one more time, I’ll have you eat the incense instead of the meal.”
For three days, The Swan Under the Crown was turned completely upside down.
More than half the ingredients in the refrigerator were thrown out.
Any container without a date on it was discarded without room for argument, and the scorched pots and filthy cutting boards were replaced as soon as their condition was seen.
Only after the kitchen floor and drains had been scrubbed clean did the stale smell of old oil begin to fade.
At first, Berman kept muttering about how wasteful the ingredients were.
Then I lifted an expired container of cream and asked him, “Are you going to eat this?”
After that, he went quiet.
The menu was reduced to warm bread with freshly made butter, properly simmered lamb stew, potato purée, and apple tart.
Berman stared at the new menu for a long time before speaking.
“Isn’t this too ordinary?”
“Are you ashamed of ordinary food?”
He said nothing for a long time.
“No.”
“Then make it properly.”
When I ground out those words through clenched teeth, Berman could only lower his head in silence.
And every last one of those scenes was beautifully captured by the crystal orb.
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