Chapter 48
Chapter 48
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: Chapter 48 - 타르타르, 볼로네제, 아이올리
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: Tartar, Bolognese, Aioli
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Tartar, Bolognese, Aioli.
The five sauces that had been preemptively distributed like that.
As soon as they received the Imperial Safe Mark, they were supplied not only to each caravan but also to the church's relief centers.
The five sauces spread simultaneously across the entire empire, flowing along the well-woven spider web.
New recipes from the "Saint" certified by the Emperor, the Pope, and the Tower Lord.
It hadn't been long since tomato sauce, arrabbiata, and mayonnaise had changed the world.
People were just starting to get used to those flavors.
And their common sense was shattered once again.
In a tavern called "Dried Herring" in a port city, sailors and dockworkers were rowdily downing watery ale with their rough voices, as usual.
Gars, a one-eyed sailor of twenty years at sea, shouted coarsely, pickled in rum as always.
"Hey! The cheapest fish fry platter and one ale!"
The fish fry was served on a chipped plate atop the sticky table, smeared with spilled beer and burnt oil as usual.
A few soggy, fishy-smelling pieces made from cheap trash fish, gutted and fried.
Gars grimaced. He reached for it, planning to wash down this awful fry with watery ale.
At that moment, the tavern mistress placed another small dish down.
"What's this?"
"No idea. Apparently it's the Saint's latest sauce. It has the Imperial seal, so it won't kill you. Name's... Tartar Sauce, I think?"
The dish contained a white cream like mayonnaise, but studded with finely chopped bits.
Gars eyed it suspiciously, picked up a soggy fry piece, and dunked it deep into the sauce.
Then he shoved it into his mouth, bearded roughly.
"……!"
Gars's one eye widened in shock for the first time in his life.
He forgot to chew. Or rather, there was no time to chew.
How was this possible?
The fry shell, which had been utterly soggy just moments ago, now shattered crisply as if freshly pulled from the oil.
No, an even greater shock assaulted his tongue.
"Th-this taste...!"
The cloying oiliness and fishy stench that had overwhelmed his mouth vanished in an instant, swept away like a sailboat in a storm.
And in their place came a refreshing crispness he could never have imagined.
Built on mayonnaise's nutty richness, a pleasant tangy stimulation on the tongue and the crunchy texture of something fresh and crisp.
Yes. It was the delightful crunch of vinegar-pickled cucumber and onion.
Gars dazedly picked up another fry. This time, he piled the sauce mountain-high.
"Kha! What is this! It makes the booze taste even better!"
He alternated bites of fry with gulps of ale.
The soggy fry was no longer a curse. It was now the perfect vehicle for this miraculous sauce.
His boisterous reaction instantly drew the eyes of the entire tavern.
"Hey, Gars! What are you eating so deliciously by yourself!"
"What's that? Doesn't smell like the Saintess's salvation. Does it taste good?"
Gars scraped the dish clean with the last fry piece, too rushed to even answer his mates.
He thrust the empty dish at the mistress and bellowed.
"One more! No, a big bowl!"
His shout became the spark.
The other skeptical sailors and dockworkers began ordering Tartar Sauce one by one.
Soon, the "Dried Herring" tavern filled with entirely different sounds.
Instead of foul curses and shouts, crisp fry-crunching and exclamations erupted everywhere.
The port men, who had lived their lives with stinking trash fish fries, were opening their eyes to the pure joy of food for the first time.
Meanwhile, in a capital mansion.
The Rochester Marquis household's dinner table, notorious for not tolerating even a carriage wheel mark, was as cold as thin ice.
Marchioness Isabella dabbed her lips with a napkin, gazing displeased at the main course from the head chef: roasted lamb ribs.
"Lamb ribs again. Boiled yesterday, steamed the day before, roasted today. Is that the limit of your creativity?"
The head chef's face went pale.
It was nearly impossible to satisfy the capital's most notoriously picky gourmet.
She always craved new stimulation, yet tolerated no deviation from tradition—a paradoxical epicurean.
At that moment, the head butler tremblingly placed a small silver dish on the table.
A deep, heavy-looking sauce with a reddish sheen.
"Th-this is the 'Bolognese' sauce newly released by the Saint of Valeria. I don't know if it's worthy to serve the Marchioness, but..."
"Saint?"
Isabella scoffed. She knew of the mayonnaise craze too.
Just a soft cream lump that the commoners raved over. She despised riding such fads.
But the title of "Saint" was endorsed by the Imperial Family and the Church. She couldn't ignore it entirely.
"Bring it here."
She scooped a bit with a silver spoon and tasted it.
Finely chopped meat and vegetables, intense tomato aroma. Her brow furrowed slightly.
'How dare they serve such crude stuff at my table.'
But the instant the sauce touched her tongue, her arrogant expression froze.
'...!'
This wasn't crude. It was a symphony where dozens of instruments harmonized perfectly.
Tomato's fresh acidity first awakened the tongue, followed by the deep umami of meat braised in wine sinking heavily in.
Yet the finish was astonishingly smooth.
Despite the meat, wine, and tomato, it wasn't stimulating at all—instead, a gentle mildness that enveloped everything like milk.
"H-how can this be..."
For the first time, she felt her tongue exploring the abyss of flavors.
The sweetness from long-simmered onions, carrots, and celery. The concentrated fond from meat seared and deglazed with wine. And the presence of the "mother sauce" binding it all.
Unconsciously, she sliced a piece of lamb rib and coated it thickly in the sauce.
"Ah..."
A gasp escaped. The lamb, excellent but somewhat monotonous, was elevated to a new dimension with the ragù sauce.
The meat's flavor deepened, and the sauce's complex notes offered new delights with every bite.
Forgetting her dignity as Marchioness, Isabella wiped the plate clean of every drop with bread.
Gazing at the empty plate, she murmured softly.
"Head chef."
Her voice was cold, but laced with uncontainable excitement and thrill.
The chef, awaiting execution, rushed over.
"Y-you called, Madam!"
"This sauce... 'Bolognese,' was it."
"Yes! Yes! It's the 'Ragù Bolognese' bestowed by the Saint of Valeria!"
Isabella stared at the plate, now impeccably clean from her bread-wiping.
Her epicurean life, the traditions and formalities she so revered, had been utterly negated by this unknown Saint's impossible combination.
Wine and milk, meat and tomato. She could never have imagined they could blend into something this divine.
The court dishes she had savored all her life felt like child's play before this symphony of concentrated umami.
"Immediately."
"Pardon?"
"Immediately contact the Argentis caravan or whoever. Fill my private warehouse with every last drop of this sauce—not just a year's supply, all they have."
Her eyes gleamed. Contempt gone, only greedy possessiveness remained.
As the meal at a certain noblewoman's table drew to a close, at the Imperial Knight Academy's training grounds.
New cadets collapsed exhausted on the dirt after intense sparring until dusk.
"Damn, seven loaves of bread and I'm still hungry."
"Dinner worries me more. Probably stiff black bread and meat stew with floating grease again."
As complaints erupted, veteran instructor Harman appeared and shouted at them.
"Cadets, attention!"
Instructor Harman kicked a huge tub. It boomed across the grounds.
"Dinner menu changed. New supply from the Saint. Called... 'Aioli.' Like mayonnaise but different."
The cadets' eyes widened. Fatigue vanished at "Saint."
To them, the Saint meant "delicious food" before any religious connotation.
As rations were distributed, they looked puzzled.
Their share: a hunk of hard black bread, boiled potatoes, watery soup.
The only change: a small dish of white sauce beside the soup.
"This... just mayonnaise?"
"No, the smell... garlic?"
Not mayonnaise's soft nuttiness, but a piercing, intense, pungent garlic aroma.
A brave cadet slathered Aioli thick on the hard black bread end and shoved it in.
"……!"
His eyes bulged.
"Kuhuk...! Spicy! No, not spicy. Intense!"
He couldn't speak, just wolfed down the bread.
Mayonnaise's rich fat coated the tongue as crushed garlic's pungency slammed the brain.
A beastly "punch" hidden in softness. The black bread's moldy taste vanished, replaced by explosive appetite-stimulating flavor dominating the mouth.
"Insane...! What is this!"
"Just bread with sauce, but it's like premium garlic bread!"
Other cadets frantically dipped bread into sauce.
After devouring the bread, they fished out bland boiled potatoes and meat bits from the soup and dunked them.
"Ooh! The tasteless meat came alive!"
One cadet grabbed his watery soup bowl, squeezed in heaps of Aioli, and chugged it.
"Kuhuhu! Damn, it's not soup anymore—it's rich meat dish! The garlic locks in the oily savoriness!"
The grounds turned to chaos.
Cadets too drained to lift spoons now snarled like wolves, dipping black bread and potatoes in sauce.
The pungent garlic revived weary nerves, and mayonnaise's dense fat instantly replenished calories depleted by harsh training.
"Power... power surging!"
"With this, I could do night training ten more times!"
Instructor Harman silently watched, arms crossed. A faint smile played on his lips.
'Thought the new Saint rumors were exaggerated, but seems not.'
At the exact moment Instructor Harman silently witnessed the miracle of weary soldiers regaining vitality from Aioli sauce alone.
In the empire's heart, the Papal Palace.
Pope Innocentius III read urgent reports from dioceses across the empire late into the night, trembling as he made the sign of the cross.
The contents weren't blasphemy or heresy.
It was the manifestation of miracle itself.
"Your Holiness! In the port cities, sailors tasting Tartar Sauce are crying out the Saintess's salvation instead of drunken rants! Overwhelmed by newfound joy, they shed tears, calling it the Saint's blessing, and have ceased their brawls!"
"In the Knight Orders, Aioli Sauce is hailed as the Saint's vitality, morale piercing the heavens! They no longer fight over bread and water but train in the Saint's name!"
Innocentius III gazed at the dark capital beyond the window.
He had appointed Jonathan as Saint to expand the Church's influence northward. But now, this phenomenon far exceeded the Church's control.
"Oh, Lord..."
The Pope clasped his hands. Awe mingled with deep thrill at his faith's foundations shaking.
"We called him Saint, but the people already accept him as salvation incarnate."
"Let us give thanks that God sent Jonathan to us, and pray."
Thus, even in the Holy See's very center, prayers praising this miracle spread.
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