Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: Red Wave
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A few days had passed since the meeting concluded.
“Wow...”
“The equipment has expanded tremendously...”
The technical partnership agreement with the Magic Tower had been concluded with astonishing speed.
Word was that the Tower Lord himself had welcomed it with open arms, declaring, “For glimpsing that level of intellectual legacy, it's a steal!”
As a result, expert magitech engineers dispatched from the Magic Tower had swarmed the existing alchemy facilities, installing equipment on par with the Tower's own standards.
Mechanical arms enchanted with spells to automatically stir ingredients in the cauldrons. Precision dispensers that measured and added exact quantities according to recipes.
Even automated lines that cooled the finished sauce to a uniform temperature, transferred it, and fed it onto conveyor belts.
The Argentis facilities had never been small to begin with, but now they rivaled those of a mid-sized enterprise, expanded beyond a small factory.
And yet, they promised to scale it up even further over time. The Magic Tower truly lived up to its reputation.
“So, we're finally moving into full-scale mass production?”
“Probably. Considering the pre-orders from the Imperial Palace, plus shipments to all the merchant caravans...”
Erika's affirmative response brought a satisfied smile to my face.
Yes, all preparations were complete.
The red wave that had begun as my modest whim was now poised to sweep across the entire Empire.
And so, the storm began.
*Outskirts of the capital, a stonemason's dinner table.*
“Dear, I'm sorry. It's just this plain stew again today...”
The stonemason Martin, exhausted from a grueling day of labor, simply nodded at his wife's weary voice, as if to say it was fine.
Hard, dry bread and watery potato stew.
With the same menu dragging on for days, his son sitting beside him was already pouting.
But today, his wife held a small glass jar she had splurged on a few days ago.
The stuff from those grand rumors—said to have made the Emperor lick his plate clean and left the Pope reeling.
“Hmm, let's see... like this...”
Her trembling hands uncorked the glass jar.
As the rich, fragrant tomato aroma filled the cramped hut, Martin unwittingly swallowed hard.
She scooped a spoonful of the thick red liquid and gently poured it over the bland stew.
The nearly white stew instantly turned an appetizing crimson hue.
“Here, dear... try it...”
Martin skeptically lifted his spoon.
The moment a heaping spoonful entered his mouth, his rough eyes flew wide in shock.
“......!”
This... was this really the potato stew he knew?
The dull, insipid flavor was gone.
Enveloping his tongue was the tangy yet profound depth of tomato, followed by the subtle sweetness of onions and an indescribable umami.
Even the hard bread softened like it was fresh-baked when soaked in the broth.
And he wasn't the only one stunned by the transformation.
The son's nose twitched at the scent.
A savory, tangy aroma that whetted the appetite like nothing he'd ever smelled.
Unthinkingly gripping his spoon, the boy took a bite of the rosy, enticing stew.
“......!”
The boy's round eyes widened just like his father's.
He chewed a few times, then shouted.
“It's delicious! Mom, more! Bread too! I wanna dip the bread!”
As if he'd never lost his appetite, the child frantically dunked bread into the stew and shoved it into his mouth.
At the sight—her son, who always pushed food away—her eyes welled up quietly.
The boy who complained that hard bread was gross, that everyone at school ate only white bread, what was this stuff anyway.
The guilt of not providing him something better melted away bit by bit.
“Mom, you eat too! It's so good!”
“O-okay. Shall I?”
With trembling hands, she scooped her portion and brought it cautiously to her lips.
“...!”
This was a miracle.
A burst of vivid tang at the tongue's tip, like sunlight captured in fruit.
Then a gentle, profound sweetness cradling that acidity, caressing the deepest recesses of the palate.
The potato's bland taste blossomed richly only upon meeting this red broth, as if finding its true place.
No meat in sight, yet it filled the belly as heartily as carefully simmered stock—what was this depth?
All the comfort her lifelong cooking had never given her family was packed into that tiny red spoonful.
“...Hic.”
In the end, a hot tear rolled down her cheek. Not from guilt or the sorrow of dire poverty.
Perhaps the overwhelming joy of pure happiness blooming at her own dinner table for the first time.
No one spoke first.
Only the scrape of spoons against bowls filled the silence.
The modest table, once heavy with silence and obligation, glowed tonight warmer and more bountiful than any noble's banquet.
*Meanwhile, Viscountess Eleanor's salon.*
“My goodness. People still raving over that vulgar stuff?”
Viscountess Eleanor snorted behind her ivory fan.
Her salon was famed as the gathering spot for the capital's pickiest gourmets.
The tomato sauce all the rage lately was, naturally, beneath her scorn.
“Even if the palace seeks it out, it's just cheap seasoning aimed at commoners' palates, isn't it? True cuisine lies in extravagance, sparing no premium ingredients or spices.”
Several noblewomen nodded in agreement.
Perhaps it was only natural. To them, banquets were for flaunting wealth; dishes laden with it were the “tasty” ones.
Indigestion from smothering obese livestock meat in spices pricier than gold by weight was a trifling price—oily, intense flavors took precedence over mere taste.
Their gastronomy wasn't for the tongue, but for show.
True indulgence proved one's fortune through paralyzing spice blasts and gut-wrenching grease—conquering flavor with the might of riches, not delicate artistry from harmonious ingredients.
To them, a sauce from peasants' commonplace tomatoes was laughable.
“Exactly. My husband recently served turkey dusted with dragon's incense powder from the Eastern Continent. So oily and pungent, my stomach was upset for three days—but that's noble dining, no?”
“Precisely, ho ho. Worlds apart from commoners sprinkling salt on watery stew.”
Just then, the salon door opened quietly; the butler bowed politely.
“Madam, Head Chef Antoine requests a moment of your time to present a new dish.”
“Antoine? Oh? What clever notion has he devised now. Bring him in.”
Viscountess Eleanor smiled in satisfaction.
Antoine was the top chef she'd hired at great expense, one of the capital's finest.
He must have prepared a masterpiece to soothe her refined complaints about the vulgar trend.
Soon, silver trays covered in domes were placed before each lady.
Antoine himself carried the tray, unveiling it before Eleanor.
“......”
But it wasn't a riot of lavish spices.
Perfectly roasted chicken breast, simply garnished with a touch of that infamous red sauce.
One slice of impeccably cooked chicken, a basil leaf, and a vivid, familiar red sauce drizzled atop.
Yet contrasting its simplicity, the aroma tickling their noses was more alluring than any costly perfume to ever grace the salon.
“Antoine. What... is this?”
Disappointment and suspicion laced Eleanor's voice.
“Madam. My humble answer to the storm shaking the capital. Please, just one taste.”
Antoine merely bowed.
Eleanor frowned in irritation but, to defuse the cooling atmosphere, prodded the conversation.
“Come now, Viscountess. At least taste it. Seeing is believing, after all.”
“...For your sakes, then.”
Reluctantly, she sliced a small piece with her silver fork and ate.
'Fine, let's see what it's...'
And her world stopped.
“......!”
Her haughty expression froze solid.
'Th-this flavor...!'
This wasn't violence—no barbaric assault of spices and grease battering the tongue.
This was harmony.
Tender chicken juices first enveloped the palate, followed by the red sauce flowing in like a perfectly orchestrated symphony.
An elegant acidity that didn't sting, profound umami awakening every taste bud, culminating in a rich, unifying sweetness.
Not overpowering the chicken, but elevating it to new heights.
The ostentatious flavors she'd chased her whole life felt pitifully crude before this spoonful of balance.
“Th-this...!”
How could chewy chicken breast be this tender?
No—how could flavors harmonize like this on the tongue?
Not mere sour and sweet.
Depth like layers of dozens of spices, perfect equilibrium binding them all.
Not crude conquest of the senses.
An elegant, overwhelming mastery sublimating ingredients to higher realms.
“Oh... my god...”
“I-is this really that sauce...?”
Gasps erupted. Ivory fans clattered to the floor.
Trembling, Eleanor tasted just the sauce alone.
And realized. This wasn't seasoning. It was alchemy. Turning base ingredients to gold.
“Antoine...!”
At her sharp call, Antoine raised his head calmly.
His eyes held a chef's defeat mingled with awe at true flavor.
“No excuses, Madam. I've devoted my life to chasing even the edge of this taste with costly ingredients. But this one jar negates it all.”
Silence enveloped the salon.
Soon, one noblewoman's urgent voice shattered it.
“Butler! Send to the Argentis caravan at once! Buy every jar they have!”
That was the signal.
“M-me, ten jars!”
“Twenty for me! My husband will love banquets with this!”
The ladies who'd mocked it as vulgar moments ago now clamored shamelessly for it.
Only Eleanor sat dazed, clutching her empty plate.
Her lofty gourmet salon thus submerged helplessly in the commoners' red wave.