The Notorious Gourmet
Moshul the gourmet wouldn't arrive for a while yet, so Klaus decided to make a quick trip to the Royal Capital.
"Ah, Boss~ Heading out?"
"Yeah."
"Should I come with?"
"Stay here and watch the restaurant."
"Uuuugh...."
What business does a ghost have tagging along? If he took her to the capital, she'd draw way too much attention. He piled a bunch of tasks on Aris—who looked like she'd get bored anyway—and left the restaurant.
It had been quite a while since he'd last come to the Royal Capital. He usually only went out to nearby villages for ingredients. Elgraf, the Royal Capital, was a massive city that felt like dozens of towns crammed together. Protected by sturdy outer walls, its inner citadel housed the king himself—the pinnacle of continental power.
Misikdang Slow was a full day's nonstop carriage ride from the capital, so any trip there meant blocking out at least three days for the round trip.
He'd come specifically before Moshul's visit for a few reasons. One was to sample food from other restaurants. A top-notch chef couldn't just keep cooking their own stuff. Sometimes you had to eat others' food, analyze the flavors, learn what you could, and spot your own shortcomings. That was one way to maintain your skills.
The capital had a wide variety of eateries. Without a specific target, he wandered wherever his feet took him, eyeing places that caught his interest.
A small stew shop tucked deep in an alley. The sign was weathered, but the aroma wafting out smelled promising. He took a seat inside and ordered the daily special: a beef and root vegetable stew simmered for hours.
He scooped up a spoonful and tasted it. The broth was rich and deep. The meat had melted into tender perfection from the long cook. A bit heavy on the salt, though, and the root veggies were overdone, mushy in texture.
Not bad overall. The kind of place that probably had a loyal crowd of regulars. He polished off the bowl and approached the owner.
"Thanks, that was delicious. Mind if I ask you something?"
The shopkeeper—sporting a sharply curled mustache—replied kindly. "Of course, sir. What would you like to know?"
"You ever heard of a guy named Moshul?"
That was his second reason for coming: gathering intel on Moshul. The visit was confirmed, but all he knew was that the gourmet was picky. Bringing someone to his restaurant to enjoy the food was one thing, but having them come to judge it? That nagged at him.
The owner dropped his salesman's smile at the question. "Moshul... You mean that famous gourmet? Oh yeah, I know him."
"That notorious, huh?"
"To folks in the food business like us, he's a walking nightmare. Nitpicks every damn dish... I used to work at another place before opening this one. Pretty well-known spot in the capital."
The owner shivered as he continued. "One day, Moshul shows up and orders every single item on the menu. We busted our asses, double- and triple-checked everything in the kitchen before sending it out. But he takes one bite of each and leaves—flipping an empty cup upside down on the way out."
"Not to his taste?"
"Guess so. But then he drops this brutal review online. So savage that even our regular customers—who'd always been fine before—start complaining, second-guessing everything because of him. Perception's a scary thing. Eventually, a competitor moved in next door, and boom—the place folded."
Infamous might be more accurate than famous. A restaurant going under from one critic's bad review? On the other hand... if it was truly flawless and delicious, no single gourmet's words would kill it. A restaurant lived or died by capturing the palates of the masses, not one or two experts.
Sorry, owner, but the real culprit was probably getting outdone on taste and price by the competition. Moshul's review was just bad timing—like salt on the wound.
"I see... I read in the paper he's doing a 'Today's Tasting' column or something. Got me curious."
"Ah, that one. Good luck to any place he features. Word is, his tastes have gotten even harder to please lately. At that point, it's just him being a grouch."
"Still, one nod from him, and you'd blow up overnight, right?"
The owner sighed softly. "Sure, in theory. But that's the fantasy for folks who haven't met him. Guy's just a pervert who gets off on crushing chefs' egos."
Klaus watched him shake his head in disbelief, then said, "Thanks again for the meal," and headed out.
He looped around the capital a bit more, stopping at a few other spots. A meat pie from a tiny pie shop, tea at a café on the edge of the bustling district. Everywhere he went, he casually asked about Moshul.
The stories were all the same. Picky as hell. Loves insulting chefs. Once he turns on you, it's over.
The café owner put it like this: "I get it if he says it's not tasty—tastes differ. But he doesn't stop there. He denies the chef's right to exist. 'You're not fit to cook,' that kinda thing."
"You heard it yourself?"
She nodded. "Came to my friend's bakery once. Orders a loaf, takes a bite, sets it down, and asks if he baked it himself. Friend says yes, and Moshul tells him to apologize to the barley and wheat."
"Just for that?"
"Yup. Walked out. Friend's been baking over ten years. That one line crushed him. Shop's still open, but... he just doesn't have the fire anymore."
Klaus sipped his tea. Denying a chef's very existence. That went beyond mere taste—it was a precision strike at their pride. Not just judging the food, but the hands that made it.
"He ever actually praise anything?"
She thought for a moment, then gave a wry smile. "There were a few 'Moshul-approved' spots back in the day. But lately? Nothing."
Nothing lately... Klaus set down his empty cup and left the café.
Deep in the capital's upscale residential district. In a vast study, Moshul sat alone, gazing at a single sheet of paper on his desk.
Misikdang Slow. One application he'd personally plucked from thousands.
It had sat there for days now—not because he needed to reread it. He'd memorized every word.
"We'll make whatever dish the customer desires. Guaranteed satisfaction."
That was it.
Moshul rose and walked to the window. The capital's night streets sprawled below, alleys aglow with restaurant lights.
All the places he'd visited so far. Scan the menu, get the food, one bite. Turn and leave. Rinse and repeat.
He rested a hand on the window, pondering. Whatever dish... When he'd first read it, he'd almost scoffed. Braggarts usually piled on the boasts—how amazing they were, all they could do.
But this was different. It felt like: Come if you dare. I don't care if you do. But if you show, you'll leave happy.
Moshul turned back to the desk. No real expectations. It'd probably be just like all the others. He'd seen countless like that.
This one would be too. And yet... it nagged at him. No restaurant could turn a profit like that. Unless they were trying to fail.
An odd place—zero pandering to a famous gourmet like him from the application itself. Retrograde. Defiant.
"Might be someone worth talking to..."
He murmured to himself, slid the paper into a drawer. Gourmet Moshul was counting down the days until his visit to Misikdang Slow.