The Gourmet's Impossible Order
The day Moshul the gourmet was set to visit dawned. Nothing had really changed. I got up in the morning, flipped the open sign, and went up to the rooftop to water the herb pots.
"Manager~! Today's the day that gourmet's coming, right~! Aren't you nervous~?"
"Nope."
"I am~!"
"Why are you nervous?"
Aris kept peeking toward the road while sweeping in front of the restaurant.
"What if he shows up super early?"
"The letter said afternoon."
"Still~"
I set down the watering can and looked down at Aris.
"You're holding the broom upside down."
"Eek?!"
Aris hurriedly flipped the broom around. I came down from the roof and headed to the kitchen. I planned to keep breakfast simple. I'd have to cook for the guest in the afternoon anyway, so another ingredient check was in order.
Afternoon arrived. Aris had been pressing her nose to the window, staring out at the road. I sat at the counter, sipping herbal tea and reading a cookbook.
"Manager, someone's coming!"
"Yeah."
"For real~!"
"Be quiet."
Ding-a-ling-Ding-a-ling-
A moment later, the door opened.
"Welcome~!"
Aris greeted him energetically. I closed my book and looked up. One person entered. An old man who looked over sixty. His white hair was neatly combed back, and he wore a dark navy coat. He leaned on a cane, but his steps weren't slow. His eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, slowly scanned the restaurant. Over the tables, the kitchen, Aris. Finally, they settled on me behind the counter.
"So this is Misikdang Slow. Hmph, quite the eccentric taste."
His voice was low and dry.
"Yes, that's right. Welcome."
The old man gave the interior another once-over, then chose a seat by the window. He propped his cane against the table, neatly removed his coat, and hung it on the chair's backrest. Every movement was quiet and precise. I stepped out from the counter and stood before him.
"You're Moshul, right?"
"Indeed."
Moshul looked up at me.
"The chef and owner, I presume. Younger than expected. You handle the greetings yourself?"
"The waitress could show you to your seat, but since you're an important guest, I came out personally."
"Hmph."
Moshul let out a short hum and gazed around the restaurant again.
"No menu?"
"None."
"As stated in the application."
He placed his hands neatly folded on the table and continued.
"You said you'd make whatever the guest desires."
"Yes."
"I've come to verify it's no bluff."
"One moment, if you please."
I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down entirely. Moshul's eyebrow twitched slightly. It wasn't common for a chef to sit with a guest.
"Before taking your order, may I ask a few questions?"
"...Ask away."
I met his gaze and asked.
"Why did you choose my restaurant?"
A brief silence fell. Moshul stared at his hands on the table, then lifted his eyes to me.
"Then might I ask one in return?"
"Please do."
"How many years as a chef?"
An out-of-left-field question.
"Over fifteen."
"Any notable restaurants among them?"
"Before opening this place, I cooked while adventuring."
Moshul seemed to mull that over. He didn't press further.
"Self-taught, or apprenticed?"
"Both. I still study cooking diligently."
"Intriguing."
Moshul reached into the inner pocket of his coat hanging on the chairback and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped it open, jotted something down, and spoke.
"On the carriage from the Royal Capital, I knew from the application the road was rough, but not this rough."
"Was the journey here too inconvenient?"
"It was. Opening a restaurant in a place like this... I thought the owner must be mad."
Moshul looked up from his notebook at me.
"What possessed you to set up shop here?"
I thought for a moment before answering.
"I wanted to run it quietly. Too many customers make it hard to focus on the cooking."
Moshul eyed me for a moment, then let out a low chuckle—more a snort, really.
"Arrogant, without ever having worked a busy place."
"Maybe. Who knows."
The air in the restaurant felt thick with tension. I couldn't exactly say, In my past life, I burned out working in a packed restaurant, so it must seem utterly baffling to him. From the moment Moshul walked in, I'd sensed it. This man shared something with me—stubborn perfectionism in his field, or maybe just bullheaded independence. Every word and gesture felt like a subtle challenge, so I met it in kind.
Moshul closed his notebook and slipped it back into his coat. He folded his hands on the table again.
"I'll order now."
I straightened up.
"Please, go ahead."
Moshul paused. He gazed at the tree branches swaying outside the window, then slowly turned back to me.
"You said you can make anything, right?"
"Yes."
"As a former adventurer... do you know of Belkas?"
Moshul's sunken eyes fixed on me. Belkas. Digging through memories of my long adventuring days, I knew it instantly.
"Wait—you're serious?"
"Quite."
I double-checked, but Moshul calmly reaffirmed the fish's name: Belkas. What was he thinking? Belkas was a fish, sure, but classified as a monster. Sailors called it the "reaper." About one to two meters long, bloated belly, razor-sharp dorsal fin. Famous for swarming any sailor who fell overboard in the deep sea, jabbing with venomous spines. The real issue was the venom. A single drop from its spines could wipe out a village. Its organs brimmed with enough toxin to kill hordes. Belkas poison was infamous not just for lethality, but for the agony: no instant death, but organs melting away over a slow week of torment. Reports existed of victims lingering that long—in name only, as the suffering was unimaginable. That horror made it a staple for vengeful poisonings, reserved for those wishing maximum, drawn-out pain. Anyone knowing its dread would shudder in horror.
And Moshul had named that fish.
"They say Belkas liver is a delicacy like no other. But its venom makes it a forbidden taste, denied to humans."
"No one's ever eaten it—how can it be a delicacy?"
"Deadly to humans, not to other monsters. Observations show monsters devouring its liver. Their immunity lets them thrive in that eat-or-be-eaten world. Belkas ranks high among their favorites—proof of its appeal."
"..."
Was he sane? I held my tongue, letting him finish.
"The first forbidden delicacy, and the last. I want a dish of Belkas liver. Naturally, I can't die from it. You'll taste it first on serving day. Once safety's confirmed, then I'll eat. That's my order."
Moshul's order lived up to his reputation for pickiness: a dish from the ultra-venomous monster fish Belkas's liver. Was he serious? No one dared touch Belkas—its poison was too potent. Not like pufferfish, where careful gutting leaves edible flesh. Belkas's entire body, flesh included, was toxic. Even its least venomous parts held enough to slay dozens of grown men. And he wanted me to cook its liver—one of the most poisonous organs?
I saw a faint smile curl Moshul's lips. Of course he can't. Pretending to be serious about food in this backwater, but this is beyond him. The mocking vibe stung my pride.
"No answer? If you can't, say so now. We'll forget I picked this place."
Moshul grabbed his coat from the chair, preparing to leave.
"Frankly, I don't get it. Just because monsters eat it doesn't mean it'll suit human tastes."
"And? I've tasted nearly every dish this world offers. But Belkas liver? No one's succeeded in cooking it safely. That's cooking: turning the inedible into something delicious. No one's tried, so exploring that unknown flavor—what's wrong with that?"
"..."
He had a point. Cooking involved making the poisonous palatable. Many dishes I'd known fit: blanched, dried, or processed weeds that were otherwise deadly. Lacquer chicken from toxic urushiol trees, risking allergy or death. Pufferfish, lethal if mishandled. How had anyone even conceived of eating them, let alone perfected safe methods? But even so... Belkas liver was reckless endangerment. And me tasting first? A literal life-on-the-line gamble.
"A true delicacy from Belkas liver. Can you make it?"
Moshul was already half out of his seat.
I understood why no new restaurant had been featured in "Today's Delicacy" for a year. I pondered briefly. Then I looked him straight in the eye.
"Belkas liver dish—order accepted."
"Ho."
"That said, given the request, I can't set a firm date. Give me your address; I'll send word with the visit details."
Moshul turned toward me with evident interest, fishing a business card from his coat and handing it over.
"Here. I'm always in the Royal Capital—send it anytime."
With a faint smile, Moshul grabbed his cane and left.
"Belkas liver, huh..."
Procuring it would be the first hurdle. I prepared to send a messenger bird to an old adventuring contact.