Cave Stem Morning Glory (1)
"Honestly, it doesn't taste very good."
The moment the words left my mouth, I winced. Great. Freeloading off these people AND critiquing the food.
Ciel looked considerably taken aback.
"I… I never thought I'd hear a beggar of all people call it tasteless…"
I scrambled to salvage the situation.
"B-but it's still pretty edible, you know! Even soaked in the stew, the bread's nice and firm… so it takes a while to chew, which is… good for you, I guess…"
"…"
"And it's not salty at all, nice and light — probably healthy, too…"
"…Okay, please stop. I get it."
Damn it, I'd done it again. Every time I opened my mouth, the situation just got worse. But no matter how hard I tried, no positive impressions came to mind. When it came to food, honesty was a habit I simply couldn't shake.
Still, I had to fix this somehow, so I pressed on.
"Um… and also…"
Just then, a hulking man emerged from the back — Bran — and asked, "What's going on? Something wrong, Ciel?"
Oh no. If that mountain of a man heard what I'd just said, I'd be ground into mincemeat for certain.
It was do or die. I slammed my fist on the table, sprang to my feet, and declared, "I'll save this restaurant! Hire me as your cook!"
It reminded me of the time I used to work on that old TV show back home — the one about struggling neighborhood restaurants. We'd visit failing mom-and-pop shops, diagnose their problems, and offer solutions. The restaurant got free dining consultation, the show made money off the ratings. A perfect win-win, on paper at least.
"You promised me, boss?"
"Oh, thank you, Chef!"
Even the most hopeless of owners turned into surprisingly competent restaurateurs after going through my hands. Sure, the broadcast publicity helped, but still.
Back then, restaurants wanting a taste of my consulting used to line up out the door, all begging me to come take a look at their shops. And now… these people were offering me that very same consulting, free of charge.
Because I was about to be thrown out on my ear.
"Just give me one chance! I swear I'll make this place a hit!!"
I clung to Bran's leg as he dragged me across the floor, pleading for my life. If they threw me out, I'd be back to sleeping on the street — the thought alone made me dizzy.
"Just a bit of food and a place to sleep, and I'll make you rolling in profits, I swear!"
"I said drop it. You wanna take a hit first, or walk out on your own two feet?"
Just as I was about to take one right to the face, someone walked into the restaurant.
"My, my~ Still in business, I see?"
A group of three men strolled in. The sneering man at the front wore rather fine clothes and sported a greasy mustache, with two burly bodyguards flanking him behind.
The man crossed his legs, settled into a chair, and stroked his mustache with an air of arrogance.
"Have you given any thought to what I said last time? You won't find better terms than these."
Ciel's reaction was sharp and immediate.
"No matter what you say, we have no intention of selling! If you have nothing useful to say, then leave!"
"Come now, miss, everything I do is for your own good. Imagine how your poor departed mother would feel, knowing you're bleeding red ink out here every single day."
The man put on an exaggeratedly pained expression and spoke with oily mockery.
"Wh… whatever you say, this restaurant is not for sale. Please leave now."
"Tsk, honestly… Oh my, now that I think of it — I don't recognize your face. And you might be?"
"Ah, this person is…"
The sneering man had noticed me and asked who I was. Just as Ciel opened her mouth to answer, I cut her off, jumping to my feet.
"Pleased to meet you! I'm the new cook here — fresh start as of today!"
Ciel shot me a look of sheer disbelief and tried to correct me.
"No — that's absolutely not—"
I talked over her, louder this time. "I will work with all my heart and soul to make this restaurant the finest in the city. Thank you very much!"
A long silence followed my declaration — and then the man burst out laughing. He laughed himself into tears for a good while before wiping his eyes and speaking.
"No pedigree, no sense — hiring some half-wit like this for the kitchen. Well, whatever. You'll be finished soon enough anyway."
Bran, standing beside me, scowled darkly and clenched his fist.
"Yes, yes, do give it your best shot. Think it over one more time. My patience doesn't run as deep as yours might hope."
And with that, the pack of third-rate villains filed out. The moment they were gone, Bran seized me by the collar and hauled me up.
"Hey. Who said you could go around calling yourself our restaurant's cook?"
"Kgh—kgh, please, just hear me out! Give me one chance. I'm truly confident in my skills."
"So talking it out won't get through to you, huh."
His fist rose into the air, collar still twisted in his grip. That was when Ciel stepped between us.
"Uncle, wait."
Bran's fist froze midair.
"…What is it? What now, Ciel?"
"We don't exactly have any other options as things stand… and we've still got ingredients left. Just once. Let him cook one dish, and then we judge."
"…Ciel, are you serious? You'd let some vagrant nobody off the street into our kitchen? What on earth makes you trust a word this guy says?"
Ciel turned to look at me. "Going by what you've said… you must be quite confident, then?"
"Of course. I was a famous chef in a far-off land, as it happens."
Did I feel confident? Honestly, I couldn't say. But I had to push through regardless — I couldn't exactly sleep my way to competence on the street.
"Ha… a chef that grand, passed out flat in the gutter…"
Bran mulled it over briefly, then spoke. "If Ciel vouches for you, then fine. You get exactly one chance."
He dropped me unceremoniously onto the floor, glaring down at me.
"But if the food's no good — you die by my hand."
A chilling proposition, to be sure, but I nodded eagerly and turned to Ciel.
"…Thank you! Then… could you show me to the kitchen?"
Half-doubting, half-utterly bewildered, Ciel led the way.
"…Yes. Follow me, please."
I scrambled up and followed her into the kitchen.
It was an unfamiliar sort of kitchen, though not particularly small by the look of it. I started with the stove. Embedded in the soot-blackened burner was a palm-sized crystal.
"What's this?"
Ciel looked at me like I'd asked her what water was.
"You don't know what a Flame Stone is?"
She put a hand to her forehead for a moment, then explained patiently. "This handle here controls the fire. What — do you need me to explain what fire is, too?"
From where she stood, I could see how absurd it must look. The man who'd been trumpeting himself as a master chef moments ago couldn't identify the most basic equipment in a kitchen. A flicker of regret crossed her face — a quiet question of whether she'd just made a terrible mistake letting me in here at all.
Doing my best to ignore her gaze, I carefully turned the dial. A blue flame surged up from the burner — and when I twisted it the other way, the fire dwindled to a faint, steady ember. I turned it back and forth several more times, committing the response speed and the stages of heat to memory.
Variable flame control, huh? Not bad for another world.
The heat responded instantly, and yet it allowed for surprisingly fine adjustments. No problems would come from fire management, at least. With the kitchen roughly surveyed, I moved on to the ingredients.
"Where do you keep your ingredients?"
"…This way."
Down a staircase and into a cool, cellar-like room that seemed to serve as pantry and cold storage both. Rows of vegetables and jars of pickled goods lined the shelves.
"Do you have any tools that preserve food cold?"
Ciel let out a long sigh. "Phew… How could a tiny place like this afford something that expensive? Are you really a chef?"
"Haha, well, my old country was… a little different from here."
So something like a refrigerator did exist — just not here. I decided to stop asking questions before I got thrown out before I'd even cooked anything.
In the storage room, precisely because true cold storage was out of reach, most of the stock consisted of pickled items and aged, cured ingredients. As for vegetables, most of them were varieties I'd seen back in my old world — carrots, onions, garlic, peppers. There was also salted meat and bread, along with a number of unfamiliar ingredients I'd never handled before.
Thankfully, this world didn't seem to be the barren, ingredient-starved wasteland I'd feared.
But that only made choosing a dish all the more headache-inducing.
There was some meat on hand, though I couldn't tell exactly what kind it was. Attempting a meat dish without knowing whether it came from some unknown monster felt like an unnecessary risk.
Hmm… what should I cook?
My gaze drifted to the vegetables. One bundle of leafy greens caught my eye. I snapped off a stem and gave it a sniff — the aroma was milder than expected. A bite revealed a crisp, living core that crunched satisfyingly between my teeth.
…This might be it.
Next, I lifted the lid off a jar beside it. A pungent aroma wafted up from the dark brown liquid inside. I stirred it a bit to check — I couldn't say for certain what fish it came from, but it was almost certainly fish sauce.
A crisp, crunchy stem vegetable and a rich, umami-packed fish sauce…
And then a single dish crystallized in my mind, vivid and complete.
Watching from the doorway, Ciel's expression turned openly skeptical as she saw me picking out ingredient after ingredient without hesitation.
On the way back up the stairs, arms full, she hurried after me.
"What exactly are you planning to make with that? Cave stems and fish sauce, of all things…?"
"I'll explain once it's finished."
So the green vegetable I'd chosen was called Cave Stem — and it felt remarkably similar to a vegetable I knew well from my old world: water spinach.
With an ingredient like this, there was no doubt I could make that dish. A Southeast Asian classic, perfect as a drinking snack or a side of rice alike —
Morning glory.
Back in the kitchen, I washed the vegetables, separated the leafy tops from the stems, and cut everything to even lengths.
I minced the garlic and chilies, slicing a portion of them into coins. Watching my knife work — flashy, fast, and fluid — Ciel's eyes went wide.
Well, I do carry a few years of seniority. Knife skills are just the basics.
I often used it as a performance bit back home, so showy cutting was one thing I had real confidence in.
I set a pan on the burner and cranked the dial to full. Blue flames engulfed the pan in an instant, heating it through. Once it was properly hot, I added a generous pour of oil, followed by the garlic and chilies. With a sizzle, a spicy, nutty fragrance bloomed across the kitchen in seconds.
The moment that aroma hit the air, the stems went in first — flash-fried over high heat. This was a dish that lived and died by texture, so I'd kept the stems and leaves separate: each part had its own ideal cooking time, and a moment too long in the pan would turn them limp and rubbery. Timing was everything. Tossing the pan with big, sweeping motions, I watched until the leaves — added later — had just barely wilted, then drizzled in the pickled fish sauce I'd brought up pre-measured.
Finally, I seasoned with salt to taste, and just before killing the flame gave the pan one last big toss to finish everything off with residual heat.
I plated the dish and crowned it with a scattering of crushed nuts. A glossy, appetizing stir-fry of vibrant green gleamed under the light — done.
"There! It's finished! Please, have a taste!"