Wind Bird Omelet
"Would it be all right if I did the cooking?"
Only then did the woman called Rhea seem to notice I was there at all.
"Hm? And who are you supposed to be?"
"Oh, this is the chef we've hired to work with us."
At Ciel's words, Rhea eyed me with spectacular, unapologetic wariness.
"What? A chef?? Ciel! We don't have money to hire some chef!"
"Ahaha… He's agreed to work for just free room and board for now. He was a chef in a faraway country, you see…"
Rhea's face was still a wall of suspicion.
"Hold on. What kind of legitimate chef would bother working here for free? The more I look at him, the shadier he seems. He's not one of those plants from the Golden Lion, is he?"
"He's not! Mr. Hans isn't that kind of person! …Probably."
Ciel's conviction drained out of her voice with every word. Fair enough — trusting someone you'd only met yesterday with your whole livelihood would be a stretch for anyone.
"See, Ciel? Even you can't bring yourself to believe him. Your problem is you trust people way too easily. The world is crawling with scoundrels just waiting to stab you in the back."
Rhea fixed me with a gaze brimming with hostility.
I let her finish, then opened my mouth.
"Wouldn't you know whether I'm a real chef by actually tasting my food?"
"What?"
"Eat my cooking and you'll know. I doubt the Golden Lion would go so far as to send a genuinely skilled chef over as a spy."
"Th-that's…!"
My brazen confidence made her falter, just a little.
"Th-that's right! Mr. Hans's food really is delicious, Rhea!"
At that, Rhea shot up from her seat, marched straight up to me, and glared into my face with dead seriousness.
"Hey. Can you back up that mouth of yours? If what comes out of that kitchen isn't real food, you won't just be kicked out — that'll be the least of it. Still feeling confident?"
For a heartbeat I regretted opening my big mouth — then it struck me that this was actually an opportunity. Sitting back and watching a restaurant run like this was simply too frustrating. The sooner my skills were acknowledged, the sooner I'd have some say in this place.
"Yes. I'll make you a dish you won't be able to complain about."
Carrying the so-called Wind Bird egg into the kitchen, I sank into thought.
What should I cook with this?
At first glance, it had looked remarkably like the ostrich eggs from my old world.
I called that memory to mind. An ostrich egg holds more than twenty chicken eggs' worth of volume, it's highly nutritious, and the flavor itself isn't dramatically different from a regular egg.
Hmm. Nothing was jumping out at me.
For now, I decided to crack it open.
After securing the egg firmly with cloth so it couldn't roll, I tapped the top with the back of a knife, aiming to cut off a rounded cap. The shell was as tough as expected, but after a few scored cracks, a circular lid popped off with a dull thud.
In that instant, a golden yolk and crystal-clear white revealed themselves.
Yeah. I'd say this is close enough to an ostrich egg.
It held enough to fill one enormous bowl to the brim.
Just then, Ciel poked her head into the kitchen.
"Mr. Hans, what are you planning to make with that?"
No famous ostrich-egg dishes came to mind off the top of my head. Since the properties were so similar to chicken eggs, scrambled eggs or a fried egg would taste perfectly good.
But that wouldn't be enough.
As I mulled it over, one thing surfaced in my head.
"An omelet… I'm going to make an omelet."
"…An omelet? That seems awfully ordinary."
Ciel tilted her head.
"If you'll step out for a moment, I'll make you an omelet that'll knock your socks off."
Wearing a slightly worried expression, Ciel left the kitchen.
An omelet. True enough, by most standards it was an ordinary dish.
But the omelet I made was nothing like the slapdash things people slopped together in a pan. What I'd be making was the ultimate omelet — pillowy and delicate, so that when the surface was parted with a knife, the soft interior would cascade down like a beautiful waterfall. A picture-perfect omelet.
An ostrich egg… no, a Wind Bird egg is a first for me.
But I'd made omelets from chicken eggs thousands upon thousands of times. Another world wouldn't change much.
I fetched a huge bowl and poured the Wind Bird egg in slowly.
Splish.
Golden yolk and translucent white streamed out together.
There's a lot more white than I expected.
With a regular egg, you never have to think twice about the ratio when making an omelet — but this one was strikingly lopsided. Looking at what I'd transferred, the white was overwhelmingly heavy compared to the yolk. Cooked as-is, I wouldn't get a tender omelet; I'd get a dry, crumbly one that fell apart at a touch.
I'd better adjust the ratio first.
I ladled out some of the white into a separate bowl. Then came the mixing. Laying a pair of chopsticks at an angle, I broke up the yolks and blended them into the whites, added a light dusting of salt and pepper, and a spoonful of milk.
After beating it thoroughly, the mixture hit exactly the consistency I wanted. I dipped the tip of a chopstick to check how it ran off, and nodded.
Good. That'll do.
Now for the moment of truth. I picked a pan of the right size, added oil, gathered every ounce of concentration into my fingertips, and poured in the batter with great care.
Sizzle—
But contrary to my expectations, the egg stuck fast to the pan. When I tried to loosen it, it simply tore.
The result: less an omelet than a sad, broken-up scramble — the kind a broke bachelor living alone might churn out.
"…Why is this happening?"
I turned off the Flame Stone and stared into space for a while. I was sure I'd done everything right. So I retraced the steps one by one from the beginning.
Ah…! Of course!
I'd assumed the pan was adequately prepped, but I'd overlooked one crucial thing. The pan I'd always used back home for omelets was a nonstick-coated frying pan.
The one in my hand now was a rough-surfaced cast-iron skillet.
I couldn't handle it with the same touch as a coated pan.
First, I need to season the pan itself with oil.
I dumped out the mess, washed the pan clean, and blasted it with heat. Then I poured in oil and let it heat until it began to smoke. After that, I wiped the oil away and let the pan cool.
That should have the oil worked into the surface at least a little.
It would still be fussier than a coated pan, but far from impossible.
I added fresh oil and poured in the batter again. Laying the chopsticks flat, I stirred in ceaseless circles without pause.
After a while I could see it softening into a silky scramble, and a feeling I knew from thousands of repetitions welled up in my fingertips.
Now!!
In a single motion, I folded the omelet over with pan and chopsticks together. The smooth surface slid closed in the pan, drawing a flawless oval.
A resounding success.
Once I'd plated it and crisped up some bacon to arrange prettily alongside, a perfect breakfast was complete. And one more thing — I made a secret-weapon dessert out of the leftover whites, then headed out.
"Ciel. Can't you see it? Just look at that guy — he's got con artist written all over his face."
The moment I stepped out, the woman called Rhea was in full swing, badmouthing me.
Attacking a man over his face — that stung, honestly.
"Ahem."
"Oh! You're back! Did the cooking go well?"
Ciel asked, her face brightening. Beside her, Rhea crossed her arms and looked me up and down.
"Ha! An omelet, was it? Well then, let's have a look at just how impressive this omelet of yours is supposed to be."
I gave my shoulders a little shrug and confidently set the golden omelet down on the table.
Rhea looked taken aback — its appearance was nothing like whatever she'd been imagining.
"Wh… what is this omelet? So smooth and… clean…"
If she was this surprised already, the best was yet to come.
I picked up a knife and sliced across the top of the omelet. The thin membrane of the surface split open, and from within, the tender interior came cascading down in a soft, creamy flood.
"Wow! It's incredible. I've never seen such a beautiful omelet!"
Ciel exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. Rhea, even watching the scene unfold, narrowed her brows as if she still couldn't believe it.
"Wh… what did you do to it? I've never seen an omelet like this in my life."
To her baffled expression, I responded with a casual shrug.
"Try it. It's not just a pretty face — the taste will hold up too."
Rhea shot me one sidelong glance, then picked up the knife and fork as if conceding to the inevitable. She cut a piece, took a single bite — and her eyes went round.
"It's so soft and pillowy, and then the rich flavor that's unique to the Wind Bird egg just…!"
Rhea began wolfing down the omelet in earnest.
Watching her, I smiled and said, "Take it easy. You'll give yourself a stomachache."
Only after scraping her plate completely clean did Rhea look up at me. The sharp glint in her eyes was gone, replaced by a face full of wonder.
"Oh, and there's one more thing."
I brought out the plate I'd prepared and set it on the table. Pale white little rounds were stacked in a tidy little mound.
"What are these? They look like little snowballs…"
"Meringue cookies. A dessert made from the egg whites left over from the omelet."
"Meringue cookies…? Never heard of them…"
Still wary, Rhea carefully picked one up and put it in her mouth. In an instant, her eyes went wide again.
"…It's melting in my mouth… sweet and fluffy, it's like eating a cloud…!"
Thankfully, the meringue cookies seemed to be a success too. I'd made them from the whites I'd set aside from the Wind Bird egg.
There were no electric mixers in this world, so I'd whipped them by hand until my arms nearly fell off — pure agony. If they'd turned out bad, I'd have been devastated.
"I'm glad they suit your taste."
Rhea, who had been devouring them in a trance, flushed red at my words.
"…It's… it's fine, I guess. Not bad. Not bad at all."
"Then may I assume I've won our little contest?"
"…"
Perhaps out of embarrassment at having judged me too hastily, Rhea kicked back her chair and shot to her feet.
"Ugh~ fine, fine, you win! I take back the con artist thing. Happy now?"
Rhea gathered her things and headed for the door — then stopped dead at the threshold, turned back, and said,
"Don't take that to mean I trust you completely. For now, I'm just going to keep an eye on you."
Which, translated, meant she'd be coming back for more meals. Had I just gained a regular customer?
With Rhea gone, the restaurant fell quiet again.
But why so quiet? Normally Ciel would have said something by now. Something felt off, so I turned toward her — and found Ciel frozen stiff as a statue.
"Ciel? Why are you frozen like that? Was the food not to your taste?"
At that, Ciel spoke up, her face pale as ash.
"Mr. Hans… these meringue cookies… you made them with sugar, didn't you?"
"Ah… yeah? I made them with sugar."
"And… did you use a lot of it?"
"Well, it's a dessert, so I used a generous amount."
"Ah…"
With that one syllable, Ciel's soul visibly left her body.
…Could it be that sugar was fairly expensive in this world?
Somehow, I had the distinct feeling my unpaid labor period was about to get a whole lot longer.
(Rhea)
