Life Requires a Little Grease (3)
Life Requires a Little Grease (3)
***
Raw meat, bones, entrails, blood.
Grease residue and food scraps in the sink, a dishcloth swollen and torn from the hot water.
In a class-based society where keeping one’s hands clean was a mark of refinement, the kitchen was certainly not a place befitting the nobility.
Especially given the nature of their worldview, which required them to rub shoulders with rats and insects.
I set foot in a place that was practically taboo for such nobles.
“Ingredients… I’ve got them.”
I listed the ingredients I had brought with me and those that were already here.
Seaweed, abalone, cream… and so on.
“All the ingredients are here.”
First, I soaked the black, shriveled seaweed in water.
As the dead seaweed absorbed moisture, it regained its natural green color and began to expand.
While the seaweed was soaking, I reached for the abalone.
‘I’d better not include the innards.’
I slid a spoon between the muscle and the shell.
I separated the adductor muscle and set the removed innards aside.
The innards are too bitter for an expectant mother whose senses are heightened.
Besides, their color and flavor don’t go well with risotto.
Next, I poured cooking oil into a pan and heated it.
Just as the aroma of garlic began to rise, I added the well-drained seaweed and the soaked rice.
I poured in the broth and stirred slowly until the heavy cream and cheese melted in.
I stirred continuously until the rice released its starch and the broth thickened.
Finally, I plated the dish and neatly topped it with abalone slices browned in butter.
And with that, the risotto was complete.
“Please try some, young lady.”
I scooped a small portion of risotto into a bowl and held it out to Freyja.
She cautiously picked up her spoon but hesitated in front of the plate.
Although it was colored with white cheese and cream, the deep blue hues visible here and there seemed quite unfamiliar to her.
Both the fact that it was made from seaweed and the color, which somewhat resembled a potion.
There were more than a few factors making her hesitate to eat it.
But Freyja soon closed her eyes tightly and took a spoonful into her mouth.
“…!”
“How is it?”
“… It’s delicious.”
“That’s a relief.”
I nodded and served a portion for my mother onto a plate.
Since I was at it, I channeled my inner fine-dining chef and paid close attention to the plating as well.
Just as I was pouring my heart into the presentation, Freyja spoke up.
“Brother.”
“Hm?”
“…Could you make this for me again?”
It was an unexpected request.
“Did you like it?”
“Yes! It’s different from what I usually eat.”
Freya said, looking down at her completely empty bowl.
“It’s the first time I’ve had something this mild, instead of food loaded with pepper and oil.”
Ah, I see.
The cuisine of the nobles inside the Wall is generally drenched in spices.
Pepper, cloves, nutmeg, and so on.
They generously sprinkled spices that were difficult to grow inside the Wall to flaunt their power.
As a result, no matter what aristocratic dish they ate, their tongues would tingle and their stomachs would be soaked in grease. Indigestion came as a bonus.
Imagine what the smooth, savory flavors of cream and cheese would be like to a child accustomed to such a diet.
It would likely be a strange and shocking experience.
“Okay. I’ll make it for you sometimes.”
“…Really?”
“But there’s a problem.”
“Huh?”
Wiping my kitchen knife with a dishcloth after use, I pointed toward the kitchen entrance.
My eyes met those of the housekeeper, who was standing frozen at the entrance.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to step foot in this kitchen again.”
***
It’s something I think about from time to time: there are so many taboos in this world.
A man must not overstep the midwife’s domain.
A child must not overstep an adult’s domain.
A doctor must not overstep the healer’s domain.
You can’t do this, you can’t do that.
At this point, I’ve even started to think it would be faster to just compile a separate list of things that are actually allowed.
And today.
I broke another taboo.
The taboo that a young master must never get his hands wet in the kitchen.
“Young Master. Where on earth did you learn to do this…”
“I picked it up while working on Tanners’ Alley. There weren’t any cooks there.”
I answered the butler’s question while cooling the risotto, which was still a bit hot.
For the record, “Tanners’ Quarter” is a polite euphemism for the red-light district.
With Freyja listening right there, I couldn’t exactly tell him I was working in a brothel.
“Still, doing such menial work…”
The butler muttered as he looked at the dish I had made.
Why is cooking a lowly job?
For a moment, those words were on the tip of my tongue, but I kept my mouth shut.
‘It wouldn’t matter if I told him anyway.’
For chefs to be treated as artisans, something on the scale of the French Revolution in this alternate world would have to happen.
It wasn’t until then that chefs could hold their heads high in front of the nobility.
But in a world where the emperor can slay dragons and bake croissants, I don’t think a revolution like that will ever happen.
So I just shifted the conversation in a different direction.
It’s not that cooking isn’t lowly; it’s that my heart isn’t lowly as I cook.
“House Manager. This is a medicinal dish for my mother. Making medicine isn’t a lowly task, is it?”
“Well, that’s true, but…”
“As long as my mother can eat this and regain her strength, I’d even scrub the floors. Isn’t that the duty of a child?”
“…!”
The housekeeper’s eyes trembled uncontrollably.
Unable to find the words, he bit his lip tightly—it seemed emotions were welling up from deep within him.
He must be deeply moved inside.
‘Actually, I have this “multi-talented” persona, and I only started cooking because the food in this world is so terrible that I wanted to make something I could actually eat.’
But he never felt the need to reveal that truth.
Everyone has a few of these exaggerated elements, don’t they?
The butler accepted the tray with trembling hands.
It couldn’t have been my imagination that the corners of his eyes were moist.
“Please take it before it gets cold. The cream doesn’t taste as good once it cools down.”
“Yes, yes! I’ll bring it right away.”
The butler hurriedly turned and left the kitchen.
His retreating figure looked almost solemn.
Seeing him react like that, I even got the illusion that I’d prepared something like the Last Supper.
Freya, who was standing next to me, looked up at me and her eyes sparkled.
“You’re… really amazing, big brother.”
I shrugged.
Sometimes I think that when I get praised for something as trivial as this, it feels like the power of this “delusion” is a bit too much.
Still…
‘It’s better than sarcasm.’
In the 21st century where I used to live, praise was more valuable than gold.
Even saving a dying person’s life was dismissed as the natural duty of a technician who had to earn his keep.
What happened if a doctor showed even the slightest interest in something other than papers or patients?
Remarks like “You should be sleeping instead” or “You’re getting too big for your britches” would fly at me and stick like glue.
You say there are people who aren’t like that?
But the hate comments on the documentary I appeared in said otherwise.
They cursed me, saying I’d already “slacked off” even though I wasn’t even a professor yet.
There wasn’t a single thing they didn’t say to the precious young master of trauma surgery—absolutely nothing was off-limits.
When I think back on that arid world, this mindless praise seems a hundred or a thousand times better.
“Alright. Let’s go upstairs. Don’t you want to eat by Mom’s side too, Freyja?”
“Yes!”
“Then I’ll grab your portion too. And mine.”
For the record, I made sure to leave the carrots out of Freyja’s bowl.
*
I headed toward the room carrying the tray.
Ah, not a tray—a serving platter.
I haven’t quite shaken off the habits of my past life.
When I arrived at the door, the Godfather was there.
He had his face pressed right up against the open door, watching Fried and his mother with eyes dripping with honey.
His fingers, clasped behind his back, were fidgeting nonstop—it looked like he wanted to rush inside at any moment and give Fried a big hug.
Unfortunately, even though he was the godfather, I couldn’t allow him to touch Fried whenever he pleased.
He’s a premature baby with an immune system already at rock bottom.
Any germs brought in from outside could be fatal.
For at least the next 100 days, we have no choice but to restrict contact with the baby to the mother and the doctor.
It may seem excessive, but in this day and age, this is what it takes to save a premature baby.
‘Maybe I should hang a red rope at the entrance until then.’
With that thought in mind, I approached the godfather from behind.
“Did you come to see Fried?”
“Julian…!”
The Godfather turned around, startled.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
He looked at me with eyes brimming with emotion.
“I heard what happened last night.”
“Ah, if that’s what you mean, there’s no problem. And there won’t be any in the future either.”
I’m right here, after all.
Who am I? The protagonist who will be called a saint in the future.
That was when it happened.
Thud!
With enough force to crush my ribs, my godfather pulled me into a tight embrace.
I managed to toss the tray I’d been holding just moments before to the butler. Nice catch.
“Julian! Thank you. Thank you so much…”
His ragged breathing reached my ears directly.
He gripped my shoulder tightly to compose himself, then turned his gaze toward the housekeeper standing behind me.
“Send the carpenter back. There won’t be any need to build a coffin.”
It seemed he had assumed that Fried wouldn’t make it through the night.
In this bleak world, that’s common sense, but it still feels disappointing. To think he didn’t trust the Angel of the Red-Light District, even though she was watching over him.
…I wonder if I can get a title for this.
“And the wood prepared for the coffin… Yes. It’d be better to use it as firewood to heat this room, so our Fried and Linie don’t get cold.”
The housekeeper sniffed and nodded.
Oh, come on. Why is everyone acting like this?
Their reactions are way too overwhelming.
But since it wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this, I took it in stride.
Even in the red-light district, there were only a handful of people who reacted like this.
Unlike the 21st century, where survival was a given, in this punk genre world where death is the norm, perhaps such a reaction is only natural.
“Julian. By the way, what is this?”
A few minutes later.
The Godfather, having barely shaken off the lingering aftereffects, belatedly noticed the dish.
“This is… cod? …No, it isn’t. Risotto, is it? Did you order this from the chef?”
“I made it myself.”
“You did?”
The Lord’s eyebrows knitted together.
Why does everyone react this way?
It’s not like I cooked a person as an ingredient.
The head of the household’s gaze lingered on the risotto for a long moment.
Deep green seaweed enveloped in cream. Abalone, seared in butter and glistening with fat.
It must certainly be an unfamiliar combination. He might be thinking, “Why on earth would anyone put seaweed in a dish?”
A brief silence fell, and then the head of the household spoke.
“…There are three plates.”
The Head of the House muttered.
I nodded.
“Since Fried’s condition has stabilized, I thought it would be nice for the whole family to have a meal together.”
“So, including Freya’s portion?”
“Yes. Mother, the Head of the House, and Freya. It would be nice if the three of you went to eat together.”
I handed the bowls to the butler and approached my mother.
“Leave Fried to me and go have your meal, Mother.”
My mother hesitated as she tried to sit up from the bed.
“Julian, what about you?”
“I’m fine. I have to watch over Fried.”
“…”
My mother’s eyes flickered strangely.
Her lips moved as if she were about to say something, but in the end, she merely nodded.
“All right, I understand. I’m counting on you, Julian.”
The butler and the head maid pulled a small table over to the side of the bed.
It was a table prepared for the new mother, who was unable to go down to the dining hall.
The Lord sat beside Lini’s mother, and Freyja took a seat next to him.
I took a step back and went over to the cradle.
Fried was still fast asleep.
I could see his little chest rising and falling rhythmically.
‘Sleep well, little one.’
Leaning against the railing of the cradle, I watched the Nihirit family eat their meal.
My mother’s expression changed as she took a spoonful.
“…It’s delicious.”
Freya agreed, her eyes sparkling.
“I had some earlier too, and it was really delicious. Since there’s no pepper, it doesn’t make my tongue tingle.”
“Indeed. It’s the first time I’ve had something this tender. This is quite nice, too.”
The Lord of the House also picked up his spoon.
He chose one that was particularly rich in offal.
One bite.
His expression froze for a moment, then quickly relaxed.
“It has a unique flavor. Where did you learn this? This is…”
The Lord of the House trailed off.
Given the context, he probably swallowed the words “a flavor a noble would never know” before they could escape his lips.
He must have feared it might come across as an insult, implying I wasn’t noble enough.
But I didn’t really mind.
“On the tanners’ street. There were no cooks there, so I had to learn it myself.”
“…”
The Lord paused his spoon and looked at me.
And then.
“Head Maid.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Bring another plate.”
“?”
The Lord gestured toward the table.
“There’s an empty seat, isn’t there?”
“Ah, I’m fine. As for Fried—”
I tried to refuse the Master’s offer.
But the Master cut me off before I could finish my sentence.
“Fried is asleep. Do you think he’ll sleep better if you go hungry? Or are you fasting for prayer or something?”
“That’s not it, but…”
“If that’s the case, then it’s settled. Bring it here, Head Maid.”
“Yes, Master.”
The Head Maid turned away.
I stared blankly at her retreating figure.