Fry Batter Made of Honey, Sesame Oil, and Flour, Then Soak in Syrup Made from Fresh Honey...?

I'd just finished harvesting honey from the massive hive, and now I was staring at jar after jar of the stuff, each one brimming with liquid gold.

They say the richer the forest's mana, the rarer the blossoms the bees fed on — the deeper that gold becomes.

Elf-forest honey catches the light like clear amber, so luminous people call it "jewel-water."

'I wouldn't go that far, though...'

This batch was still top-grade, no question.

"This is delicious!"

Andrea — our in-house elf and official local — jabbed a finger into a jar, tasted it, and shot me a thumbs-up. That settled it.

Locally approved, genuinely delicious honey.

'Not a bad marketing line.'

Maybe I'd set some aside to sell by the entrance. Country restaurants do that all the time, right?

Sweet-potato country: sweet-potato snacks and actual sweet potatoes stacked near the door. Apple country: apple cider, apple jam, apple everything.

Displaying the surplus honey up front didn't seem like a bad move.

'Or I could just give it away as gifts.'

Once I'd finished the harvest, I stood there a moment wondering what to make with it all.

Honey-based dishes...

"Dessert's the obvious call, yeah?"

A dessert, and then a drink to go with it...

My gaze drifted toward the staff lounge, where Veronia was sprawled out. The wolf-kin who'd introduced herself by ramming her face straight into the beehive and getting herself stuck in an empty trunk.

Andrea had scrubbed every last trace of honey off her, and now she was poking idly at the freshly dried, fluffy-soft fur.

Whatever caution Andrea had started with had clearly surrendered to tactile bliss. The fur was just too husky-like and plush.

I looked at Veronia again. At the heap she'd made of herself before passing out cold.

-Heheheh, male smell gooood!

-Carry me! Legs hurt!

-Not the elf! The human male!

Face flushed pink, she'd kept trying to hurl herself into my arms, and Andrea had practically wrestled her off.

-I'll handle her. Boss, don't give it another thought.

Seeing Veronia act that shameless had put a rare chill into Andrea's voice. That alone said something.

Fair enough.

Dealing with a drunk person is the hardest job in the world.

'Looks like a hangover...'

Drunk off doenjang-guk. Beastkin really do have it rough.

The sight of her like that clinched it — I knew exactly which drink to pair with dessert.

'Honey water. Nothing better for a hangover.'

A steaming mug of honey water the morning after a rough night: it's basically a magic potion that erases the whole hangover file. I still remembered the feeling of that hot, fragrant steam curling up into my face and the surge of energy that hit right after the first sip.

The Empire used it as a hangover remedy too, not that they'd invented it.

"Honey water plus dessert is a lot of sweet on its own, so..."

Something to cut the sugar just a little.

What did I have?

My eyes landed on an ingredient on the kitchen shelf.

'Ginger?'

Simmer ginger with pear and honey, then reduce it down — that's ginger syrup. It blasts through hangovers and clears out cold symptoms in one pass. Make a batch, stash it in the refrigerator, and you can dose yourself regularly.

'Might as well make a supply now while I've got the excuse.'

Drink: decided.

And the dessert?

Yakgwa.

Traditional Korean confectionery. Once upon a time, this was high-class stuff reserved for kings and loaded aristocrats — the kind of sweet that got placed on ancestral offering tables.

Tonight's batch was for Andrea (who'd worked hard), for me, and for the guest who'd crash-landed into our afternoon.

The whole thing runs on a dense, almost crumbly dough — no resting, no gluten development — fried in oil, then plunged into honey syrup or jocheong until it soaks all the way through. The outside gleams slick and glossy. You bite in, and the first thing you hit is that dry, friable texture... and then past the crumble comes the honey-sweet and the deep savory notes of dough and oil twined together. By the time the bliss registers, the yakgwa's already vanished out of your mouth.

'My mouth's watering just thinking about it.'

Pair yakgwa with a bitter cup of Americano, and you get this perfect east-meets-west harmony happening on your tongue.

'Once I figure out a coffee-bean supply, I'm doing hand-drip coffee with these.'

For today, though, high-end imported luxury caffeine wasn't exactly on hand — so ginger tea would do just fine.

Bitter enough to balance the sweet, plus actual health benefits. Honestly, was ginger tea the real winner here?

First, I set a pot on the heat with honey, malt syrup, one thick-sliced ginger knob, and water to make the glaze syrup.

The traditional recipe called for jocheong, but the restaurant had exactly zero jocheong on hand, so I adjusted the sweetness with honey and malt syrup instead.

Honey could sub in for jocheong just fine.

The catch was temperature control. If you weren't dead sure of your flame, you were better off not boiling the honey at all.

Bubble bubble bubble.

The foam here rose nothing like boiling water. Tiny, dense clusters of bubbles crowded together and surged upward, oddly hypnotic.

Do not crank the heat.

Too high a flame risked boil-over, sure — but worse than that, it risked scorching the honey.

Honey's flash point was way lower than sugar's or jocheong's.

That was what made honey syrup tricky.

I'd learned that the hard way: scorched a whole pot black, then had honey foam over and practically bricked a brustar.

I'd never repeat that disaster, but back then I'd tasted hell for about five straight minutes.

As the honey and water heated together, the whole kitchen flooded with sweetness.

Can't let that lull you into complacency.

I dropped the flame to its lowest and skimmed the cloudy foam off the surface with a spoon.

The syrup was ready when a spoonful dripped off in a single clinging droplet.

"Got it."

Andrea drifted over, drawn by the scent of honey on the heat.

"What're you making?"

"Dessert. For the staff member who put in extra work today."

"Dessert?"

"Yeah. Not an Empire-style sweet, but I think you'll like it."

"Really?"

Leaving the hopeful gleam in her eyes behind me, I fished the ginger slices out of the syrup.

While the syrup cooled, it was time to make the yakgwa dough.

Flour, sesame oil, cooking wine, honey, and a pinch of salt — plus a fine dusting of cinnamon powder over the top.

'I still remember the chaos the last time I tried to make yakgwa at home in my old life.'

I'd wrecked the entire kitchen before barely managing to produce a single piece. No honey back then, so I'd used sugar; no cinnamon powder, so I'd poured in store-bought sujeonggwa drink instead.

It had still turned out pretty decent, all things considered.

Minus the part where I burned all the syrup.

Nostalgia for my previous life running in the back of my mind, I worked the dough together.

The flour mixed with the oil, wine, and honey into a thick, claggy mass. Press a finger in, and it just sank there — no springing back.

Classic unrested dough, gluten still dormant.

That was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the whole secret to yakgwa.

I kept kneading until the dough turned a pale yellow.

Then the rolling pin, over and over.

Mana-loaded.

Whumm!

One pass of the rolling pin —

— and the dough spread wide and flat.

I folded it in half and rolled it again. Fold, roll, fold, roll — just like making puff pastry, building up thin, distinct layers.

Layered yakgwa cut into bite-sized pieces: that was called mo-yakgwa.

Standard flower-shaped yakgwa, you just shove the initial dough into a mold and you're done. Mo-yakgwa demanded more effort.

'No mold on hand, so I don't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have much choice.'

More effort, but the texture payoff was way ahead of regular yakgwa. Not just dry-crumbling apart — the layers offered something more complex for tooth and tongue to play with.

If I had to name a familiar comparison...

'Those palmier-style puff pastries? The ones that shatter in leaves?'

That was about the closest match.

Syrup soaked in between every layer, and each layer crumbled a little differently. The longer the syrup saturated, the more the fragile crunch gave way to a deeper, stickier sweetness.

I pricked the dough with a toothpick to keep its ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shape, then dropped the bite-sized ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pieces into the hot oil.

Sssssssss!!!

The sound of the oil boiling and the yakgwa dough frying sent a pleasant shiver through my ears.

This. This right here.

The whole reason I'd lit the oil before the dough was even finished — just to hear this sound.

"That's a satisfying noise."

Andrea was standing there, watching in a mild trance.

"Don't just spectate. Go julienne that ginger you already washed."

"It's my day off. Making me keep working is..."

"So you're not eating any, then?"

"......."

Lips pursed, she parked herself beside me and started slicing ginger into thin strips.

The dough, which had been a pale apricot color, fried up into a beautiful brown.

I shook off the crackling surface oil and set the pieces on a paper-lined rack. The oil-drain was quick — if the fried dough cooled completely, the syrup wouldn't penetrate, so it was just a brief offload before I submerged the still-warm pieces into the cooled syrup.

The dark amber syrup slipped between the layers of the square-cut dough.

Once I judged they'd absorbed enough, I lifted the yakgwa out and stood them on their edges across the rack to let the excess syrup drip away.

"Done slicing."

"You've gotten quick at prep."

"It's been a whole month. If I weren't used to it by now, I'd be an idiot."

"I thought elves were supposed to be slow learners?"

"Only because someone keeps hovering beside me threatening more work if I don't pick it up faster."

I was just about to combine Andrea's ginger matchsticks with fresh-pressed pear juice and set them to simmer —

"Ughhhhnnn..."

Veronia hauled herself upright, clutching her head.

"Awake?"

"......."

She didn't know what to do with herself. Head bowed deep, she'd shrunk inward like someone who desperately wished she could vanish.

So she did realize she'd messed up.

"You seem like you've got a sweet tooth. I'm putting something together for you — wait a bit."

"Sweet...?"

Her tail gave a small wag.

"Just a little longer. I'm also making something that's good for hangovers."

"Hang... over?"

"Yeah. I knew wolf-kin got drunk off doenjang-guk — that part wasn't news. But you got hit especially hard."

"O-other wolf-kin... have they also drunk this before?"

Her eyes trembled as she looked at me.

"Few years back."

"H-how many did you give it to?"

"Back then? Maybe ten? No — closer to fifteen."

"......Y-you shameless male! H-how — h-how dare you!"

"What?"

"Treasure your own body! If you give yourself away that cheaply, you're stripping yourself of your own worth!"

What on earth was she talking about.

"Are you still drunk? Anyway, I'll let it go this once. There won't be a next time."

"A next... time?"

"That's right."

Her face went even redder.

Whatever. I turned back to the stove and simmered the ginger and pear juice together for the ginger syrup.

Simmer until the ginger's raw edge cooks out and its sharp, distinctive scent rises through the kitchen.

Right around when that aroma had filled the room —

"That's a strong smell."

"Mix this with honey and it turns into a legendary hangover cure."

"Hmph. Vegetables are bad enough, and vegetable-flavored water's even worse."

"That tracks."

Chatting back and forth, soon enough the liquid had reduced nicely. I set the ginger concentrate aside to cool.

Then I plated a few pieces of the finished yakgwa.

Traditional method: dry them for about ten hours until the outer syrup glaze sets firm. But nobody had that kind of patience tonight, so we were taking a shortcut.

"Andrea. Wind."

"......."

"Wind."

"Tch."

All-natural breeze generator.

Now with bonus mana.

While she blasted the yakgwa with a steady current, I poured hot water over the fresh ginger syrup and stirred in a spoonful of honey.

"There we go. Tonight's dessert: yakgwa, served with ginger tea."

The finished yakgwa gleamed a deep, lacquered brown.

In this state, the not-quite-dry syrup would definitely stick to your fingers. The full, shelf-ready version needed that drying step — but if you ate with a fork, it'd be fine.

"Andrea. Thanks for the honey run on your day off."

"O-oh, it's nothing. I was happy to get back into the forest for a change."

"Glad it was a good time, then."

Then I turned to Veronia.

She'd mostly calmed down. Her face had returned to its natural color — which made her ultramarine ears all the more conspicuous as they twitched.

"Thank you, too. This is a little thank-you for helping out — eat as much as you want."

"No, I'm the one who's grateful! I'll eat well! To receive nothing but kindness like this — you really are a good male!"

Woman and wolf-woman faced their respective pieces of yakgwa, eyes shining.

Swish swish.

Twitch twitch.

The sweet scent saturated the air.

And let's be honest: no female alive dislikes dessert.

"Wait — isn't this the kind of thing that makes you fat? It smells exactly like weight gain."

"That's nonsense! We wolf-kin don't get fat from sweets! Sweets are energy! If you're not going to eat yours, hand it over!"

"That is not the point!"

Veronia was faster.

Without the slightest hesitation, she grabbed a piece of yakgwa bare-handed and shoved it into her mouth.

Well, the girl did once try to eat a whole beehive.

"Mmmmmmm~~!!!"

Her eyes lit up.

"This is delicious! Truly delicious! Even better than honey straight from the comb! How did you make this!"

Her hand darted for a second piece — and Andrea blocked it.

"Manners. Were you planning to eat them all yourself?"

"Then you eat, too! It's good!"

"Wolf-kin. At least observe basic table manners. Eat slowly, at the very least. The boss made these for us at the cost of his own sweat."

"Don't know about that!"

"Good grief."

Andrea picked up a yakgwa next, and then —

"......."

She closed her eyes and shuddered, the pastry still in her mouth.

"Delicious."

The instant it touched her tongue, the syrup-soaked outer layer of the dough walloped her entire palate with sweetness.

Not just sugar — the cinnamon cut through, weaving itself through the honey, and a dance of flavors broke out across her tongue.

When she bit down, the crumbly dough disintegrated, oil releasing and melding with the surface syrup, the savory notes neutralizing the sweetness.

Rich. Sweet. Salty-edged.

All of it hit at once.

And with every layer that crumbled apart in her mouth, the flavor only deepened.

This was a satisfaction nothing like eating a meal.

How to put it.

Was it the kind of sweetness that sank all the way into the deepest part of the heart and told it, There, there — you've had a long day?

One bite was enough to obliterate every complaint about working on a day off.

Even a high-end dessert shop would have struggled to produce flavor like this, and Andrea sat there chewing, chewing, savoring every last bit of it.

I speared a piece with my fork and pushed the ginger tea toward the two yakgwa-besotted women.

"Drink this, too. It'll cleanse your palate. Veronia, your hangover should ease up a little."

Two sets of eyes considered the lemon-clear ginger tea.

Sniff sniff.

A suspicious scent.