Does Saying Sorry Fix Your Cooking Career?
Does Saying Sorry Fix Your Cooking Career?
"You brainless bastards! I said coat your blades with mana and slice the lettuce—who told you to slice through the cutting board too? Huh?!"
I glared at Hamilton, who'd just cleaved straight through a cutting board with his mana-wrapped sword.
All he had to do was control his output a little, and instead he'd butchered the board along with the vegetables.
"I'm sorry! I'm still not used to regulating—"
"Did I not tell you to skip the excuses!"
"I'm sorry!"
"Does 'sorry' fix anything? Do it again, now!"
"Yes, Chef!"
Hamilton, who'd been floundering a moment ago, snapped back to attention and planted himself in front of a fresh cutting board.
"You lot work with blades for a living. One slip and someone gets seriously hurt. That means your focus needs to be sharper than anyone else's!"
"You're right!"
"So what the hell is this mess!"
"We're sorry!"
I turned to look at Heimer's handiwork on the lettuce.
"This lettuce is so thick you could use it as a winter blanket!"
"I've done wrong!"
"Then why did you do wrong in the first place!"
"I'm sorry!"
"Does 'sorry' make this winter-blanket lettuce disappear? Well?!"
"No, Chef!"
"Slice it thinner. Properly channel your mana this time."
"Yes, Chef!"
Heimer took his place beside Hamilton and resumed trimming the lettuce.
Every piece he'd mangled went straight into the scrap bin for staff side dishes. No way I was serving that to a paying customer.
Doing so would drag the restaurant's name through the gutter.
Some might ask what "name" a knight restaurant even has to protect—but even kitchens without celebrity chefs and dining rooms without chandeliers carry expectations. Every beloved restaurant has its signature dishes, and with those dishes come the expectations guests bring through the door. They show up to have those expectations met.
Meeting them is the kitchen's job.
And if you fail at the one job you're supposed to nail?
That was the kind of failure that got your sign taken down.
The youngest knight, Briar, was slicing onions with tears streaming down her face, and Rawson kept stirring the soup bubbling away on the stove. All five knights were giving it an honest effort—I'd grant them that—but it was nowhere near enough.
"Haah."
The whole scene was suffocating to watch. If I could, I'd beam the knowledge straight out of my skull into theirs. Turning these kids into actual cooks was going to take more time than I'd hoped.
I found myself thinking back to when Andrea first learned this work.
-Slice the lettuce to this thickness and bring it over.
-Like this... is this fine?
She'd nailed the exact thickness I wanted on her very first try.
-Perfect.
-For an elf, this level of swordsmanship is simply expected.
Even waking up the ingredients' flavor with mana—flawless. A genuine top-tier talent.
The problem was that her looks and her elven nature made her far more valuable out on the floor than stuck in the kitchen.
And what a waste that was.
That's exactly why I'd had her help with prep only during the slow morning and evening hours.
I'd thought we'd reached a point where we could manage without Andrea by now.
"You really can't manage without me, can you?"
Andrea had materialized beside me, giggling.
"What, can you read minds now?"
"Just the natural result of working together for so long."
"It's only been four months."
"Or as much as four months. Isn't that a long time by human standards?"
"Are you sure you're actually an elf?"
"Of course I am. These pointy ears are irrefutable proof!"
She finished with a wide, easy grin. The elf who'd seemed so cold when she first arrived had turned into this chatterbox. They do say no one stays icy in the presence of good food.
'She's put on a little weight, but honestly, it suits her.'
Her body, always more muscular and defined than the typical elf's, had taken on a slightly softer quality these days.
Not that she'd gained much...
"Hmm."
Her chest did seem a little larger, though.
"Boss, where exactly are you looking?"
"Huh? Oh, it just looks like you've filled out a bit."
"Kyaaah! Pervert!"
She covered her lower belly.
You call me a pervert and then cover that spot—what kind of logic is that?
Not that I could call her out on it. Doing so would basically be admitting I'd been staring at her chest.
"Ahem. You're right—every single one of them is clumsy at channeling mana into their blades."
"They just slather it on thick and clumsy, so naturally they're hacking things to pieces."
Looking at the mess, I couldn't hold back a sigh. These guys had walked around calling themselves knights.
"If you can't even manage this, you're a disgrace to the entire knighthood!"
I picked up a kitchen knife and spread the mana as thin as I could make it.
The mana rippled along the blade, thin enough to slice an onion into translucent sheets.
"Don't just brute-force it by piling it on thick! Spread it as thin as you possibly can! Is this really that hard?!"
"......"
The knights stared blankly at the sword energy radiating from my blade.
"I told you—you have to spread it this thin to endure hours of kitchen labor!"
"You're right!"
"Lower your output. Why do you keep bringing a slaughterhouse blade to slice scallions? Do you think kitchen work is beneath you?"
"......"
Every mouth stayed clamped shut.
"So you do think it's beneath you, is that it?"
"No, Chef!"
Even I didn't use the Butcher's Sword for vegetables unless I had to. It was just unwieldy for that kind of work.
Watching these knights, though—it was like watching someone try to peel an apple with a broadsword.
Thunk!
A heavy, dull crack rang out again—the sound of solid wood being carved through.
"Hey! Hamilton!"
"Kni—Che—Ham—il—ton!"
"How many cutting boards are you going to eat through!"
"I'm sorry!"
"You think saying sorry ends your kitchen career?!"
Andrea was quietly stunned by the sight of Lucas screaming with veins bulging in his neck.
They'd worked together for a long time now, but she'd never seen this side of him. Lucas had always been the one smiling at customers and staff alike. When he'd said the knights would be helping in the kitchen, she'd assumed it was no big deal—just another ordinary day.
'He's kind of... impressive.'
She'd been caught off guard by the sudden sharpness from a man who'd always been so mild and easygoing, but she kept finding her eyes drawn to the sheer force of his presence.
Before she knew it, she was staring at Lucas's profile.
The furrowed brow, the sharpened eyes, the clenched jaw, the muscles twitching along the jawline—every detail was foreign to her, and she couldn't stop looking.
"Haah, you idiots..."
When Lucas swept his hair back with a sigh, his brow still tightly knotted, Andrea flinched.
Her face burned hot. She didn't know why it was heating up, but it had suddenly become difficult to keep watching that profile. And yet she wanted to keep watching it all the same.
Then Lucas's eyes met hers as he exhaled, and Andrea instinctively whipped her head away.
'What kind of face was I just making?'
She felt anxious for no reason, sure she'd been wearing some weird expression.
"Andrea."
"Y-yes? Boss?"
"What's with you?"
"What? N-nothing..."
"Are you running a fever? Why are your ears so red?"
Lucas reached out and gently rubbed the tip of her ear between his fingers.
"Eeeeeeek! I-it's nothing! It's just... hot! The sun's gotten bright, so Bldi's probably struggling, so I'll—I'll—I'll walk Bldi home!"
Startled by the sudden contact, she blurted out the first words that came to mind. She wasn't even fully aware of what she was saying as she shuffled sideways, stiff and awkward.
Andrea made a beeline for Bldi, who'd been huddled in a corner of the restaurant trembling ever since the knights showed up.
"......"
"B-Bldi, l-let's go home. Time to... clock out. Ha. Ha. Ha."
At Andrea's painfully forced tone, Bldi eyed her warily and stepped back. Andrea responded by forcibly wrapping her arms around Bldi and hauling her out of the restaurant.
"Ah... nghhh..."
Bldi resisted the sudden relocation, but there was no stopping Andrea in her runaway state.
And besides—
"I'll let you drink a little of my blood tomorrow, so hurry."
At Andrea's desperate offer, Bldi immediately stopped resisting and nestled into her arms.
"C-cl-clock-ing ouuut."
Once Bldi had mustered the courage to call out to Lucas, Andrea exhaled in relief and glanced back at him.
"I'll be back. Hahaha."
It was a shame she wouldn't get to witness Lucas's fury mode right this moment, but she could watch when she got back.
She fled the restaurant as if running from her own embarrassment.
"......"
Lucas watched Andrea's retreating back for a moment.
"Get back to work!"
And resumed roasting the knights.
Seeing their miserable faces, I did start to feel a little bad.
'Still, once the shift's over, I should at least grill them some meat.'
Even so.
'Channeling mana into a blade like a bunch of clumsy amateurs—that's just inexcusable.'
I couldn't wrap my head around it. My temper flared back up.
"Hamilton!"
"Yes, Chef!"
"That aura you're projecting is so thick, you could shave a steak with it and call it paper-thin pork belly! You son of a bitch!"
"I'm sorry!"
"Is it really that hard to slide your mana in thin, like you're slicing? If it is, then get the hell out, right now!"
Hamilton jolted at that and stared at me.
"What are you standing there for? I said get out!"
"I'm sorry!"
I shouted at the back of Hamilton's head as he walked out of the kitchen. Some knight—where was the grit?
"When I say get out, you actually get out?! Get back here and slice it properly!"
"Yes, Chef!"
Today's staff lunch was going to be shaved pork belly.
***
The day the Second Princess Diana offered her prayers to the gods and received the radiant white light, Saint Amelia requested an audience with the emperor.
"The Second Princess, Lady Diana, has been chosen by the divine."
She reported that Diana had received the white radiance—the mark of being chosen by the gods.
Among all the emperors in history, only the very first had ever been granted that white radiance.
"During my pilgrimage, I will proclaim the Second Princess's legitimacy."
"Is this the Order's official position?"
The aged emperor posed the question, and she nodded.
"It is."
"I see. I have heard the Order's opinion clearly. You may withdraw."
The next day, Saint Amelia departed for the provinces on her pilgrimage.
Beginning in the imperial capital of Croselia, her journey continued through the empire's western territories for a month. Her destination was the Ritelber Spire, raised at the far western edge of the empire by the first pope's prayers to the gods.
Along the pilgrimage route, she met with nobles and conveyed the Order's will.
-The Second Princess has inherited the same white radiance as the first emperor. The Order therefore supports the Second Princess.
Among all the castles dotting the west, Bellosa was the most prosperous.
As the final city of the western pilgrimage, Amelia sat for a private audience with the lord of Bellosa. He was one of the most prominent nobles backing the First Prince's claim.
Lord Bellosa, his frame amply cushioned by wealth, greeted her seated before a table laden with the lavish delicacies for which western Bellosa was famous.
"It has been too long, Saintess. I've had a great many dishes prepared in your honor. This is our city's specialty—lobster. Steamed crayfish, with an exceptionally superb flavor..."
"I appreciate the care you have extended, but I am presently on pilgrimage."
"Ah, of course. How foolish of me. Hahaha."
Amelia swallowed her displeasure at Lord Bellosa's discourtesy—receiving her while seated, no less.
When greeting a saintess on pilgrimage, the established protocol called for the simplest attire and the most modest presentation. It was a gesture meant to signify that one shared in the ascetic rigors of the pilgrimage.
Yet the lord of Bellosa wore no humble garments, and had even seated her before a riot of extravagant dishes. This was an insult directed not merely at the saintess, but at the Order itself.
Amelia, however, paid it no mind.
A saintess was merely a vessel for the gods' will.
"Please, enjoy your meal. I will eat the provisions I brought with me."
Amelia produced a coarse loaf of rye bread.
It was one of the few foods a saintess on pilgrimage was permitted to consume. The teaching held that eating rough bread would help her understand the hearts of those who hungered.
"But, Saintess—are you truly resolved to back the Second Princess outright?"
"It is not my resolution, but the will of the divine. I am merely the messenger."
"In that case, might I suggest you refrain from delivering that message?"
"Are you threatening a messenger of the gods?"
She met Lord Bellosa's glare without flinching.
"Threaten? It is a proposal. A proposal offered by one who cares for the empire's future."
"I decline."
She saw it clearly.
The thick, sticky greed swimming in Lord Bellosa's eyes. Those were not the eyes of a man who yearned for the empire's future. They belonged to a man who yearned for his own.
"For I serve not the empire, but the future of the entire continent under the gods' care."
"How regrettable."
Amelia felt it then.
Dense killing intent pressing in from all sides.
"Then, Saintess, your pilgrimage must end here."
Lord Bellosa's gaze shifted.
The eyes now fixed on her resembled nothing so much as a serpent's. The serpent—symbol of the first Demon King who, in the age of creation, had led humankind into corruption.