Blackbeard, the Dwarf with a Massive Liver
Blackbeard, the Dwarf with a Massive Liver
"Is this one of those restaurants that bans dwarves? An establishment that discriminates against customers based on race?"
A dwarf with a thick, shaggy black beard glared at me, bristling with indignation.
Instead of answering him, I turned to Andrea and asked for an explanation.
"It's not even opening hours yet, but he kept trying to force his way in, so I stopped him. It turned into an argument from there."
I looked at Heimer. "Is that true?"
"Yes. We told him to come back at opening time, and when he didn't listen, tempers flared."
It seemed Andrea was telling the truth.
"Would you look at these two! Getting your stories straight to corner one poor dwarf! I wasn't even here to eat — I was merely curious about the interior decor and the architectural style..."
The dwarf took another step forward, ready to renew his tirade, but before he could launch into it—
"Blackbeard, that's enough."
Camilla cut him off.
"But...!"
"It was Blackbeard's fault for trying to force his way into a closed shop. The rudeness was mutual."
"Miss Camilla, insulting a dwarf's beard is the greatest of all disgraces...!"
"And did Blackbeard not mock the elf's ears?"
"...."
"If you remain unsatisfied, we can consider this deal null and void. The Iron Wall Hammer guild said they could take on the commission instead."
"Ah, no! I am perfectly satisfied. Heh, heheh!"
Flustered, Blackbeard hastily waved his hands and then extended one to Andrea.
"My, my apologies. It's an occupational hazard — I go half mad when I see novel things."
Andrea, who loathed even touching hands, much less shaking them, shot me a sidelong glance before taking his hand.
"I'm sorry too. Couldn't be helped. Tch."
That click of her tongue at the end gnawed at me, but nobody called her out on it.
"And who might you be, sir?"
The bushy-bearded dwarf drew his chin in sharply. "As for me, I am Blackbeard, chief of the Blackhammer guild, the dwarven carpenters' guild. My kin know me by other names: the Dwarf with a Giant Liver, the Zealous Devotee of the Hammer, the Construction Master."
Dwarves, I recalled, had three names.
The first was the name given by their parents at birth. That one was never spoken to anyone outside the family, reserved instead for the epitaph upon their grave.
The second was the craftsman's name, the one they used in public. It always highlighted the dwarf's most distinctive feature. For him, that was clearly Blackbeard.
And the last was the title bestowed by their own people. A name that praised the deeds of a lifetime, closer to an honorific than a name.
Zealous Devotee of the Hammer meant he was so passionate a worker he never let his tools rest. Construction Master meant he was an absolute authority in the field of building.
In other words, the stocky dwarf standing before me was a master artisan of considerable skill.
'The Dwarf with a Giant Liver' — that's a new one, though.
Did it just mean he could hold his liquor?
I shelved the idle thought and introduced myself.
"Roman Lucas. Owner of the Knight Restaurant."
"Sir Lucas! A pleasure! I'll be seeing you around the area for the time being, so let's get along."
I glanced at Camilla at that comment. He must have been one of the dwarves she'd brought with her.
She met my eyes and then abruptly turned her head away. "As I mentioned before, he's the specialist I brought to install the teleport gate in the Britten territory. It's a gate for my personal travel, and it won't take long to build."
"Why are you speaking with your face turned away like that?"
"Y-you don't need to know! That."
She kept her face resolutely averted.
"Anyway, from now on, truly urgent, small-batch orders will be sent through this gate. For you especially, I'll waive the delivery fee, so just say the word."
"A moment ago, you distinctly called it a personal travel gate..."
"If the cargo fits in my luggage, it counts as personal travel."
I supposed that was one way to define it. And honestly, this was nothing but good news for me.
I could get supplies from the capital on short notice whenever I needed them.
Teleport shipping normally cost a fortune — no sane person used it — and the head of the Golden Wagon merchant group was offering me those fees, of all things, for free. How could that be bad?
Except.
"You'll be the only one using it, correct?"
"Of course."
I just wanted to make sure this teleport gate never reached the ears of Princess Diana.
'Maybe she's forgotten by now.'
I'd heard she'd found a professional chef through a competition. The top finisher in a contest between the capital's best cooks had become the knight order's new chef, or so the story went.
'It's been months since I left, and no word — maybe she's finally started to forget.'
I'd have to quietly probe Camilla about it later.
"In that case, I've no objection. But if I may ask, Master Blackbeard — are you the only worker on this project?"
"Ahem! There was no need to drag other colleagues along just to build a single-person teleport gate!"
The way he fumbled for the words was awkward, but I decided not to press.
Everyone had secrets they preferred to keep.
"More importantly — who designed the interior in here?"
Blackbeard's eyes lit up as he scanned the restaurant's decor. The architectural master's curiosity had clearly been piqued.
"I designed it myself."
"The whole thing — the layout and the inner structure too?"
"Yes. I worked on it with a local craftsman from the village."
"What region uses a building style like this? I've traveled far and wide, but this is the first time I've seen its like."
Blackbeard's eyes blazed as he tried to approach me, but Andrea stepped into his path.
"We're about to start service. Please don't get in the way any further."
She was openly radiating discomfort around this particular dwarf.
"Ahem! I was rude without realizing. Then may I return and ask after the work is done? And sample the food while I'm at it."
"That's fine."
"I'll see you later, then."
Camilla hurriedly announced that she had to discuss additional clauses of the teleport installation contract with Viscount Britten.
"I, I'm going too! And about that soup — tell me the moment you finish the blend! A-and I'll be having lunch at the viscount's castle today! So don't bother preparing anything."
"You won't have the Doenjang-jjigae? The tofu came out especially well this morning."
"The tofu came out well...?"
The word "tofu" snagged her attention. She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head fiercely and clearing her throat.
"F-fine. It would be poor manners to abandon Viscount Britten and eat here alone. And that soup you just made with the powder was more than enough. So..."
"Lady Camilla?"
"Anyway! I'm going! Don't stop me."
Still refusing to meet my eyes, she practically fled.
"...."
What was that about?
"Did something happen between you and that human noble?"
"Nothing — I just let her test a new product."
"Oh, really?"
She was acting strangely today.
***
"You designed this kitchen yourself as well?"
"That's right."
Once his work was done, Blackbeard returned to the restaurant for the evening service and set about inspecting the interior decor and kitchen layout.
"A design that is so far removed from standard imperial style is deeply impressive."
He stroked his beard as he examined everything from the ceiling to the underside of the tables.
"Were your parents carpenters, Sir Lucas?"
At some point, his form of address for me had evolved from "proprietor" to "Sir."
"Not at all."
"Not at all? And yet you were able to build a structure like this? Could it be you are one of those geniuses said to appear among humans from time to time?"
I didn't have the mental bandwidth to answer his questions while he admired the place.
Whorrrk!
I was fully focused on wokking in front of the flare range, turning out the evening menu.
Left hand on the pan handle, right hand gripping the spatula, I kept the Coco wings moving as they fried and baked in the oil all at once. The wings, seasoned with soju, pepper, and salt before cooking, were turning golden-brown in the hot fat.
Most meats needed this step — the frying or searing before the real cooking began. Proper Maillard reaction brought out the savor of the meat and intensified the flavor of whatever seasoning came next.
When the pan-fried Coco wings had turned a deep brown, I lifted them out with a strainer. The golden wings gave off a rich, nutty aroma just like oven-roasted chicken.
Oil bubbled and popped on the Coco skins. Pop! Pop!
At this stage, if I just set out a dish of seasoning sauce alongside them, they'd already be a perfect drinking snack. Or I could brush the skins with soy sauce and call it delicious K-Chicken.
But the sauce I'd prepared today was something else.
Minced garlic, onion, green onion, plus soy sauce, malt syrup, sugar, and donkatsu sauce — a barbecue sauce was simmering away in the frying pan.
"That smells delicious. What is this sauce? It resembles the buffalo wings they sell in the capital."
"It's similar."
The menu item was officially Soy Sauce-Braised Coco Wings. Among the evening crowd, though, customers just called them Coco Wing Barbecue.
They were one of the all-time great drinking snacks — paired equally well with soju or beer — and had become the top-selling evening menu item lately.
The original recipe called for braising them in a soy-sauce-based reduction, but I'd adjusted it for local tastes by blending a little ketchup or donkatsu sauce into the soy to make a barbecue-style glaze instead.
I added the crisped Coco wings into the sauce and cranked the heat back up.
Sizzle-sizzle.
I tossed them until the seasoning clung evenly to every wing. The sauce glazed the surface of the wings, glossy and reflecting the light.
"Bldi, plating, please."
"Ah, yes..."
Bldi, who had been prepping ingredients beside me, hurried over with quick little steps, tongs ready to lift the wings onto a white plate.
She gulped audibly at the garlic smell as she set the plate into the pass-through. I turned and called out to Andrea, who was handling the front.
"Andrea! Tables seven, twelve, and twenty — braised wings!"
"Tables seven, twelve, twenty — braised wings, out!"
In the dining hall, Andrea expertly lifted the plates and delivered them to the customers.
"Might I have one of those as well?"
Watching the action, Blackbeard licked his lips.
"Would you like to order one?"
He nodded.
"If you please."
I set a freshly sauced Coco wing in front of him at his table. He lifted the hot wing with his bare fingers, bit in, and his eyes flew wide open.
"Hoohhh..."
The dwarf's soy-stained beard bobbed as he spoke. "This calls for a drink! An appetizer that awakens the combative instinct of a dwarf with a giant liver — it's been far too long!"
His eyes glittering, he asked, "Sir Lucas, what is the most expensive and delicious drink you serve here?"
An expensive, delicious drink. There was exactly one option: the distilled liquor Camilla had given me. But I couldn't serve that to a customer.
"I wouldn't call it expensive, but it's plenty strong in its own right. It's called soju."
"Ah, I've heard it sells well in the capital. You stock it here too? Bring me that!"
I set out the familiar green bottle.
"There's plenty. Drink as much as you like."
"Kha-ha-ha! My thanks!"
At last, I was going to witness a dwarf drinking soju.
I'll admit, I was curious. For a race that supposedly worshipped alcohol, just how much did they like soju? And how much could they put away in a single sitting?
'Would he really drink a whole crate by himself, the way the rumors say?'
This was pure personal curiosity. And the fridge was fully stocked with cold soju, in any case.
"This liquor is wonderfully cold! Ha! It's been ages since I've had a truly good drink! Kha-haht!"
Laughing heartily, he bypassed the soju glass I'd set aside and filled a regular water tumbler instead.
"These tiny cups barely even register in the liver!"
And so, for the first time, I witnessed a dwarf's drinking habits firsthand.
.......
"Mnyah. Mnyah. Krhoo~! It'sh been sho long! Kekeke! Haven't been thish drunk in agesssh..."
Blackbeard's tongue was completely dead. He mumbled around a mouthful of Coco wing, half the words dissolving into a slur.
"Sho gooood...!"
Watching him descend into full-blown drunkenness, Andrea sidled up beside me. "That man — is he really a dwarf?"
The reason she was questioning his heritage was the glass sitting by his left hand. Blackbeard hadn't even emptied half of his first tumbler of soju before he was hammered.
'Wait — "giant liver" can't possibly mean fatty liver disease, right?'
The man was a total alcohol lightweight.