Chapter 31
Chapter 31
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Translator: crow
Chapter Title: Side Story: Traditional Cooking Method
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"Molecular gastronomy has opened new horizons in the culinary world."
In a rundown restaurant, an old man left alone tuned into the TV as he began cleaning. He was the owner and head chef, but sending the staff home and tidying up himself at the end was a lifelong habit.
"The fusion of cooking and science creates new flavors by combining utterly incompatible ingredients—a realm bestowed upon us by the god of cuisine out of pity for humanity."
The old man straightened up the lobby. He polished the decorative items there that could no longer be used but were maintained daily, free of even a speck of dust.
[MICHELIN 2002]
[Gault & Millau TABLE DE CHEF 2002]
After returning the plaques engraved with three Michelin stars and four toques from his last era of recognition to their places, the man reached for even older relics from his most glorious days.
"These higher-dimensional flavors, aromas, and textures—impossible with traditional methods—shocked those who once dismissed molecular gastronomy. It's all thanks to the new cooking tools emerging from scientific progress. Of course, Chef Henri Bucella's arrival was decisive."
A faded golden chef's trophy and a single plate in place of a plaque.
[Bocuse d'Or 1998 Chef / Georges Guichon]
As he finished polishing the plate, the TV broadcast came to an end.
"Molecular gastronomy is now essential knowledge for any French chef, even if not a specialty. Those who cling only to tradition can never grace the world stage."
The old man placed the plate back in the display case and muttered,
"Bullshit."
As he prepared to close up, the old man brooded.
'The key to cooking lies in traditional methods and the inherent flavors of the ingredients.'
The recipes refined over centuries, combined with superb ingredients from France's bountiful nature, formed the pride of French cuisine—an impregnable fortress beyond the reach of mere science.
'The world has gone mad.'
That damn globalization, that damn diversity.
With closing preparations complete, the old man turned off the lights.
"Excuse me, is this Chef Georges Guichon's restaurant?"
In the darkened shop, a man pushed open the door and entered. Dressed in a suit with neatly combed blond hair, he looked like a typical office worker.
"Yes, but we're closed."
The old man—Georges Guichon—issued his closing order.
"I've come at a terribly late hour. But would you spare me just a bit of your time? I promise you won't regret it for the rest of your life."
Normally, Georges would have cut him off and chased him out. But for some reason, today his heart stirred.
"What is it?"
"I've come at this late hour, presumptuously, to bring you exactly what you need most."
"What I need? What is it?"
"A seasoning. Ah, I haven't introduced myself."
The man handed over a business card.
"Lucifer Company R&D Department Head, Baalzebub. Call me Baal for short, or use the name humans commonly know me by."
Beyond the window, Paris's lights danced beautifully.
"The devil, huh."
"You're early today."
Late that evening, Baal returned to the restaurant. Having arrived right after the staff left, it was earlier than the previous night.
"You really a demon?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"You're insane."
"Whether I'm a demon or not, just try using the seasoning I gave you."
At those words, Georges recalled the night before.
[Demon my ass! Get lost!]
[Oh dear, I'll be off then. But I'll leave a gift for you.]
Just before being shooed away, the man called Baal had left behind a small glass vial.
[A natural seasoning that draws out the inherent flavor of any dish to its utmost limit. Not chemical, purely natural, enhancing the ingredient's own taste rather than science—so it harmonizes perfectly with traditional methods, or so I believe.]
At first, he'd meant to toss it. But a nagging doubt had stopped him.
"You still have it?"
"It's ominous. Could be drugs inside. I don't want to get nabbed by the cops for drug trafficking after chucking it. Take it back."
"You're sure?"
Baal eyed the seasoning on the table.
"It's your one chance to surpass Henri Bucella."
"What!?"
"No, I misspoke. Bucella's just a passing fad."
Leaving the fuming Georges behind, he departed the shop.
"That seasoning is your one chance to go down in culinary history as a legend."
Left alone, Georges immediately dumped the seasoning in the trash.
Just before finishing cleanup and leaving, he glared at the bin.
"......"
After a long hesitation, he fished it out.
He sprinkled a bit on his finger and tasted it.
"Oo-la-la."
His eyes widened in awe.
"Congratulations on your restaurant's booming success."
A few weeks later, Baal reappeared at Georges's place, newspaper in hand. The front-page article read:
[Chef Georges Guichon's 'Classique' Discovers New Combinations Within Traditional Methods.]
[His Fantastique Seasoning Draws Flavors to Their Utmost Limit.]
[What Combinations Are These? Every Chef in Paris Raves About the Taste.]
Georges didn't block Baal's entry. In fact, he'd been hoping he'd show up soon.
"You're the demon, right? Here to claim my soul?"
"So you finally believe I'm a demon."
"I have to! This seasoning! Just sprinkle it, and everyone raves! Any dish becomes divine, and it never runs out no matter how much you use! Who else but a demon could make this?"
"I'm flattered you finally believe me."
"Anyway, here for my soul?"
"Only if you fall into depravity."
"How can I trust that?"
"Well... ahem, first, I'm hungry."
The doors were closed, but the guest was a demon. Georges reluctantly started cooking with leftovers, but Baal's order was simple.
"Just put some seasonings on a plate. That's plenty. Oh, not the one I gave you."
"That'll do?"
"I'm a demon. I'd kill for fries and cola, but you don't serve that here."
Georges brought out the seasonings: pepper, salt, butter, sugar. Baal dipped his fingers in and ate.
"Demons don't lie. We harvest only fallen souls. We used to specify it in contracts to boost yields, but... hmm, that didn't truly corrupt them. Ended up with souls only good as slaves."
"Fallen souls get better treatment?"
"We welcome them as full members of Hell. Do you think we torment humans just for fun? It's all to grow our ranks."
Georges disliked the finger-licking, but let it slide—demon and all.
"I figured demons did shady deals."
"As I said, contracts aren't ideal. They're coercive, so souls don't truly corrupt. Forcing depravity by manipulating emotions or actions with demonic power is the same. It's like..."
A fly buzzed around the shop.
"Molecular gastronomy. Force-processing ingredients with science can't beat traditional methods. Those contrived flavors and textures are just illusions."
A demon who knows his cooking, Georges thought, nodding.
"So if I use the seasoning without falling, no soul-snatching."
"Naturally."
"Too bad. I won't fall."
"I hope not."
Baal finished eating and left.
"I just wanted to support you in upholding tradition."
After that day, Baal never returned.
[Restaurant 'Classique' Earns Three Michelin Stars.]
[Restaurant 'Classique' Secures Four Gault&Millau Toques.]
His restaurant regained its fame.
[Georges Guichon: Third Chef After Paul Bocuse and Joel Robuchon to Receive Légion d'Honneur?]
[Molecular Gastronomy Master Chef Henri Bucella Raves About His Food.]
Everyone praised him. His and his restaurant's future was paved with glory.
"Classique's food is getting stale lately."
"Same taste every day... hmm, could use some fresh thrill..."
But critics growing accustomed to his flavors craved novelty. Like molecular gastronomy—diverse, flashy innovations that would mark culinary history. Georges felt the need too.
'In the end, my cooking is just traditional.'
No matter how delicious, even amplified to extremes by the demon's seasoning, it wouldn't etch a new chapter in history.
History advances through pioneers, remembered eternally only by those who contribute to progress.
"......"
I'm just a chef who sparkled briefly thanks to a demon, then faded. Georges had reclaimed honor, but thirsted for greater.
'I need even tastier dishes.'
No recipe could exceed the seasoning's enhancement. Then he recalled first tasting it.
'That flavor was far better back then.'
He sprinkled some on a plate and licked it.
'...Not that taste.'
What was different? After pondering, he realized.
"My finger."
He dipped his finger in and ate.
"Oo-la-la."
The heavenly flavor from before returned.
"Good lord."
He grasped the meaning.
Georges's restaurant closed. For days, he went to church.
"Lord, lead me not into temptation..."
For more days, he brooded alone at home.
"It's madness, utter madness—but if I could share that taste with the world, if only..."
After further agonizing days, he severed his left pinky. Experimenting with it once, he wandered outside in final deliberation.
"......"
A child strolling alone in the park.
A vagrant no one would miss.
A woman wandering fearlessly late at night.
"I won't fall."
Even his reflection in the mirror.
"I just want to leave my name in history."
He bathed.
"Forever."
Meticulously, delicately, like washing ingredients.
"What dish will it be?"
"Can't wait."
The packed restaurant buzzed with anticipation for today's menu. All were personally invited by Georges: famed chefs, journalists, reporters, critics.
"Just one dish today?"
"Hope he reveals that fantastique seasoning."
While guests brimmed with excitement, the serving staff puzzled.
"Why aren't the other cooks here besides the chef?"
"Chef's doing it solo today?"
"With this crowd?"
"Single dish, no course—maybe he can manage."
At that moment, Georges entered the kitchen. He wiped his body clean one last time with a towel, then filled a bucket with water.
"65 degrees."
He added the demon's seasoning to the steaming water. Sprinkled generously, even the rising aroma was mouthwateringly sweet.
"Sous-vide."
He gulped it down—not from thirst, but to prepare the dish.
"Ghee."
He melted butter in pots. After melting heaps, he poured it into the bucket.
'Preparations complete.'
Georges stripped naked. After seventy years devoted to cuisine, he stood before them as pure as at birth.
"Oo-la-la! Georges! What the hell!"
"Oo-la-la!"
"Georges has lost it!"
Screams erupted. Reporters cheered for the scoop, snapping photos furiously.
"Everyone."
He opened the lid of the bucket with melted butter and dumped in the entire jar of demon's seasoning.
"This is the final dish of my life—and my greatest. A one-of-a-kind heavenly dish unlike any before or since. Savor it."
Confirming the seasoning melted like a pillar of salt, he lifted the bucket.
"Arroser."
He poured the 200-degree+ butter oil over himself.
"Gaaahhh!"
Screams rang out—his, and theirs. Amid the chaos, writhing in agony, Georges's consciousness faded.
"Ambulance! Call an ambulance!"
"Georges! Why!"
"Ahh..."
But the clamor died down. What held his fading mind was, ironically, the heavenly aroma from his body.
'Yes, I was right.'
No guest dared speak. It was humanity's taboo, an act unworthy of humans—beastly.
'With this, my name will endure in history.'
Yet none left. One by one, they slowly approached Georges.
'As the creator of a heavenly dish no one can replicate.'
Wiping drool from his mouth, Georges watched them draw near—including Henri Bucella, whom he'd envied so bitterly.
"Delicious. Yes, this is it."
Beyond the hastening crowd, he spotted the one still seated.
"After Nazareth's carpenter and his disciples humbled us, we've been too timid. Even after eliminating him, we feared human potential—trapped in rigid notions of contracts and tricks to corrupt them."
The demon still ate, dipping fingers sparingly into the seasonings.
"Fear of defeat caused it. But unnecessary. Humans are legion, most fools anyway."
As a chef, Georges finally understood.
"No need for contracts or mind control—most humans corrupt themselves. Like a thirsty donkey guzzling till its belly bursts."
This scene itself was the demon's feast.
"Our role is merely guiding the donkey to the oasis."
The guests tore into Georges's body.
"Isn't this the true traditional demonic recipe?"
In utmost agony, Georges's consciousness dimmed.
"To learn this through a human... I must bring a gift soon. Might even join the company someday."
Before his mind fully snapped, a fly buzzed to his ear and whispered.
"Your soul has fallen. Crime: 『Forcing Cannibalism Upon Other Humans』."
Georges screamed, but everyone was too busy devouring his body to hear.