Financiers and Eggnog Mid-Lesson (2)
Before Olivier, the host who had been the last one still standing, could even take his seat, Catherine tapped the table with her finger and muttered,
"Well then, which shall we try first?"
"I suggest starting with the most basic one."
As if finding that a reasonable idea, Catherine jerked her chin toward Mary.
Mary promptly plucked a plain financier—no toppings at all—from the pile on the plate and popped it into Catherine's mouth.
Crunch.
True to its golden-brown exterior that looked solid and firm, there was a moment of resistance.
But that resistance lasted only an instant.
It was nothing like the cookie—or the somewhat dry pound cake—she had expected from something so small. Completely different, and in the best possible way.
Beneath a texture like the outermost crust of a thickly baked cookie lay a soft interior, still warm, carrying an intense, rich aroma of butter.
She had eaten countless desserts, yet never a butter cake whose butter flavor was this powerful. Some trick had clearly been employed. Of that she was certain.
Then, through the soft financier, came an unusually firm crust.
Only when she caught the faint scent rising from it did Catherine become sure.
The flavor of browned butter.
Just as no living being could resist the crisp layer and aroma created when meat and fat char over charcoal, the intensified fragrance and taste of burned butter clearly enveloped the entire financier.
That also explained why its color was so much deeper than any other dessert she had tried. The more butter is browned, the richer both its aroma and its hue become.
What still bothered her, though, was the complete absence of any harsh, acrid taste.
Everything in the world came with both advantages and drawbacks.
Even elixirs that existed only in legend—panaceas or potions made solely with the philosopher's stone—had side effects.
Burned butter could hardly be free of them.
Which meant he had somehow concealed that flaw so it could not be tasted. But how?
"Oh? That faint note at the very end… cinnamon."
"Wow. You can actually taste that?"
"That's because I like cinnamon, Karem. Heh heh. Once you get older, rich spices like cinnamon are good for the body."
Olivier offered some dubious folk remedy.
Karem let it pass in one ear and out the other, yet Olivier was not entirely wrong.
As the body ages, blood pressure inevitably drops.
In that sense, cinnamon did have a mild blood-pressure-raising effect.
How much one would need to eat for any meaningful result, and whether it even worked on mages, was another question entirely.
"Cinnamon? I don't smell it at all."
"Just a little. A tiny bit. Only enough to mask the burnt taste. A pinch?"
Karem closed his right eye and mimed pinching powder between thumb and middle finger.
"I'd put more salt than that. And just that covers the burnt taste?"
"The aroma and flavor of browned butter are as intense as most spices, so of course, Contractor."
"Anyway, a dessert made with browned butter is a first for me."
This time Catherine chewed the financier topped with chopped almonds that Mary held out.
"Karem. Isn't browned butter something you use for sauces after searing a steak?"
"Normally you add the butter later so it doesn't burn, but it does burn during searing, so yeah."
"How did you even get the idea to put browned butter in?"
Robin's question was only natural, and Karem made a resigned face as if he had known that question was coming.
"That is entirely Junior Karem's fault."
"I admit it."
"He got distracted while melting the butter and burned it solid."
"I-I think improvisation is important in cooking."
"Aren't you supposed to focus only on the fire when you're standing in front of it?"
"I surrender."
Without a second's hesitation Karem raised both hands.
Improvisation when ingredients ran short or a better idea struck was important, yet there were things more important still.
Never point a kitchen knife at a person.
Focus only on the fire when standing before it.
Never confuse salt and sugar.
In other words, the absolute basics of cooking.
Of course none of that concerned Robin, who was alternating between stuffing four different kinds of financier into his mouth.
Even for a boy at peak eating age, financiers were denser than expected; while not as dry as almond cake or pound cake, they were still a rather dry cake.
In short, if you simply ate them without thinking, they stuck in your throat.
Unlike at first, as the dryness grew and the financier refused to go down, Robin's hand instinctively seized the glass piled high with whipped cream and brought it to his lips.
Sluuurp!
"Mmm!?"
Robin started at the sweet wave that flooded his mouth.
It was a drink utterly different from anything he had imagined.
Though magic, sword aura, monsters and the like existed, civilization here remained roughly medieval, so the drinks one commonly encountered were simple.
Water, juice, wine.
Surely no one would scoop whipped cream onto plain water. Whipped cream on juice? He doubted it would even go together—yet what entered his mouth was a completely different texture.
The polar opposite of the clear, refreshing liquid ordinary drinks possessed.
A dense liquid of heavy, clinging sweetness poured into Robin's mouth and slowly dismantled the financier dam that had been clogging his dry throat.
He felt as though he were eating liquid bread rather than drinking a beverage.
Across his entire tongue the heavy, thick drink of egg yolk and cream swirled together with the whipped cream; a hint of richness peeked through.
But only for a moment.
Right after came an intense cinnamon aroma and a salty note felt amid the sweetness.
In every food there exists a harmony that elevates each part further.
The richness vanished completely, leaving only the sweet, savory taste and the saltiness that made it shine.
The sweetness of sugar and the saltiness of salt created a synergistic effect that, even though his throat had long since cleared, made Robin gulp down the large glass.
Before he knew it he was sucking only air from the empty vessel.
"Pwah! Whoa—whoaaaaa. Whoaaaaaaaa!"
"It seems you like it, Young Master."
"Karem. Whoa. What—what is this?"
"This is eggnog."
Though he had not gulped like Robin, Olivier, who had emptied about half his glass, murmured in quiet admiration and wiped the liquid from his beard with a handkerchief.
"Hmm. This heaviness, as if one were drinking melted custard. Eggnog was a drink the nobles of Iceland once enjoyed on special days in the old, barren times. It's been a long while since I last tasted it."
"Huh? I've never had this before."
"That can also be laid at the feet of the lord, Duke Alfred."
"…Huh?"
All of a sudden the master of Iceland himself appeared in the conversation?
Not only Robin, Alfred's own son, but Karem and Mary as well reacted as though hearing the name for the first time.
"Because cream and eggs are no longer as precious as they once were."
"Huh? Just for that reason they stopped eating something this good?"
"Eggs and cream eventually became cheap enough for commoners to afford, and nobles could hire skilled foreign chefs to prepare rarer dishes, so the drink naturally fell out of fashion. Nowadays eggnog has declined to the status of a beverage that Iceland's elderly or country folk drink only occasionally during the harshest winters."
With those words—that freely eating eggs and cream had once been a symbol of Icelandic nobility—Olivier wet his throat again with eggnog.
"For all that, Fire Hands seem to be all the rage in Coldon these days, regardless of rank."
"Ah, Karem. The reason for that is simple."
"Simple?"
"Well, the spiciness of the Red Witch's Finger, and the subtle umami and sweetness that follow after, are simply that captivating."
"Doesn't that contradict what you said a moment ago?"
"People are contradictory beings by nature, so of course. Nobles are no different."
For an instant Karem recalled the knights and nobles addicted to that spicy heat who, at every evening banquet, scrambled like beasts starved for cuisine right alongside their subordinates.
Though overeating was as good as a symbol of power for those who ruled (nobles) and those who fought (knights), he could not deny the sight was a bit of a mood-killer.
"By the way, Mary. This is different from usual."
"What do you mean, Contractor?"
"Every one of these is bread or drink packed with butter, cream, and eggs."
"Ha, Contractor."
Mary snorted.
There was not a shred of shame in her demeanor.
"Did you think I would forever be unable to hide my excitement over food?"
"Actually, it's because while they were cooling for a bit I ate a ton of both the financiers and the eggnog."
"Junior Karem!"
She had deliberately baked extra so she could eat quickly without anyone noticing!
Mary glared at him with eyes that demanded how he could possibly reveal the carefully hidden truth.
But Karem was every bit as bold as Mary had been a moment earlier, without the slightest hesitation about his own actions.
"You said it would taste better if left to cool a little. And you couldn't even wait that long."
"Don't lie. Was holding a grudge over me teasing you for burning the butter really something to take so seriously?"
"Yes. Karem will remember this fact."
"Junior Karem is petty. Do you think only you can do that? Mary will remember this fact."
The petty squabble between a boy whose combined past and present lives made him forty and a brownie house elf estimated to be several decades old was so childish it made one's chest swell with involuntary grandeur.
No one else paid it the slightest attention.
"Mary. Stop picking on the kid and bring over that berry-topped financier."
"Contractor. Strictly speaking, I was not the one who started the fight."
"I don't care. Just bring it."
Hmm, good. This time that eggnog over there. And the quarrel was forcibly restored to peace by the master who reigned over both of them.
As peace settled over the table for a brief moment, only the faint crunching of pastry and the soft sipping of drinks gently filled the air.
Then, suddenly, Mary turned her gaze toward the floor and tilted her head.
"Contractor? Guest. No—it seems a messenger has arrived."
"Hmm? Out of nowhere?"
"I'll go check."
"Go on, kid."
Yes. The instant Mary vanished, Karem smoothly took over the role she had been performing.
His movements filled the empty space as naturally as flowing water—natural enough that the other servants and maids of Winterhome would have marveled had they seen it.
And so Catherine received her snacks and ate while Olivier fielded Robin's questions for a while, until somewhat hurried footsteps approached from afar.
Then, with a soft poof, Mary appeared in front of the door and hurried over.
"Contractor. A message from the messenger."
"What? In a bit. I'm still having a snack."
She sipped the eggnog Karem offered.
Karem felt a sharp sense of déjà vu from something that had happened only a few days earlier.
Meanwhile Catherine, wearing a dissatisfied look, reluctantly unfolded the parchment Mary held out.
"Pffffffft!"
She whipped her head around and sprayed a rainbow of what had been eggnog toward empty space.
"Cough! Cough cough!"
"Tsk. How uncouth. What's going on, Kitty?"
"Elder Iona's escort unit—cough!—on the brink of annihilation and fleeing—cough cough!"
"Pffffffft!?"
Everyone except Mary and Catherine—Karem, Robin, and Olivier—hastily turned their heads in another direction.
Attached Materials
— Financier —
— Eggnog —
Pictures drawn by ChatGPT for us!