Egg Tart à la Mode
Ice cream and egg tart.
A pairing of two entirely different desserts.
Catherine’s suggestion was nothing particularly outlandish. Pairing something with ice cream had been commonplace in his previous life, after all.
Affogato—hot espresso poured over cold ice cream. Parfaits layered with every kind of cookie, fresh fruit, preserved fruit, and whipped cream. Ice cream sandwiches pressed between biscuits, cookies, or two slices of bread. Beyond that, there was even a general term for any dessert served with ice cream, without needing a specific menu name like à la mode.
To think he had completely forgotten that utterly common, utterly mad combination of ice cream and dessert from his past life.
While he was at it, he might as well go all the way.
Karem promptly plated an egg tart that had cooled a little yet still rose with steam. He quickly shaped a scoop of ice cream into a slightly smaller circle and nestled it snugly into the sunken filling of the tart.
Hot egg tart and cold vanilla ice cream.
The moment the two opposing temperatures met, the ice cream in direct contact with the tart began to melt faster. Melted ice cream pooled along the contact surface with the hot pastry. The ice cream that had been clinging, ready to drip, finally reached its limit and began to trickle slowly down the tart shell in one stream, then two.
The melted ice cream soaked into the tart shell as it reached the plate, gathering in tiny droplets at the bottom. The entire spectacle unfolded in mere seconds—yet it was more than enough time for Catherine to transform back into a woman who simply adored dessert.
Sensing his employer’s burning desire, Karem quickly brought a small spoon to the egg tart à la mode. The densely frozen ice cream, softened by the tart’s residual heat in that brief span, sliced as smoothly as whipped cream; the custard filling beneath needed no mention, and the tart shell was the same.
As the spoon approached, Catherine’s nose—honed by long years of experimentation—caught a different curveball of aroma. Scent is suppressed or activated by temperature as a rule, and the same held true even for this simple harmony of egg tart and ice cream. Like a winter-blooming flower just before it fades in spring, scattering its fragrance on the wind, the sweet vanilla scent drifted closer. A soft aroma, different in character from the explosive butter scent that had burst forth when the tart first left the oven, caressed her from within.
…Gulp.
Sight and smell were fully satisfied. Now came the turn of taste—and touch.
Catherine took the egg tart à la mode into her mouth. And sure enough, the harmony of the two desserts was exactly the flavor she had anticipated.
Still-hot egg tart and cold ice cream. The soft texture that rose between those opposing temperatures at either extreme felt completely different from any egg tart she had eaten before. After she took a generous bite of the smoothly melted ice cream, the butter-rich tart shell crumbled as quickly as a sandcastle touched by a wave. The soft custard filling thus revealed had melted ice cream seeping into every crevice and gap; every time she mashed it with her tongue, it added yet more gentle texture and flavor. Alongside that came the ice cream that was only just beginning to melt—still-cold, not yet fully soft—and again the mellow taste and subtle vanilla aroma bloomed, repeating the cycle without end until nothing remained in her mouth.
“Huh. Eating the two together is really that good?”
Gordon scooped a hefty spoonful of ice cream and stuck the spoon in his mouth.
“Oh, by the way, this ice cream stuff is pretty decent.”
“Right. It’s like—no, never mind the explanation. Mercenary, try it yourself and judge. Ah, before that, one more.”
Catherine tapped the table lightly with a finger, urging him on.
“Gordon, just a moment. I’ll make it right—”
“It’s not that hard. I’ll do it myself. You keep working.”
Gordon scooped a generous mound of ice cream and spread it onto the egg tart as if he were smearing jam, pressing it down. Under the pressure the tart shell cracked. He paid it no mind and tossed the whole thing into his mouth in one go.
Crunch crunch crunch.
To put it bluntly, of course it was delicious. The sweet, rich yet understated vanilla scent extracted from the Grizzly Beaver naturally paired well with the egg tart. The ice cream, packed with cream, was no different. A soft cream frozen by magic—an extravagantly wasteful product of power—was something even Gordon had never tasted before. That made him like it all the more.
“But it doesn’t feel all that dramatic, if you ask me.”
Still, if they were going to eat them together… did they really have to? Gordon’s voice carried that uncertain note.
“Rather than pairing a vanilla-scented dessert with another vanilla-scented dessert, what about pairing it with something different? That sounds like a pretty good idea.”
“Like an apple pie loaded with cinnamon?”
“Oh, yeah. And make it with underripe apples that still have a strong tart bite.”
“Sweet and sour, plus the textures of pie and apple—that would definitely…”
Karem fed Catherine another à la mode while she finished the first. Gordon’s point was spot on.
While Catherine savored the flavor, Karem quickly popped an entire egg tart into his own mouth.
Hmm, it tastes good, but…
Strictly speaking, it was a failure. The egg tart Karem had originally planned was Portuguese-style, and Portuguese egg tarts were built on a crisp pastry shell. Somewhere along the way he must have made a mistake, because instead of pastry he had ended up with something closer to a crumbly moist cookie or a shortcake that had been crushed and pressed back together. His baking skill had improved since the old days, yet pastry and confectionery were still difficult for him. There was crispness, but only for a fleeting instant. All things considered it was on the soft side. In other words, it lacked texture.
In that light, Gordon’s remark meant that soft sweetness layered on soft sweetness made for a somewhat bland duet. What they needed was a flavor that would lift the sweetness further—something tart and slightly bitter—and a texture that stimulated the mouth.
“Well, this is all we have for a snack right now, so next time.”
“That’s a little disappointing.”
“No, baking’s just really hard for me, no matter what else I can do. Confectionery too.”
“Hmm? That doesn’t match the rumors I’ve been hearing at all.”
“Sorry? Rumors?”
Wondering what on earth that meant, Karem echoed the word straight back. Gordon simply repeated the stories about Karem he had picked up here and there in Blackwood Village.
A genius chef spoken of in the same breath as Winterhome’s head chef. A boy who dragged poisonous plants into the realm of food and delighted in watching others suffer. Even the envoy of the Adobis New Kingdom had been so impressed she clung to his pant leg—
“Uwaaaaaah.”
Karem’s face crumpled on the spot. Taken one by one, none of the claims was entirely wrong. He had held regular exchange meetings with Head Chef Jigmeser and was treated as an equal by the other cooks; the fire-scorch story was fact. And more than a few people had witnessed Nepaneck, the Adobis envoy, clinging to him and asking how much it would cost to hire him. Practically the entire welcoming party had seen it.
Yet explanations had crept in between the facts, inflating the rumors far beyond reality. And “delighted in watching others suffer”? Where in the world had that particular twist come from?
Of course Karem had gone around claiming he was a genius just to paper over skills and recipes that didn’t match his age or the era, swallowing the embarrassment. But this time it was hard to endure. If Gordon had simply been teasing him, Karem could have ignored it. The pure admiration in Gordon’s voice outweighed the mockery, making it impossible to brush aside.
Karem buried his face in both hands.
“Uuuhhhhh—”
“Hmm. Kid, no need to worry that much.”
Catherine patted Karem’s shoulder and laughed lightly, wearing the serene smile of one who had transcended it all.
“That rumor will last a few years at the very least, so steel yourself. I can guarantee it—I’ve been through it.”
“That doesn’t comfort me at aaaaaaall!”
“Oh, an extremely accurate statement.”
“What?”
“Because what I just said wasn’t meant as comfort.”
Karem lifted his head from his palms. Looking closely, Catherine’s smile and eyes were not those of someone who had transcended anything; they were the eyes of someone who had already suffered the same fate and understood exactly how he felt.
“Most people would boast about achievements like that. Kid, your sensibility seems more like mine than I expected.”
“That’s a compliment, right?”
“Who knows?”
Catherine shrugged and accepted the next tart à la mode Karem held out.
“If your sensibility really is like mine, then look forward to the future.”
“Uh, that doesn’t sound like a good thing.”
“From now on you’ll be tormented by rumors every time you do anything.”
“What? Me? Why?”
“Heh. Hey, mercenary.”
Catherine called to Gordon, who was still spreading ice cream on a tart.
“How long has it been since you left Borderster and came up to Iceland?”
“Hmm. I haven’t thought about it deeply. About a month, I guess?”
“And when did you first hear the kid’s rumors?”
“I just walked around the village a little and found out right away.”
Gordon eyed the tart from various angles, then popped the whole thing into his mouth.
“Even that little bit, and people who live decently already know three things about him, even if they’re exaggerated—”
“Aaaah, you don’t have to say them. Haah.”
Karem had expected something like this to some degree. He simply hadn’t imagined the rumors would swell this large. Yet that was only half the truth. People were so thirsty for information that they might not know the name of the blacksmith in the next village, yet they would know every detail of the local lord’s private life. With travel so inconvenient, the hunger for fresh news was that much greater. Naturally, even if they didn’t know Karem’s name, anyone of a certain standing would have heard of his deeds at least once—exaggerated or biased though the accounts might be. How could they not, when the entire food culture of Iceland’s middle class and above was being turned upside down? The lower classes were still catching up, but with fire-scorch spreading, that too would come soon enough. If Karem had simply gone outside more often, he would have noticed long ago.
“Ah, whatever. Let it be what it will.”
“Oh, that reaction feels nostalgic.”
“Sorry? What does?”
“That’s exactly how I reacted the first time I heard someone praising my own achievements.”
Catherine seemed to be savoring an old memory, but the more she thought about it the more heat rose in her; her brow gradually furrowed.
“Kid. Why are you just sitting there?”
“Uh, so suddenly?”
“Just the tart this time.”
The true culprit was long dead. Catherine poured her homeless frustration into urging Karem on.
“Karem’s one thing, but Mage, you’re really something else. If you just bragged about your achievements, people would gladly revere and praise you on their own, yet you insist you hate it and get all embarrassed—”
“Shut up!”
As if the timing were perfect, Catherine redirected the temper she had been aiming at Karem and unleashed it on Gordon instead. Specifically, she started kicking his shins under the table with abandon.
Oh, so she’s not actually furious.
Seizing the brief free moment, Karem took a big bite of egg tart and thought it over. If she were truly angry she would have blasted magic the way she so often did with Olivier. This was the reaction of someone embarrassed and flustered. After all, last winter Catherine had kicked Gordon’s shins just like this more than once—
No, Karem decided this was actually ideal.
“No, but why are you so embarrassed? Something like defeating that undead troll called Seaweed Beard is the sort of thing you’d normally demand praise for—”
“I! Clearly! Told! You! To! Shut! Up!”
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
Karem wasted no time shoving the rest of the tart into his mouth, chewing while he scooped more ice cream. Then he leisurely ate egg tart and ice cream while enjoying the ruckus between Catherine and Gordon. Right now Catherine was the one doing all the fighting and Gordon was simply taking it—in other words, it was someone else’s business. And watching other people fight was entertaining just by itself. As a bonus, he finally got to enjoy a snack at his leisure for once.
— Egg Tart à la Mode —
Picture drawn by ChatGPT.