Lose Some Weight, Young Master! (3)
Winterhome.
Winterhome was a little quieter than usual.
With the rescue party assembled and dispatched outside, that was only natural. But fewer people did not mean less work—not for everyone. The chefs of Winterhome were not among that “everyone.” No, they were busier than before.
The reason was simple. Their colleagues were away, but the workload remained the same.
Of course, one might argue that fewer people in the castle meant fewer dishes needed to be prepared. A high-ranking noble’s castle, however, did not run that simply. The food left by nobles and the powerful went to the servants below them. Leftovers from the servants’ meals went into the lower servants’ rations, and so on down the ranks to the lowest laborers. Whatever still remained finally arrived the next morning at the free soup kitchen for the poor, becoming their breakfast.
Naturally the reduced number of upper diners made the work relatively easier, but simple, repetitive labor was often harder than difficult work. This was no longer the days of everyday famine decades past, either. For the honor of the Duke of Iceland and the eyes of outsiders watching them, they could not simply cut the volume of food they prepared.
Thus Jigmeser and the remaining chefs under him found the days harder and far less enjoyable than they used to, yet in every other respect things were exactly as before.
“Hmm. So this is the substance extracted from a Grizzly Beaver’s… balls, is it?”
“That’s right. It’s called vanilla.”
“Vanilla. Hmm. The name has a nice ring to it.”
“And the scent?”
The scent? Was he seriously asking that?
For the first time, Jigmeser turned a look of deep suspicion on Iona. A deep furrow of doubt carved itself between his brows—yet the fragrance reaching his nose blew every last shred of doubt away.
The source of the scent was a refined porcelain container heaped high with tiny black grains. From them rose a fragrance that was both subtle and intensely rich.
“Sniff!”
Jigmeser twitched his nose without thinking. The smell poured straight in, slammed into the back of his skull, raced down his windpipe, and filled his chest completely. It was more alluring than any monster’s enticing pheromone, sweeter and thicker than spring-fairy honey. For a moment Jigmeser genuinely wondered whether he had somehow wandered into a flower field.
If a dwarf armored in stubborn pride and self-respect was reacting like this, the other chefs in the kitchen needed no description. Their souls had already left their bodies; they stood entranced, staring at the heap of grains that felt almost blasphemous in their abundance.
Jigmeser himself was hardly unscathed. Part of him desperately wanted to bury his face in the container and inhale until he blacked out. But subordinates stood behind him and a superior stood in front of him—dignity still mattered. He was a dwarf with pride, after all.
(Pride, coming from the guy who shaved off his beard and hair? Anyone hearing that would choke. Yet Jigmeser was completely serious—the same seriousness with which he rubbed his palms raw sucking up to Karem.)
“Hmm. So what would you have me do with this?”
“I would like you to prepare a sample worthy of presenting to His Grace without shame.”
“Hmm. Figuring out how to use it will take some time, won’t it?”
“I anticipated as much. On my way back to Coldon this old man obtained the usage instructions from Karem.”
“Ah—from Karem?”
“Indeed. We’re short on time, so egg tarts alone will do.”
Ah, well that was different.
The head chef standing on his platform snatched the note at once. His subordinates immediately crowded around him like a pack of wolves.
“Hmm? Just add a small amount during the mixing process and you’re done?”
“Looks like you put it in when you make the dough or the liquid base.”
“What? That’s really all?”
“The exact amount needed for each dish differs according to the recipe, of course—that goes without saying.”
“It’s hot and sticky in here already! What the hell are you all doing? Get out of my way!”
Jigmeser bellowed. He had already memorized every word on the note faster than anyone else. This was a sample ordered by the chief seneschal himself—something that would go before their lord, Alfred. He was not about to leave it to any of these layabouts.
The moment Iona left the kitchen, Jigmeser set to work. Using magic tools he chilled the dough, worked in butter, cut pastry sheets into the tart trays, poured in custard solution laced with vanilla, and slid everything into the oven.
Come to think of it, there was ice cream as well. Iona had not ordered any, but Jigmeser began making ice cream purely for tasting purposes. While the tarts baked he added vanilla, used the magic tools to churn ice cream, and the moment the egg tarts finished he shoved them into a servant’s hands.
“They’re waiting—hurry up and go!”
Jigmeser shut the kitchen door and turned around. The chefs’ attention had already fixed itself on the kitchen table. In truth their attention had locked on the moment the fragrance exploded from the oven while the tarts baked.
This was a familiar ritual for the chefs of Winterhome. Every time they held an exchange meeting and tasted the unheard-of recipes Karem scattered around, the reaction was the same. Even before Karem arrived, Jigmeser had always made his subordinates develop new dishes and taste them together to find improvements, so nothing had truly changed.
But—right now, at this very moment—Jigmeser discarded the downward gaze of a superior and willingly stepped down to the level of an ordinary dwarf.
The thick yet light sweetness filling the air, the heat of the hot custard, and ice cream made solely of cream and egg yolk with only vanilla added—no cheese at all.
“All right then.”
As Jigmeser strode forward, the chefs quickly brought over a platform. When he climbed up, bloodshot eyes stared out from his face.
“Let’s try them first.”
Gulp.
Someone’s throat worked. Expectation thick in the air, the chefs began tasting the tarts and ice cream.
Jigmeser tried the ice cream first. Silence. Then an explosion.
“Hmm? Hmmmm? Hmmmm!?”
“W-what in the world is this—?”
“…The milk flavor is completely gone. There’s only this sweet scent left.”
“…Caramel? No, caramel leaves a sticky smell behind. This is too clean. Has anyone ever smelled anything like this?”
“Grizzly Beaver scent pairs this well with custard?”
Shock, admiration, confusion, curiosity, doubt—each chef chewed ice cream and egg tart while chattering as noisily as if they were preparing a full evening banquet, pouring out their impressions. Yet none of those impressions connected. They were sharing the same experience, but the shock of the new fragrance called vanilla was simply too great for coherent exchange.
Jigmeser was no different. Yet the head chef remained sunk in silence.
“…This is better than I expected.”
So clean. Why?
Jigmeser could not understand it. The stronger a spice’s fragrance, the stronger its taste was supposed to be. Conversely, a weak fragrance meant a relatively weak taste. That was common sense. Yet this beaver-ball vanilla was something else entirely.
The thick, heavy, sweet, soft fragrance that spread through the mouth vanished cleanly the instant the last residue slipped down the throat. What remained in its place was a deep sense of regret—and a very primitive hunger that demanded more.
Thanks to that, Jigmeser understood one thing with absolute clarity.
This monster spice was a true monster that would overturn desserts completely.
Countless dessert recipes that vanilla could claim flashed through Jigmeser’s mind, but that was not important right now.
“Hey! You mannerless bastards! Your superior and elder is deep in contemplation and you use the chance to gobble everything yourselves! You hierarchy-less dayflies! And when did you polish off that much of the ice cream!?”
The mountain of tarts was already half gone. The bowl that had been full of ice cream had vanished by the same amount.
The head chef’s fury made the cooks flinch—yet they only began eating even more furiously. At that sight, Jigmeser lost all desire to say anything further. Just as he had set aside the gaze of one who stood above, the subordinate chefs were no longer subordinates in this moment. They were rivals fighting over a single prey!
Right now the only thing that mattered was eating!
“Y-you damn bastards!”
“Forgive us, Head Chef. But we cannot resist a ‘first’ new product!”
“More importantly, try it with the ice cream. They share the same fragrance, yet the harmony—”
“Ah, really?”
Jigmeser quickly cut in and tried his subordinate’s tempting suggestion. Indeed it was the same fragrance, yet instead of growing tired of the identical scent they meshed in perfect harmony; the crisp, soft, moist, rich textures made the mouth vibrate.
Jigmeser was a stubborn dwarf—soft only in the face of cooking. That was why he shoved the other subordinates aside, ate tart and ice cream together, and simply abandoned any thought of punishment.
Thus the noisy uproar eventually subsided into quiet. Empty bowls and plates without a single crumb remaining, Jigmeser and the chefs sank into aftertaste.
The period of a meal is cleanup. On any ordinary day a thunderous scolding would have fallen, but who cared? Jigmeser gladly shared the lingering afterglow with his subordinates in a generous spirit.
“Ha… Come to think of it, Karem must have returned as well, of course.”
Jigmeser muttered to himself in a voice no one else could hear. Ever since meeting the little genius chef, he had been tasting thrills and satisfaction several times a year that were normally hard to experience even once. Expectation colored his voice.
And he thought of Godwin, who could not eat any of this.
“Young Master Godwin will be sad. Should I sneak some to him?”
The Duchess truly did have peculiar tastes.
And the object of that expectation was heading toward the storehouse, enjoying the crisp summer air of Iceland while carrying out a request that was not particularly troublesome.
“So, Karem.”
Mary, who had answered Karem’s summons, asked again in a voice thick with disbelief.
“We’re going to get oats.”
“Yep. There are a few other things I’m looking for too, but the main goal is oats. There weren’t any in the tower’s storeroom or cold room.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
Mary stared at Karem with an expression that said she could not believe her ears, then continued.
“Who would willingly eat that animal feed?”
“Uh, I heard people in Iceland used to eat it often in the old days. Oats. And in a few other countries it’s even a staple.”
“I heard it was only eaten when you had to dig up grass roots just to keep from starving to death, so of course.”
“I heard that too.”
Karem shook his head as if displeased.
“And Junior Karem intends to feed that livestock fodder to the heir of a ducal house?”
“Yes. Fortunately Young Master Godwin said he would follow everything I tell him.”
(Well, he never heard that it would be oats. Does he even know what oats are? He probably does—they’re the best animal feed around, after all.)
Mary’s gaze shifted into the same look she had given Karem the first time he demonstrated his skills after entering the Mage’s Tower—distinctly negative. Yet Karem was confident.
That’s only natural. The way people used to cook them was completely botched.
Karem understood perfectly well why Mary, Olivier, and Catherine all reacted that way. Even the grain porridge he had eaten in his previous life’s wretched hometown never contained oats. Oats had a long history of being scorned, but in modern times their rich vitamins, minerals, and other nutrients had been discovered, turning them into a popular diet food.
But if you ate them as oatmeal or porridge, the taste was naturally disastrous. Even then people usually soaked them in milk and added jam, honey, or sugar. It was like chewing a mop soaked in dirty dishwater. And something not even serfs would eat—how good could it possibly taste?
Of course in his previous life there had been people who insisted oatmeal was delicious. Karem had only two things to say to them: Did you try it without fruit, nuts, or sugar? What? You still like it? Wow! You’ve got the palate of a Brit who once ruled half the world!
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Hmm?”
“The oats. You’re not just going to dump them in front of Young Master Godwin as-is, are you?”
“First I’ll soak them a long time in warm water and then steam them.”
“Steam them?”
Karem nodded. It was basically rice made from oats. The nutty flavor was decent; he had eaten it often with multigrain rice when cutting weight in his previous life. Especially the fun texture of each grain popping and crunching between the teeth.
But steaming oats… Mary could not even imagine the taste or texture.
And of course the snow elf who received Karem’s request—the storehouse keeper Augher—was equally flustered.
“Little Karem! Long time no see. Did your outing go well? Wait, should I call it a business trip—huh? What? Oats? Why do you need animal feed? You raising animals?”
“Ah, well—”
“It’ll be better for everyone if we don’t know the details. Just give them to us.”
Mary sealed Karem’s mouth for the sake of all present and pressed Augher hard.