Highland Beef Brisket

Pasta was, in the end, noodles. By category, it belonged among the staples.

That meant it was not so very different from the bread and rice people ordinarily ate.

In terms of difficulty of preparation, it even had a few points in its favor over the other staples. Mixing the ingredients in the right proportions to form a dough was simple enough—and if you used dried pasta, the whole process was far easier than making bread or rice, short of modern retort pouches.

Even so, when it came to fresh pasta rather than dried, there was a real hurdle.

You had to roll the dough as thin and flat as possible. Run out of strength and you would be exhausted before you finished. There was even a specialized tool for the job—a pasta roller.

Of course, Karem had no need of such a thing. Magical tools or hand-cranked devices—this was the duchy; something of the sort had to exist somewhere. If he dug around he would find one, or else he could simply make it. But he had Mary. And Mary was strong.

The cooks of Afterglow Fortress were strong as well.

"Hmm! The dough's harder than I expected. Boss. Is this really the right way?"

"Yeah. That's correct—but I told you to call me Head Chef, not Boss. Has spinning that wheel spun your brain as well?"

"It's all in the same head anyway. What difference does it make?"

Under the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠direction of Head Chef Borgo—one of the only two people in the kitchen with any experience making pasta—a dozen or so idle, Viking-built cooks were hard at work rolling dough. Every push of the roller made their biceps and triceps bulge, veins standing out along the muscle.

And the other person with experience was watching them while he steadily sliced thin beef. More precisely, he was watching the ever-growing piles of dough destined to become pasta.

"Even for a tasting, isn't this an awful lot?"

"Hm? You call this a lot?"

"Pardon? 'This'?"

Karem looked at the heaps of already-cut spaghetti piled in front of the cooks, waiting to be boiled. At a glance the strands looked like knife-cut noodles.

"No matter how I look at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it, this isn't a tasting—it's a full meal. And if you add everything still being made, isn't it more than twice as much?"

"Hahaha. The little chef is overlooking something."

Borgo clapped his hands to signal the cooks that they had done enough, then gave a short snort of laughter.

"Flour—pasta especially—how fast do you think it empties out of a man?"

To the people of Iceland, a meal only counted as satisfying once a heavy weight of meat had landed in the stomach with a solid thud. The cooks, moreover, labored hard; for the sake of their health alone, rich, greasy dishes that kept a man full for a long time were essential.

"In that sense, pasta fails as a staple."

"Because flour empties out of you so quickly?"

"You know it already? Bread goes just as fast, of course—same flour—but somehow pasta feels like it vanishes even quicker."

"You're not wrong, but…"

As the finished sheets of dough were cut, the hill of spaghetti only grew higher. Karem stared at it, appalled. There had to be a limit—surely no one could put away that much—and then he tilted his head.

He thought of Alicia vacuuming up whatever sat on the table, of Mary endlessly pouring desserts and milk down her throat. Measured against those two, the strapping cooks did not look as if they would eat less. A single bowl of pasta would barely serve them as an aperitif.

"What actually worries me is the other side of the table."

"This? Me?"

"That's right."

Borgo made a sweeping gesture around the cutting board. To the right of the brisket Karem was slicing rose a hill of thin beef and a mountain of chuck; opposite them waited a thick stack of whole briskets destined for the same fate.

"If it's for stew, those briskets over there would be more than enough, wouldn't they?"

"Ah—did I forget to mention it?"

There was no answer, but Borgo's blank look told Karem everything. He really had only thought it through in his head and never said a word.

"Look. Even that tough brisket was decent once we sliced it thin, right?"

"It opened my eyes, truly. Slice it thin and you don't need to boil it forever. Tough or not, thin means easy to eat."

"What if we grill it instead?"

Borgo froze. His thick unibrow hooked like a claw.

"That."

A red river cutting across a pure white snowfield. What would happen when that river was laid on a scorching iron plate?

"Grill it, you say…"

The result was obvious. Meat shrinks when it cooks and sheds fat. It would shrink to two-thirds its present size. The fat it released would fry the meat as it seared. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Borgo could not quite summon the taste of it. After all, with so much other food available, there had never been a reason to eat meat that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠refused to yield to the teeth.

Now there was a reason.

"Then, Sir Karem—why are you still working?"

"Pardon? What kind of nonsense is—"

"Hah. Has the little one's status risen so high already? You there!"

Before Karem could protest, Borgo bellowed. The cooks—men who looked ready to beat goblins to death with their bare hands—all raised their heads. Borgo pointed at several of them.

"You, you, you, and you. You've finished cutting the spaghetti, yes? Over here."

"Boss. Looks like there's more work."

"There is. Dress these briskets the same way Sir Karem has been doing."

"…All of them?"

Literally dozens of whole briskets stacked so high they formed a wall along one side of the table, set against a single paper-thin slice of beef that looked as delicate as parchment. The four cooks stared at that translucent sheet as if they might bore a hole through it.

All of that? Cut that thin? Well, it wasn't impossible, but—really? Only then did they understand why their head chef had called them. Aside from Borgo himself, they were the best knife hands in the kitchen.

Karem gathered his own tools and followed Borgo, glancing back with a slightly sour expression at the men silently clutching their heads.

"Is it all right to leave them like that with only one slice as a model?"

"They look like they ought to be holding axes rather than kitchen knives, but none of my men handle a blade better than those four. Trust them."

"That's not what I—"

The way Borgo talked made it sound as if he were dispatching the enforcers of some underground syndicate. Yet his confidence proved well founded. Though it was their first time, the grumbling cooks trimmed the briskets faster and more skillfully than Karem, and thinner as well.

…Well, it was not so different from putting Mary to work, was it?

"No need to feel burdened, Sir Karem. More importantly… hmm. Wait a moment… hm…"

Back at the central hearth with a cast-iron pan in hand, Borgo pinched his brow and lips into a single tight point.

"We'll just call this one 'back brisket,' more or less."

"…Then the remaining chunk over there is 'front brisket'?"

"Easier to say that way."

In an instant Borgo had localized the names of both cuts. The moment he set the cast-iron pan on the grate over the fire, Karem slipped in front of him.

"I'll handle the grilling."

Since Karem had been the one to suggest it, Borgo assumed he also knew how it should be done and stepped back without protest. There was no further reason to hesitate. Karem took up the steak fork resting by the hearth and speared the edge of a single thin slice on the board.

"Hm? Isn't that a bit scant?"

"One piece first. We taste it."

"Hmm."

Sizzle—

The instant the meat touched the pan, a fierce plume of white steam shot upward. With every blink the snow-white slice of beef shed fat, coating the hot iron.

Sizzle—

Karem laid down a second slice—his own portion—and in the space of another blink flipped the first, which had already blushed a soft pink.

"Ohh."

Beneath the caterpillar-like brow, Borgo's eyes glittered. He had expected something of the sort, yet the result was finer than he had imagined. The thin beef fried itself in the fat it released. Though it was the first time he had ever seen it, Borgo knew at once that it was perfectly cooked in that brief span. A gentle pink still lingered beneath the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gray surface; deep brown crusts mottled it here and there—soft interior of a medium steak coexisting with a crisp exterior.

Before Borgo could admire it further, Karem dusted the meat lightly with salt. The crystals vanished into the hot fat and the crevices of the meat in an instant. Then, with a fork he had somehow already fetched from behind him, Karem speared the slice and held it out.

Fat, gleaming in the firelight, ran down the surface of the beef and dropped from the tip like an icicle melting in spring.

"This should be enough."

Borgo wordlessly took the fork. He brought it to his mouth in one swift motion. The haste left grease streaked through his mustache, but he had no time to wipe it away. Every scrap of his attention was fixed on the storm of sensations on his tongue.

The full, powerful flavor of a brisket rich enough to make stock bloomed intact across his palate. Even that small morsel spread a nutty, addictive taste the moment it touched his tongue—as if the cut were finally venting the resentment of its long history of neglect. The aroma that filled his nose rivaled the best loin; Borgo's teeth moved on instinct, like a wolf closing on prey.

Tough, yet soft, yet crisp. Three sensations that should have been mutually exclusive each insisted on its own presence between his teeth. Because it had been sliced thin and seared quickly, the flesh tore like autumn leaves the instant his teeth met. What toughness remained was so thin that it only heightened the pleasure of chewing, revealing a new texture with every bite.

Crisp. Sizzle. Crunch. Crack.

The thin, fat-fried edges crackled faintly through his teeth to his ears. The beef fat clinging to the meat had almost no texture of its own, yet the soft, yielding sensation that remained blended perfectly with the meat.

Borgo understood once more why the people of Seophon were so obsessed with grilled meat.

When he came back to himself, only a deep aftertaste lingered in his mouth.

"Ha… haha. The toughest part of the brisket—just by slicing it thin—like this? Ha!"

Borgo could not hold back a hollow laugh, half wonder and half delight at the discovery. Karem felt the same. He let out a long, contented breath of admiration, full of that rich aftertaste and joy.

"…Khhhh."

The doenjang stew might have failed, but he had salvaged at least one triumph. The flavor was not so different from what he remembered from his previous life. In some respects it was even better: the deep meatiness and nuttiness, the surprising juiciness despite the thinness, the stronger impact with every chew, and that clean, rich beef-fat savor that never grew cloying.

It was not without its drawbacks, of course. Compared with Korean Hanwoo, the fat content was inevitably lower. However much the cattle put on flesh in the cold, they could never match animals deliberately fattened on grain meant for people. And another shortcoming—

"Ha. Everything's perfect except that it's so thin and small it only teases you."

"Easy fix. We grill a mountain of it and stuff it all in at once, right?"

"Say no more!"

That problem, at least, was quickly solved.

A picture drawn by ChatGPT.