The Delicacy of the Mammoth (2)
Time can never be separated from cooking.
The more care you put into a dish, the more time it demands—and the more time you invest, the better it tastes. Measuring exact quantities, prepping vegetables, simmering stock, cooking meat, whipping egg whites and yolks into foam—every single step of cooking requires you to cast off impatience and cultivate patience.
Depending on the type of dish, cooking times vary wildly, easily stretching across several days for the longer ones.
Retort pouches, the poster children of time-saving convenience food? Combat rations, which could be called the originals of retort? The vast array of preserved foods that are practically the ancestors of combat rations? Even dishes whose cooking time has been slashed so drastically you only need to reheat them—or can simply eat them as they are—still took time to make in the first place, and often demand even more time to ensure their shelf life.
Of course, it is not only the cook who must abandon haste and practice patience. The eater can never escape it either.
Time is seriously not moving.
Karem stared so hard at the closed lid that he was practically sketching the invisible shape of the steak resting beneath it with his eyes alone.
Jigmeser seemed to feel the same; he was revealing his impatience in his own way.
"Time is seriously not moving."
"Karem. Cast off impatience. Impatience makes for a tough steak."
"How about you stop rubbing your chin, then? You're going to rub the skin right off."
Jigmeser jerked his hand down as if caught. His already glossy chin had flushed bright red.
"...Just standing here is only making me more impatient."
Alfred stopped his silently trembling foot and looked back and forth between Karem and Jigmeser, as if seeking agreement.
"So, Karem. Might I ask you one thing?"
"Please, ask as much as you like."
"How old are you?"
"Uh... eleven this year."
He had been ten when he met Catherine last year. After a year spent in Iceland, eleven was certain.
"Can that number truly be applied to your body as it is now?"
"Uh... I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean?"
"I am speaking of you, grown by the Curse of Aging."
As he spoke, Alfred looked at Karem—then lowered his gaze to about waist height, roughly the size Karem had once been.
"Judging purely by outward appearance, you look of an age that would have long since passed the coming-of-age ceremony."
"Yes. I've been told I look to be around the end of youth."
His damned birthplace in this life, Moston Village, had been a serf hamlet, but people still lived there, and they usually held the coming-of-age ceremony at seventeen. It was a backwater, yet it still belonged to Kingsland, so Iceland would likely hold the ceremony at around the same age.
"Normally, once you reach that age you perform at least a simplified coming-of-age rite so no one can raise objections. But this is the first time we have faced a case like yours."
"A case like mine?"
"A case of surviving the Curse of Aging in any normal fashion."
"Ah."
"Comparatively speaking, of course."
The Curse of Aging that instantly aged its target to death. Because it activated the moment it was cast, survivors were vanishingly rare. Olivier's conjecture that only one person had ever survived within any normal, common-sense range after the curse was lifted still sent a chill down the spine.
"By custom, men and women who have lived seventeen years pass through the coming-of-age ceremony and are recognized as adults. We shall have to think carefully about whether that can be applied when an eleven-year-old now possesses an adult body."
"At eleven, one's thoughts are still young, aren't they? Doesn't it take that much time to become an adult?"
"And you, who were practically adult-like even at eleven, are saying such a thing?"
"Uh..."
Well, if one counted his previous life's memories, he was old enough that he could have held the ceremony long ago and then boiled the leftover soup for dinner. Only two people knew that, though.
"My lord, save the complicated talk for later. You too, Karem."
"Oh—does that mean...?"
Jigmeser did not answer the question. Instead he raised his arm and silently lifted the lid.
The moment the lid vanished, pure white steam erupted with the explosive force of dry ice hitting water, cascading over the plate and table before fading away. Even from a fair distance the bright, nutty, tangy, refreshing aroma of mammoth-trunk steak once again seized the kitchen.
"Huuuuuh. Haa. The fragrance has grown even deeper."
Jigmeser, who had been closest to the steam, stood motionless as if he had forgotten to breathe before finally speaking. He was absolutely right. The steak's aroma was so rich and layered that the thought of simply eating it without sauce rose unbidden. Normally such intensity and variety would quickly fatigue the nose, yet there was no sign of that here.
But they could not stand around smelling it forever. Karem politely carried the plate of steak and cutlery Jigmeser held out to him over to Alfred, then received his own portion.
Odd shape or not, the visual alone is killer.
Beyond the kitchen window the sky was gloomy, yet the deep-brown crust of the mammoth-trunk steak still glistened like jewels with juices that had not yet been fully absorbed. Even after the resting time, a thick, profound meat fragrance rode the lingering heat.
Grrr...
His stomach, hard-used and waiting only for nourishment, trembled soundlessly up through his throat.
Crrrk, kagagak— chik, chik, jeeek—
At the crisp rupture of crust that stabbed the ears, Karem turned his head to find Alfred and Jigmeser already moving their utensils. He hastily did the same—and the sensation at the tip of his knife sent a shiver through him.
Only moments earlier the mammoth's trunk had looked like nothing but a mass of pure muscle without a speck of fat. Yet what the fork and knife-tip now felt was closer to piercing and slicing lightly frozen butter than cutting meat. With every movement of the blade, the fine crackle of crust traveled up the handle into his hand and already made his mouth water.
"The smell seems even stronger."
"That's the juices absorbed during resting emerging through the cut surface."
"Is that so?"
Answering Jigmeser, Karem popped a neatly cubed piece of mammoth-trunk steak into his mouth.
Setting aside the unique cheese note created by undead aging, the three greatest traits of mammoth meat he had eaten so far were these: it carried only the best qualities of beef, chicken, and pork. The mammoth-trunk steak was no different in its broad outlines. Yet the flavor that bloomed went far beyond anything Karem had expected.
"They called the trunk a delicacy... a true delicacy..."
It was as if someone had gathered only the very best cuts of those three meats—the ones he loved most, or loved just as much—and concentrated their virtues. The moment it touched his tongue—no, even before it touched—his mouth was already awash with juices. What he tasted then was perfectly seasoned, freshly fried chicken—specifically the sweet-savory explosion of juices from thigh meat, his second-favorite cut after the breast—and it shoved the aroma aside.
As the flavor that had pushed past the scent flooded in, his teeth moved of their own accord.
Agjak, jeeek—
The instant he chewed, the crisp crust shattered and vibrated against his teeth. What came next was utterly different from the sensation of slicing with a knife. The meat, cooked medium-rare to a pink blush with just a hint of blood, fell away in large pieces with every movement of his jaws. Then came the chewy texture. Where the knife had cut as smoothly as lightly frozen butter, the chew was its complete opposite—chewy—and it mingled with the still-crumbling crust.
Crisp and chewy at once.
The chew was like skirt steak. Everything else was pork belly.
To Karem, pork belly had always been an object of both longing and resentment. In his previous life its price had climbed so unreasonably day by day that (until he reached a big-box store) he had bought it with tears in his eyes and expensive money. In this life, until Catherine picked him up, he had never even laid eyes on pork, let alone pork belly.
With every chew the springy resistance registered against his teeth. After a few moments of resistance it tore, releasing a mild pork fragrance.
Huh!?
Suddenly the meat yielded without any resistance, sliding and unraveling along the grain as if melting. The chewiness of a moment before vanished without a trace. It was not quite like the chicken he had first tasted in the juices. Rather, it was the flavor of beef tenderloin—felt even without fat—accompanied by a powerful beef aroma. Following right behind came the citrus, nut, and cheese notes he had not noticed while chewing; they rose like a sauce and began to stroll densely across his tongue.
For all its tenderness, the deeper he chewed the more intensely the umami rose, and the juices never dried, gushing up like a broken underground spring.
"W-what kind of meat is this...?"
"Do you understand my feelings a little now, child?"
Karem nodded at Jigmeser's words—Jigmeser who was cutting and eating the meat with the reverence and precision of a priest praying at an altar—and swallowed without thinking.
To swallow meat he had not even finished chewing!
And then he felt "the sensation of nothing at all" in his mouth. The steak he had been chewing only a second earlier vanished the moment it passed his throat, as if it had never existed—taste, aroma, texture, everything gone. Only the faintest astringency lingering at the end of the beef umami remained, and even that was swept away by a breath of fresh forest scent the moment he inhaled. That fragrance too faded from his mouth almost at once.
The pain of having something taken from him. The emptiness, desolation, and anger he had felt right after reincarnating. Yet those emotions faded quickly. After all, plenty of steak still remained. Karem's reason followed instinct and demanded more.
Seeing him cut larger pieces even faster than before, Jigmeser patted his shoulder with solemn gravity.
"So you acknowledge it as a delicacy, then?"
"Don't make me talk."
"Right, right. There's plenty, so eat lots."
Even though Karem was the one who had brought it and Iona was the one who was supposed to eat it, Jigmeser acted as if he owned the place. Karem had no room to object; he simply nodded and kept stuffing meat into his mouth.
Karem knew three people who praised the mammoth's trunk. Iona, who had been unable to eat even with the meat before him. Richard, who might even now be eating it somewhere far in the northern lands. And Jigmeser, already halfway through his portion right beside him.
Having eaten mammoth meat before, he had thought he fully understood its traits—the best qualities of beef, chicken, and pork united in taste and aroma. He had believed nothing could surpass it. Yet here was this. The mammoth's trunk truly deserved the three men's praise.
"I don't even remember when I last ate it, but the flavor is far deeper than what I tasted long ago."
Alfred kept chewing while already slicing the next piece without pause, preparing to eat more.
"Don't you feel one steak is simply not enough?"
"The refreshing aroma clears the astringency at the end, so even after eating and eating you never feel as though you've eaten."
Alfred pointed at Karem with his fork as if to say "exactly," then speared another piece of steak.
"No need to worry so much."
Jigmeser set his utensils on the empty plate and patted the large remaining slab of mammoth trunk on the cutting board.
"At this thickness everyone can have one more steak."
"Hah, one more? That's a lot if you call it a lot, and little if you call it little..."
Alfred's words trailed longer and longer as he looked at Jigmeser. The regret that had filled his eyes was giving way to a small, rising greed.
Come to think of it, they had each eaten one. And Jigmeser had said everyone could have one more.
One more for Alfred—total two. One more for Jigmeser—total four. One more for Karem—total six. And then...
That would leave two steaks for Lord Iona, wouldn't it?
Everyone seemed to share the same thought. When Karem glanced around, Alfred and Jigmeser, still eating, were both studying the remaining meat with careful interest.
Thud—thud—thud.
"Whew. My lord, I have returned. Jigmeser, open the door at once."
At those words someone in the kitchen—no one could say who—clicked their tongue.
Iona, without even realizing it, had just secured his own steak.