The True Method of Eggplant Cooking: Deep-Frying
Ianbert’s face looked as haggard as an undead who’d only just clawed his way back from death two weeks prior.
Anemia, malnutrition—whatever the cause, he looked ready to collapse at any second.
Yet the expression on that haggard face had changed so completely that pure joy radiated from him, startling anyone who happened to pass by or meet him for official business.
No—Karem actually thought Ianbert was showing remarkable restraint.
A meat-lover forced by social pressure to scrape by on vegetables for six whole months, finally tasting proper food again… and all that changed was his expression?
In his previous life, Karem himself would have gone feral, gorging until his stomach turned inside out.
Then Ianbert requested the recipes.
Once he returned to Kingsland, he intended to eat without watching anyone’s face, or so he claimed.
Naturally the recipes were limited to vegetable dishes a meat-lover could still enjoy.
“Leave out anything from Berseingeto,” he’d added as a postscript, but that hardly made things difficult.
Or rather, it made them just a little difficult.
Normally the ideas would have simply appeared in his head, yet…
“…Wait. The moment I try to recall them, why…?”
The recipe book inside his mind refused to open for its own master.
Thoughts that used to surface unbidden whenever Catherine was involved wouldn’t even let him turn the cover.
Karem was flustered, then quickly understood.
Ideas always arrive when you leave them alone; the second you chase them, they vanish forever.
Time marched on mercilessly.
Fortunately he managed, just barely, to fulfill the request.
Falafel, poppers, the vegetable fritters he’d already served, and every other dish he could think of.
Every batter variation and ratio that could give the fritters new life.
Every ketchup-based sauce to go with them.
Candied fruit and vegetables, sweet preserves, chips—everything made from produce.
He’d wanted to include tofu recipes and dishes as well, but he still lacked confidence there, so he left them out.
And so, right before departure, Ianbert received the so-called “Karem’s Completely Incoherent Vegetable Recipe Collection (Incomplete)” along with jars of soy sauce and gochujang. He bowed from the waist in a bright, energetic voice that made several people openly flinch.
It was rude, honestly, but Karem decided to be magnanimous.
A superior’s joy is never good news for his subordinates.
Especially when they had no idea why the man was so happy.
“…Anyone know why His Grace is smiling like that?”
“No clue. I heard that guy’s some famous chef. Maybe His Grace is a fan?”
“Even so, that’s excessive treatment for a mere cook. What on earth is he thinking?”
Every member of the procession except Ianbert and the horses debated it until the moment they rode out of sight under a farewell escort, yet no conclusion was ever reached.
The guests were gone, but the work was far from finished.
Every affair only truly ends once the cleanup is done.
Winterhome grew even busier after the visitors left.
Decorations had to be taken down throughout the castle, the warehouse that had been torn apart and rebuilt had to be restored, leftover banquet ingredients needed sorting—and still more tasks kept appearing.
Naturally the priests were just as swamped.
“So, Karem. You’ll be attending the coming-of-age ceremony, I trust?”
“Uh, I suppose so?”
“‘Suppose’? Yes or no. Decide properly. And drop the ‘little’ from your speech while you’re at it, won’t you?”
“I will attend.”
For them, the real rush was only beginning.
Iona, already hurrying about, recited a list of precautions once he had his firm answer, then continued on his way.
Coming-of-age ceremony.
The words felt utterly foreign to Karem.
In his previous life he’d only glimpsed them in novels or videos; in this life he’d never had the leisure to care.
In Iceland the ceremony was held once a year, grandly, in the heart of winter—though major incidents or festivals sometimes reduced it to a formality. Last year’s Winter-Ascend had been one of those.
Today was not.
Right now Catherine’s afternoon snack was far more urgent for Karem.
So he quickly gathered ingredients from the storeroom and headed for the kitchen—only to take an involuntary step back the moment he entered.
“Hoooooh… haaaaaah. The air I breathe after reclaiming the freedom to labor still tastes so sweet.”
Mary stood with both arms flung wide toward the ceiling, drawing a long, luxurious breath. He’d been pretending not to notice for days, but it was impossible to ignore any longer.
“Those footsteps… Junior Karem. You’ve arrived?”
“What’s all the fuss about?”
“It is not a fuss.”
Mary’s already expressionless face turned stern enough to be mildly frightening.
“The value of labor is absolute. At this moment I feel exactly like a slave who has reclaimed the freedom to work—and the reward that comes with it.”
“…So… the joy of labor?”
“Precisely.”
She worked essentially for free—where exactly did the joy come from? No, that was a speciesist way of thinking.
She was a person, yet not human.
Strictly speaking they were different races.
Different perspectives were only natural… but still.
“That sounds about as likely as Young Master Robin getting along peacefully with Lady Alicia.”
Mary kept her sun-worshipper pose and merely tilted her head back to look at him.
“What absolute nonsense are you spouting?”
“You’re the one spouting nonsense, you workaholic house elf.”
“If, for some reason, you were injured and I had to take over the kitchen work that is rightfully yours for even a short while—what do you imagine you would feel?”
What would he feel?
“My guts would twist.”
Even right after the Curse of Aging had hit him hardest upon entering Winterhome, Karem had still insisted on preparing every one of Catherine’s meals himself.
“So why bring that up?”
“That is exactly the feeling I experienced.”
“Yeah, well, that’s even less observant than Lady Alicia—someone completely flipped the situation—”
“Today’s snack ingredients are pork and eggplant… Hmm? Eggplant?”
Mary abandoned her solemn solar pose at the utterly mismatched pair. There was nothing else in the basket.
“You’re making the snack right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes? Yes. These are all snack ingredients.”
“Then why is there pork?”
“Why wouldn’t there be? I’m slicing it long and frying it in starch.”
He moved the pork aside to reveal the small jar of starch that had been underneath.
“Well… I suppose that can pass.”
Mary stretched a hand toward the basket and, just in case, picked up an eggplant.
The springy firmness under her fingers.
A size that fit perfectly in one palm, no bigger than an egg.
A glossy purple skin that almost shone.
A fresh eggplant, harvested moments ago from the greenhouse.
“And what exactly is this eggplant for?”
“I’m frying the eggplant too.”
“…You said you’re frying eggplant?”
“Then I’ll stir-fry it in a sweet-and-sour sauce.”
Roasting or simmering she could accept—but frying?
Mary could only blink, words failing her.
Karem wondered for a second why she was reacting that way, then remembered.
Mary hadn’t been present when Ianbert’s stomach had been turned inside out.
Catherine had sent the first batch to the Magic Tower before the demonstration, so Mary had never tasted it.
Karem briefly recalled a few days earlier.
Hmm… fried eggplant, is it?
Would you like to try one?
Very well. Bring one.
Crunch—
…..Oh?
Karem understood exactly how Catherine’s eyes had gone wide.
He himself had believed the only fate of eggplant was that hellish, slimy namul until he’d tasted the fried version—and been just as shocked.
Later, when he’d discovered that nowhere else in the world mashed eggplant into mushy side dishes, that the mainstream methods were grilling, roasting, deep-frying, and simmering in rich sauces, he had felt outright betrayed.
The betrayal had been greater than the day he’d received his draft notice at the end of first semester and been dragged to boot camp the very next month.
And then Catherine, who had said nothing at the time, suddenly declared last night that she wanted it for today’s snack.
Eggplant alone would feel empty, so he was preparing sweet-and-sour pork as well.
“…I’ll grant you the pork. We have chops, and it’s all lean meat.”
Mary turned her eyes from the pork back to the eggplant in her hand and the ones still in the basket.
“But fried eggplant…”
She twitched her eyebrows and looked thoroughly disgusted once more.
“The moment you bite through the crispy batter, a hot blast of raw green stink will explode, won’t it? Is that truly a proper cooking method?”
“Oh, once you try one you won’t even think of anything else.”
“Even so, that seems a bit—”
“You’ll understand once you taste it yourself.”
Feeling Mary’s blank, appalled stare on him, Karem set the basket down without hesitation and picked up an eggplant.
Frying, truthfully, was not a difficult technique.
And among fried dishes, eggplant was especially easy.
He poured water into starch, let the sediment settle, poured off the water, then chilled the sediment with hands cooled by holy power.
He cut the egg-shaped eggplants—different from the modern ones—into bite-sized pieces, tossed them in the batter, and dropped them into hot oil. After a brief rest he returned them for a second fry.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—bubble-bubble-bubble—
Mary watched the entire process.
Frying. She knew perfectly well it was a cooking method that almost couldn’t taste bad.
Already a savory aroma was rising from the fritters turning a mouth-watering golden color in the pot of hot oil.
“But of all things, frying an eggplant that’s full of water…”
“Just taste it and then talk.”
Mary muttered under a suspicious gaze.
Karem understood the suspicion, so he said nothing more.
In his previous life he, too, had only been able to set the doubt aside after eating it himself.
“There—all done.”
So the way to resolve Mary’s doubt was simple.
Karem lifted the eggplant fritters with a spider strainer, shook off the oil, and transferred them to a plate.
“Here, try one.”
“Plain vegetable fritters with no salt at all—just eggplant?”
“One bite and your opinion will change.”
He was that confident?
Mary looked down at the fried eggplant with mixed feelings.
Appearance-wise it passed with flying colors.
The pale batter glowing with a light golden hue looked crispy just from sight. The subtle savory fragrance rising from it confirmed the impression.
So far the only things Karem had confidently recommended that turned out mediocre were the pickles (kimchi and kkakdugi) loaded with garum and red horse-radish powder.
And the fritters in front of her used neither.
Just starch and eggplant.
Still, Mary kept her suspicion as she carefully picked up a piece. Freshly fried ones tumbled onto the plate beside it.
“Are you tasting it with your eyes?”
“I was merely observing.”
“It loses flavor once it cools, so eat it quickly.”
Indeed, the heat in her fingers had already dropped a little.
“I suppose I have no choice.”
Mary squeezed her eyes shut as if resigning herself and popped the entire fritter into her mouth.
And the taste of fried eggplant was…
Crisp-crisp-crisp—
Unexpectedly not bad at all.
“…What in the world?”
“I told you it was good.”
“But why on earth is it…?”
Mary tilted her head again and again, chewing what remained in her mouth.
The batter, thin as the finest pastry, shattered between her teeth as lightly as crushed snowflakes.
And the eggplant trapped inside was certainly hot, yet its characteristic green scent had vanished completely.
The soft flesh, with a texture like custard, held nothing but pure savoriness as it slowly cooled—yet still remained hot.
Exactly as Karem had boasted: this was the true taste of eggplant.
Dishes that piled on seasoning, stuffed the hollowed interior with vegetables and meat, or roasted and simmered it in sauce were openly eating the seasoning and extra ingredients—not the eggplant itself.
Grilled eggplant came closest to a pure eggplant contest, yet mere grilled eggplant could never compare to this.
“Ah.”
Mary felt regret.
As light and savory as it was, the fried eggplant disappeared from her mouth in an instant.
And the greedy house elf’s gaze drifted naturally toward the mountain of fritters still piled high.
“Mary. Give me a hand, would you?”
“…Pardon? What did you say?”
“Slice the pork for me, please.”
“…Yes. Understood.”
“Mary?”
Mary stared at the eggplant fritters a moment longer with eyes dripping with lingering attachment, then finally answered the request.
“I’m coming. How large should I cut them?”
Attached Materials
— Sweet-and-Sour Eggplant —
— Di San Xian —
Pictures drawn by ChatGPT.