Failure Is the Mother of Success (2)
To be honest, it was bewildering.
Still, there was nothing incomprehensible about it. Karem himself had started cooking in his previous life purely out of curiosity after years of nothing but eating. There was no reason William would be any different—unless he treated the very act of cooking and eating his own food as somehow taboo.
But when Karem actually heard the reason, it turned out to be far more serious than he expected.
So this is what impatience looks like.
Godwin, the eldest, already had his future locked in. Robin, the third son, had found his own path. It was only natural that William—the second son caught between them—would feel a sense of crisis. He claimed he just wanted to throw everything away and play around, yet even Karem could sense the restless anxiety underneath that front.
In that light, William’s determination to find his own way without going completely off the rails was something worth praising. Karem, however, was worried for a different reason. The problem wasn’t Robin. It was Karem himself.
I’ve never taught anyone before.
Even in the previous life that formed the foundation of his current cooking skill, Karem had never learned cooking systematically. He had simply taught himself by watching videos. That shaky foundation was exactly why he’d needed Jigmeser’s instruction at the exchange gathering—though it had ended sooner than expected.
Getting a passing grade did not automatically mean he could teach William. Having skill and teaching others were entirely different domains. No matter how long he turned it over in his mind, Karem had no confidence in himself as an instructor. Jigmeser or any other proper chef would almost certainly do a better job, and he told William that plainly.
“Still, something just feels… off.”
“Don’t just say ‘something something.’ Be specific.”
“I know all the castle chefs, so it’s a bit… burdensome, I guess? The distance is too close. I don’t think I could concentrate.”
Ah. So that was it. If that was the reason, there was nothing to be done.
For William, who had spent his entire life inside Winterhome, the servants who had worked half their lives in the castle were practically family. If merely knowing someone was watching already made it hard to work, having actual family watching would make even possible tasks impossible.
So the very next day after hearing the story from Robin, Karem prepared the lesson. He didn’t even need Mary’s help. He claimed one corner of the Mage Tower kitchen as the classroom, laid out the recipe and the ingredients it required, and started immediately.
“Hmm… hmm?”
William’s expression after tasting the finished beef stew was pure ambiguity.
“What’s wrong?”
“I… don’t know what this tastes like.”
“Didn’t you follow the recipe?”
“I followed the recipe. And every tip you gave me.”
“…Well, skill-wise, you’re a complete beginner, so that much can be forgiven.”
Then what was the actual problem? Just to be sure, Karem stirred the pot still simmering on the stove. Chunks of vegetables, appetizing pieces of meat, thick glossy broth—by every visual measure it was a perfectly decent beef stew.
William scooped another bite of the thoroughly cooked meat and vegetables, then, instead of offering a verdict, simply tapped the bowl with his spoon.
“I think it’ll be faster if you just try it yourself.”
“The smell’s fine, at least.”
“Just eat it first. Then talk.”
“Well then…”
Only after ladling a full bowl and taking a spoonful did Karem finally understand William’s reaction.
“You really did follow the recipe, right?”
“Hey. It’s written right there on the paper in black and white. Who couldn’t follow that?”
“Then why does it taste like this?”
Karem tilted his head. It wasn’t a question of good or bad. The stew simply had no taste at all. Literally, completely tasteless.
“I was wondering what you meant earlier.”
“Isn’t this a failure?”
“What? Of course not. For someone cooking for the very first time, a result like this is excellent.”
“What?”
William frowned as if the words made no sense. But Karem was completely sincere. There were far more people in the world than most imagined who could not even follow a recipe that anyone should be able to manage just by reading it. In that sense William’s work was genuinely good. Karem had watched him follow the recipe step by step, and even if the result tasted of nothing, at least it was edible.
“For a first lesson, this isn’t bad at all.”
“So what? It doesn’t taste like anything.”
Damn it. Total flop. And he had skipped lunch for this. William set the bowl and spoon down on the table with a clatter. Still, the praise seemed to land well enough; his expression wasn’t sour.
“If you get greedy right from the start, even the possible becomes impossible. A noble body who’s never so much as held a kitchen knife—let alone cooked—turning out something this serviceable on the first try is more than enough.”
“Was it like that when you first cooked too?”
“Huh? No. I made mine delicious and perfectly fine.”
Of course, that had been in his previous life. In this one, Karem had only performed something that could properly be called “cooking” after meeting Catherine and Gordon. He casually brushed off William’s lingering stare and glanced at the pot still half full of stew.
“So what are you going to do with that? You can’t just leave it, right?”
“If I leave it, Mary will take care of it.”
“What? Is that okay?”
“Or would the Second Young Master care for another bowl—”
“What flavor am I supposed to eat something that tastes like nothing with?”
Clang—grrr—
William scraped the remaining stew back into the pot with the spoon, then dropped both spoon and bowl straight into the sink.
“So what’s that thing over there that doesn’t belong in a kitchen at all?”
“Hm? Ah. That?”
At the end of William’s gaze sat a hexahedron tucked into the corner of the kitchen, its design oddly reminiscent of modern appliances from Karem’s previous life: the aging machine (failure).
Ting—!
A clear, pure chime rang out, sharp enough to pull memories of another life to the surface. The aging machine was announcing that its work was finished.
“It’s a material-and-potion aging machine Young Master Robin made for fun because he got tired of waiting.”
“Aging machine? Like for wine or beer?”
“Yes. Well, he did call it a failure.”
“Then what are you doing with the failure?”
William closed the lid on the stew pot, curiosity clear on his face.
“I was experimenting—trying to make a more tender steak.”
“Oh. Can I try some?”
“Sure. It’s only an experiment, though. Don’t get your hopes too high.”
A brief thought flickered through his mind—whether it was proper to eat it without Catherine or without Robin, the machine’s actual owner—but he decided that was a problem for later.
Karem opened the translucent door of the aging machine and withdrew the contents that had been left inside all day.
“Huh? What is that—a pot of water? Wait, and this transparent plate? This membrane-looking thing wrapped around the meat—what’s that?”
“This? Slime skin.”
“Hmm? What? Slime skin?”
William stared back and forth between Karem and the vacuum-packed sirloin with open disbelief.
“Looking at me like that makes me feel wronged. The one who first started using this was Chef Jigmeser, not me.”
“Jigmeser? Slime skin? Why on earth?”
“Once you try it, it’s surprisingly convenient. Doesn’t absorb water, and if you sear the edge with fire it seals airtight.”
The material was almost identical to plastic wrap. He had never once imagined that the slimes he used to see while wandering the forests near Moston could turn into something like this.
“So why use the… slime membrane?”
“To keep the juices from leaking out.”
“Then what’s the water in the pot for?”
“So every side cooks evenly. Would you like to try some?”
The moment he sliced open the packaging, air rushed in and the slime skin ballooned with space.
“I’m game. But it doesn’t look much different from raw meat.”
“You’re pointing out exactly the part that was bothering me.”
Unlike the finished sous-vide meat of his previous life, the sirloin sealed inside the slime skin still carried a vivid red tint and looked almost fresh. Considering that properly sous-vided meat usually took on a pinkish hue, Karem began to suspect the experiment might have failed.
“Well, I’ll know once I taste it.”
“Ah—rare, please.”
“If the experiment succeeds, rare will be impossible. If it fails, you’ll get exactly what you want.”
“Then I hope it fails!”
“Isn’t that a little harsh?”
Karem fed extra firewood into the oven, turned the burner to full, poured oil into a pan, and waited until heat haze began to rise. Then he laid the sirloin in with tongs.
Sizzle—!
The sound of meat hitting hot metal was always music, but he couldn’t afford to lose focus. If the sous-vide had worked, overcooking would happen in an instant.
If it’s a failure, it’ll come out rare.
As someone who preferred his steak medium, Karem quietly hoped the sous-vide had succeeded. Yet the still-vivid red of the meat refused to leave his mind.
Heat began creeping up the sides of the steak. He flipped it at once.
Sizzle—! Sizzle-sizzle—
“Oh, that looks delicious.”
“Would you rather try grilling a steak yourself?”
“Steak?”
“Yes. Even if it fails, there are ways to salvage it, and steak isn’t nearly as hard as people think.”
“Well, at least grilling one won’t turn out like that stew.”
People commonly misunderstood steak. Grilling one wasn’t particularly difficult—the upper limit was simply infinite. Meat quality, thickness, timing, salt level, spices, fire control, resting, internal temperature… the list went on.
“Take a steak of proper thickness, season it properly, cook it for the right time, rest it, and you’re done.”
“Well… if you put it that way, maybe I should try.”
“If anything goes wrong I’ll just dump it on Chef Jigmeser.”
“Hey, that’s not fair. Why did I come to you then?”
Butter hit the pan and immediately began to melt. Karem basted the steak, giving it a light coating, then transferred it to a plate and covered it with a lid.
A short while later the instinct Jigmeser had beaten into him spoke: now.
Clang—
Beneath the sirloin steak wreathed in pure white smoke, a clear pool of deep golden butter had gathered—proof that every drop of juice had been locked inside the meat. The rich scent of butter and the savory aroma of beef made William swallow hard.
“So… can I eat now?”
“Of course. Though the smell alone doesn’t tell me much.”
Whether Karem muttered or not, William paid no attention. He simply picked up knife and fork. He had skipped lunch on purpose for the lesson, and the flavorless stew had left his stomach full of nothing but regret.
Gulp.
The aroma now rising from the plate was impossible to resist. William cut a generous piece of steak.
Drip—
From the crust of the smoothly sliced, pale-pink steak, juices welled and ran. Some droplets fell into the golden butter already pooled on the plate; others slowly invaded the butter from within.
“Looks like you really learned properly from Jigmeser.”
“That man can grill a steak better than anyone.”
William thoroughly soaked the bite in the mingled juices and melted butter, then ate it. It was the same steak he always ate, yet steak somehow managed to taste wonderful every single time. The perfectly seasoned meat was soft the moment it met his teeth, then offered just enough chew to make the juice-soaked bite a pleasure. It wasn’t tough at all. The meat chewed with a pleasant resistance, releasing more juice, then tore apart the instant he applied a little more pressure—as if the resistance had never been there.
Objectively, it was a delicious steak.
However—
“It just tastes like a pretty good rare steak.”
“…Just a moment.”
He had known the odds of failure were high, yet hearing it out loud still stung more than expected. It had actually failed?
Karem immediately picked up knife and fork and cut into the steak.