The Spicy Craze

For the countless people who should have been settling back into their dull daily routines once Winter-Ascend ended, the tasting event had been nothing short of a continuous jolt of stimulation and shock that cracked their minds wide open.

Even those who had been unable to attend for one reason or another could not dismiss the stories as lies.

After all, the people who had answered Karem’s challenge and tasted the food themselves—and the spectators who had watched every moment of it—were far from few.

Curiosity took hold of them all.

Yet that curiosity could not be satisfied at once.

“What, you don’t have any Red Witch’s Fingers here either?”

“We don’t! We don’t have any! It’s freezing and what’s with all this fuss!”

That was only natural.

Because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of its uniquely fierce heat, even pharmacists and healers who handled minute amounts of poisonous herbs as medicine never dealt in the stuff. Private mages and alchemists sometimes sought it out for their work, but unlike other magical or alchemical ingredients it could still be found—sparingly—outside the city walls, so it had never been particularly expensive.

The stock held by Winterhome and Catherine had already been reborn as Flower of fireworks and as diced pickles. Whatever remained in Coldon had been used up completely at the tasting event.

The surest way to seize people’s interest is to create scarcity.

Those who sensed that scarcity thought to themselves: Huh. This might make money.

The first to move were the merchants and adventurers.

“Who would’ve thought the day would come when Red Witch’s Fingers turned into coin.”

“Hey! Quit yapping and clear the snow already!”

“All right, all right! What’s the rush? Careful!”

Krrroooaaaar!

The outside of the walls in midwinter was as dangerous as ever, yet in the face of glittering gold coins there was no such thing as bad business.

Before long, Red Witch’s Fingers began pouring into Coldon.

And the curiosity that had blanketed the city instantly became a fad that spread high and low.

“Ghhhkk…! Wh-what! It’s bearable—!”

“N-not spicy at all? My mouth feels like it’s on fiiiiiiiiire—!!!!!”

“Huuuu! Huuuu! One more bite! Huuuu! Huuuu! One more!!!”

The cause of that spread was none other than the spectators who had been thoroughly owned by Karem—more precisely, the men of Coldon who had watched the spectacle and had not yet climbed the ranks themselves.

Naturally the mouths of every man who ate the stuff erupted in flames.

And those who had tasted it earlier poured oil on the fire.

“Ha! A man of Coldon—no, of Iceland—ought to eat this much and endure!!!”

“You still haven’t tried it? That’s why I prepared this just for you! Fresh, crisp Red Witch’s Fingers!”

“You’re not saying you won’t eat it, are you? After I went and fetched them myself for your sake!?”

Those who had already suffered the agony the Red Witch’s Finger delivered armed themselves with the conviction that they could not be the only ones to endure it, and cheerfully forced the fruit upon anyone who had not yet eaten it under the thin disguise of “recommendation.”

Those who had been “recommended” in turn “recommended” it to others who had not yet tasted it. The infinite cycle was complete.

And of course this vicious fad was already trying to climb into the ranks of the nobility as well.

“You there. Prepare a dish with this fruit.”

“Pardon? My lord? With this red fruit of all things?”

Yet a refined noble could hardly be expected to eat raw a fruit that was neither fruit nor salad, a berry from a plant that might still be vegetable or spice—no one could say which. The cooks employed by nobles who had suddenly encountered the Red Witch’s Finger of rumor writhed in unexpected agony.

Realizing they were far from alone, those cooks gathered in secret to deliberate.

“Huuuu! Huuuu! Damn it, this isn’t even in the same league as onions or garlic.”

“Isn’t this more like the bastard child of a demon and black pepper that the spice world coughed up? How the hell are we supposed to use it?”

“Good heavens. They say monsters either panic or go berserk when they eat this—now I understand why that rumor exists.”

Still, they had to create something with the Red Witch’s Finger or face their employers’ wrath, so the cooks complained while sampling the fruit that looked like the bastard offspring of pepper and demon, little by little, through the pain.

It was an ingredient none of them had ever imagined using.

Yet the cooks decided to look at it differently.

“Employers springing sudden ingredients or demands on us is nothing new, right? Let’s properly figure out how to use the damn thing.”

The heat of chili always becomes familiar in the end.

So they did exactly that.

Once the flames in their mouths began to subside with the passage of time, surprisingly plausible ideas started flying among the cooks who had put their heads together.

“This heat… huu! If we just control the amount, it could give a serious kick to the most ordinary flavors.”

“Whatever else we do, we definitely need to pair it with honey or sugar. No—wait, maybe jam would work even better on this side?”

“Aaaagh!? My eye! My eyyyyyye!? I accidentally rubbed my eye—!!!!!”

“Oof. It doesn’t kill offal smells very well. We’ll have to use other spices alongside it for sure.”

“The color is this deep… interesting.”

“Sweetness alone won’t cut it. It lacks acidity. Let’s test everything from vinegar to lemon and lime.”

And so the Red Witch’s Finger, whose nature the cooks had mapped by burning their tongues and their passion, became part of dishes that climbed onto the tables of their employers—nobles, power brokers, and merchants.

“S-so—you’re saying this tastes good? With the pain on my tongue I can’t even tell what it tastes like…”

“You mean to tell me you only ate a fingernail’s worth? How thoroughly unmanly of you. Hmm?”

“Bring me every last thing on those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠plates right noooooow!!!”

And fads, by their nature, flow from the top downward.

Just as the béchamel sauce born from the queen’s chef had become the foundation of nearly every Western dish, the craze began to spread throughout Coldon.

“Ahem! Ahem! Darling, today’s stew seems a bit too spicy, doesn’t it?”

“Why? Is the hangover-cure stew I carefully simmered for you after you came home drunk not to your liking? You’re not going to say you can’t eat it because it’s too spicy—like some unmanly—”

“Who said I can’t eat it because it’s spicy! Honestly! Slurp-cough-hack! Ugh! Another bowl!”

Of course half of them were sacrificial lambs who had been cornered into eating by having their masculine pride pricked and left with no room to refuse.

Sometimes it was not pride but a sulking wife that forced the issue.

Yet the heat on the tongue is the sort of thing the mouth may reject while the mind craves it.

Besides, heat is something one grows used to.

And above all—what a novel stimulus for a life that had been dull beyond endurance!

“Hmm! Oho! This stimulation on the tongue!”

“Why on earth is this agonizing kick so addictive!?”

“I reduced the Red Witch’s Finger powder a little and added mead while it simmered. Should be a touch milder.”

“Eat this spicy nightmare and blow all your fatigue away!”

“Hoo! It’s so hot I’m dying even though it’s winter!”

Thus the people of Coldon, propelled by pride, by the determination not to suffer alone, and by a stimulus more addictive than expected, quickly shed their resistance.

Naturally the fad reverse-flowed into the very heart of Coldon—Winterhome itself.

While fist-sized flakes of snow poured down from the gloomy evening sky of Iceland that always greeted winter the same way, the oven in the kitchen of the Mage’s Tower was cooling to cold stone.

Ordinarily the oven and hearth would have been roaring with firewood, throwing off heat, and the clear ring of metal striking cutting boards would have filled the air. The kitchen that should have been hot and noisy with dinner preparations was as still as a midnight snowfield without a breath of wind.

The reason was simple.

Karem was not in the kitchen right now.

Then why was the chef not in the kitchen?

That reason was even simpler.

He was not in the Mage’s Tower at all.

Karem was currently in the great hall of the main keep together with Catherine and Mary.

Until now Catherine had been buried under work and could never spare the time. But once every overdue task had finally been cleared, the three residents of the Mage’s Tower were obliged, by Winterhome’s long tradition, to attend the evening meal.

“Junior Karem.”

“Y-yes?”

“Looking at this scene, does anything particular come to mind?”

Karem could not bring himself to answer.

As though she understood exactly how he felt, Catherine folded her arms and nodded.

“I understand. I feel the same way.”

“Lady Atanitas?”

“As if. Kid, you’ve unleashed a deadly poison right into the heart of Winterhome.”

The great hall was the largest indoor space in Winterhome’s main keep. Thanks to that size it served as audience chamber, reception hall, and dining room all at once. The great hall that had shared the history of the Felwinter family was filled with a fragrance Karem knew all too well.

Specifically, a sharp, nasal-stinging spicy aroma.

One could have claimed it was merely heavy-handed black pepper, yet a faint heat drifted through most of the dishes that could be called main courses—everything except the breads and desserts.

And people were eating those dishes while pouring with sweat.

Catherine’s words had been perfectly accurate.

Karem realized he had indeed unleashed a poison.

On reflection the situation was strange.

Even in the modern world where spicy food was popular, heat was still very much a matter of personal taste. Without something like drugs mixed in, such a uniform reaction should have been impossible.

Catherine agreed with that assessment.

And yet.

“No addictive potions or narcotics. Not even hallucinogenic mushrooms or poisonous herbs—nothing of the sort.”

“And still they’re reacting like this?”

“Yes. They are eating it purely because it tastes good.”

“Then…”

There was only one answer.

Karem turned his head.

At the elevated seats of honor arranged at the far end of the great hall, every member of the Felwinter family was continuing their meal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠while letting out sighs of admiration.

And Chief Chef Jigmeser himself, accompanied by several servants, was personally plating the food.

He ladled spicy Iceworm pie onto Alicia’s empty plate—her face was flushed as though it might explode—and the moment his eyes met Karem’s he winked as if to ask how it tasted.

People’s reactions were, in a way, only natural.

To say “Chief Chef of Winterhome” was another way of saying “the number-one figure in Coldon’s culinary world.” Combine that with the dwarven racial trait of obsessive craftsmanship, and the result was inevitable.

A familiar taste may be frightening, but an unknown taste calls for stimulus.

Jigmeser’s skill—about which no one had ever said “this is bad” even when it was not to their personal preference—had now been layered with varying intensities of heat according to each dish.

It was only natural that people ambushed by a sudden new kick atop a familiar flavor would lose their minds.

“This… compared to that pickle you made before, kid, this is definitely something people can eat.”

“I can’t really taste it on my tongue, though.”

From the stew with red oil floating on its surface, to the grilled meats glazed with sweet-and-spicy sauce, to the mountain of poultry roasted to a luminous reddish-brown—every main dish Mary set before her was spicy to Catherine.

Not inedible, but… even before that little monster arrived, something had been wrong with her head, hadn’t it?

“Isn’t your taste just weird?”

“I’d say I’ve simply gotten used to it. Here, just a moment.”

The moment Karem called, a servant hurried over and portioned spicy Iceworm pie from both hands onto his plate.

The tender meat, gently cooked and wrapped in a seasoning of finely chopped herbs, spices, and onion, carried a vivid red hue. Contrasted against the dozens of golden pastry layers visible in the cross-section of the pie—baked to a perfect brown—it whetted the appetite by sight alone.

Karem immediately lifted a piece of pie and took a full bite.

Crunch! A paradoxical texture that was crisp yet offered no resistance. The savory pastry and the rich Iceworm meat, joined by the spices, felt not the least bit greasy.

And yet.

“Still can’t really tell.”

The heat was as faint as the aroma. Just a mild, tingling sensation as though a chili pepper had taken a quick bath and come out again. If it had been the Karem of his previous life, he would have scoffed that this was not spicy at all.

Catherine, still focused on her food, left Mary to speak in her place.

“Junior Karem. Your taste is simply perverted.”

“Mm, so that’s what it is after all.”

“Yes. Please admit it.”

Still, Karem had realized one thing.

Or rather, he had remembered it more accurately.

Cooking, if it is not to be eaten alone, must take other people’s tastes into account.

He had forgotten the most basic principle.

In that case there was only one thing left to make tomorrow.

With that dish, at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠least, no one had ever said it tasted bad.

That uniquely sticky sweet-and-sour yet savory-and-spicy sauce. Soft meat steamed in its own juices inside a crisp batter at high heat.

“No one dislikes seasoned fried chicken, right?”

“...Kid.”

“Ah—unlike the pickles, from now on I’ll cook spicy food so other people can eat it too!”

A picture drawn by ChatGPT.