Salmon Maoines Salad for the Picky Eater

As the sun began to set, orange light seeped through the gloomy clouds over Obsidianberry, and smoke gradually rose from the chimneys of the port and the city.

Smoke from preparing the evening meal.

Winter made the sea harsh as well. The once-quiet harbor of Obsidianberry began to see outsiders as the weather warmed, and the port slowly reclaimed the vitality it had temporarily lost.

But before things truly got underway, a large contingent led by the Duke entered the city.

A few who had been unprepared were left reeling by the sudden flood of guests. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Yet in every era there were always those who got the news first. And, conversely, those who used that advantage to draw customers in droves.

The high-end inns and taverns of Obsidianberry were the prime examples. Those who had obtained word of the Duke’s visit from every possible channel a step ahead of the rest competed fiercely to lure the dignitaries into their establishments.

Bribes for a smooth plan were the bare minimum. Spreading false information, betrayal, backdoor deals and headhunting of staff, sabotage in rival districts, even theft of provisions—everything was fair game. The victors claimed their prizes. The defeated could only look toward the next chance.

Victories and defeats, large and small, were decided, yet among them stood an undisputed first place: Iceland’s Horizon. Having bought the city chairman faster than anyone else, they shook off every rival’s interference and succeeded in hosting the Duke himself.

Hosting the Duke did not mean only the Duke stayed, of course. His two sons who had come with him, as well as the personal attendants of the Duke and both young masters—every one of them was a guest of the highest importance. Even so, other guests could not be neglected. The staff of Obsidianberry, without exception, threw themselves into hospitality with everything they had.

While the raised voices of guests in the dining hall and guest rooms carried through the inn walls, only the soft clatter of dishes moved through Catherine’s room.

It had not been that way from the start. Godwin, who had arrived with Catherine, had brought a massive whole roasted salmon and a basket brimming with every sort of bread as if it were a gift for himself ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and William. Conversation had flowed easily while Mary accepted it, set the table, portioned the food onto plates, and filled the glasses with water.

Then the moment the chunks and broth of the bouillabaisse entered their mouths, the atmosphere cut off as cleanly as a faucet being shut.

And Victor thought it could hardly have been otherwise.

What kind of dish was bouillabaisse? A cuisine whose rank swung to opposite extremes according to the type and quality of its ingredients. It could be a fisherman’s meal in Berseingeto, or part of a court noble’s banquet. Yet a bouillabaisse made with treasure crab? The scent had been there, but who would have imagined an entire crab had gone in whole?

Even Victor, whose experience would make the Duke himself defer, had never once in his life seen such a thing at a table like this. Only at noble parties. He had never dreamed he would encounter it in this remote corner of the Europa continent, seaport or not.

“Ha—an entire one. Karem. How on earth did you get hold of this?”

“The fishmonger called me over in secret. Said a noble on the other side had unilaterally broken the contract out of nowhere and left him stuck with it.”

“Ah, so that was it.”

Victor nodded to himself in understanding. William, who had been poking at the clams and fish submerged in the broth, turned his head.

“Victor. What was that about?”

“This was almost certainly smuggled goods. Contracts falling through in the smuggling trade is common enough, but this is the first time I’ve seen a treasure-crab run collapse.”

“This is smuggled?”

“Of course, young master. Just getting this as far as Berseingeto would mean an ordinary person never having to worry about money for the rest of their life.”

Karem, who had been savoring the springy crab meat that held the full savor of the sea without a trace of fishiness, suddenly lifted his head.

“How much does the price jump for you to say ‘the rest of their life’?”

“I haven’t looked into it since ten years ago, but back then in Serbianus it traded for the same weight in gold.”

An eye-watering price. Yet the one who had asked, William, only pouted.

“I don’t see what’s so great about this fishy-smelling thing.”

“Young Master William, you have eaten cod before, have you not?”

“This smells fishy too. I can’t eat it.”

“You would have been in serious trouble in the previous lord’s day, when going hungry was routine.”

“But Grandfather isn’t here. He’s up there.”

Victor and William bickered as though determined to break the picky-eating habit once and for all this time.

“Lord Atanitas. Starving was routine?”

“It is nothing remarkable. Even if all of Iceland is not wealthy, it has only been a short while since people stopped going hungry. In famine years even the nobles ate black bread, they say.”

The employer answered while accepting a piece of bread dipped in bouillabaisse broth that Mary held out.

Before the miracle of nitrogen fertilizer that created abundance from nothing, people going hungry had been commonplace only a few decades earlier—and that had been true even on modern Earth, which possessed the technology to feed the entire planet. This era, however, was a distant medieval age. Iceland, whose barrenness one felt in the bones, possessed none of the conditions for crops to grow in abundance—save for the unique local plants such as the Red Witch’s Finger.

Come to think of it, half of the wheat consumed was said to come from Adobis. That meant that until trade occurred—whether by import, farming, or raid—hunger had been the rule. Yet on the road to Coldon he had not seen a single starving person or beggar. Everywhere looked far from affluent, yet never truly lacking.

“That is how important the contract is. The envoys could arrive as early as tomorrow, so even one more rehearsal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is worthwhile. The mayor of Obsidianberry was only granted an audience with the lord after every rehearsal had finished.”

Catherine murmured the words as a matter of course after swallowing a mouthful of treasure-crab claw meat.

Obsidianberry’s value as Coldon’s outer port was considerable. Yet it inevitably ranked lower than renewing the contract with the nation that filled half of Iceland’s entire breadbasket. In the worst case, if this place vanished they could hastily shift to another Icelandic harbor; but if trade with Adobis faltered, Iceland would plunge into chaos overnight.

“In any case, Young Master William. Are you saying the bouillabaisse is not to your liking?”

“Yeah. The crab smell and the fishiness are way too strong!”

“Then I shall have to make something else.”

Karem himself was not yet full. Still, with a guest left unsatisfied he could hardly sit idle. He immediately set about preparing the salmon that had gone cold, untouched because everyone’s attention had been fixed on the bouillabaisse.

Those watching at first made odd faces. After all, rather than the softer belly he was taking only the back meat—which would already be dry.

“I don’t like salmon much either. It smells.”

“No need to worry. There will hardly be any fishiness.”

Under the curious stares of everyone but one—as if asking what he intended to make now—Karem headed straight for the kitchen. He had no grand creation in mind. The ingredients remaining in the kitchen were more than enough for something a child would enjoy. The only thing missing was eggs for the Maoines, so he asked a staff member waiting in the corridor and received them.

Karem shredded the salmon in a bowl with a fork, added Maoines, then finely chopped celery, onion, and pickle on top. He seasoned it with pickle brine, salt, and pepper. A vigorous stir until everything was evenly mixed, and it was done. The so-called tuna—no, salmon Maoines salad—was complete.

Karem understood at once why William was a picky eater. In his previous life as Garam, at the same age, he too had avoided seafood. The reason had been the smell, exactly the same as William’s. The fishiness that some people loved as the scent of the sea. Of course Karem’s tastes had changed with age and he could eat it now, but even before that the seafood dishes he had accepted were tuna mayo and salmon mayo.

William first eyed the finished salmon Maoines with suspicion, yet the moment it entered his mouth his eyes went round.

“There’s no fishiness at all? It’s savory.”

“Well, of course.”

That was precisely what the onion, the pepper, and the Maoines were for. Though he had grumbled about the smell, William was hardly without hunger; he immediately hugged the bowl of salmon Maoines to himself and began scooping it up.

“William. I’m curious—can I try just a little?”

“No. You’ll say ‘just one bite’ and eat almost all of it.”

“Ahem. You should trust family, not suspect them.”

“It’s because of the Maoines, isn’t it? No!”

While Godwin made no attempt to hide his greed and William fought to protect what was his, Catherine accepted the food Mary offered. It was bread topped with a little of the salmon belly.

“I wondered what you were making when you took only the dry upper part of the salmon.”

“The belly side has less of that fishy taste, after all.”

Whether good or bad, the smells that rose from meat came from three sources: pooled blood, the parts that wrapped the organs, or the fattiest cuts. They were unavoidable. So he had discarded every scrap of skin and simply filleted all of the relatively leaner back meat to toss with the Maoines.

“It has a certain resemblance to making potions.”

“Potions—alchemy, you mean?”

“Yes. A great many animal and plant components dissolve into oil. I never imagined you would apply that to cooking.”

Of course. Oil was the very source in which every aroma and flavor of cooking took root. He still remembered the bitter lesson of scooping every drop of fat from yukgaejang because it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seemed greasy, only to turn it into plain spicy beef-and-radish soup.

The interrupted dinner resumed. The bouillabaisse had been a little short for the number of people, yet thanks to the remaining roasted salmon belly and the basket heaped with bread, by the time only empty dishes, clam shells, and treasure-crab carapaces remained in the pot, everyone had filled their stomachs.

When Karem returned after seeing Godwin, William, and Victor out, Catherine was already sprawled at the table with half-lidded eyes. Thinking she was dozing from the meal, he noticed the parchment in her hand.

“A letter—or rather work brought from Winterhome?”

“I’m not that busy. To think the damn old man would actually prove useful someday. This is the paper listing the schedule for when the Adobis envoys arrive.”

From the very first paragraph it mixed praise for Alfred with declarations of friendship between Adobis and Iceland, the places the envoys would visit and the history tied to each, and the schedule itself, all jumbled together.

Frankly speaking—

“It looks rather all over the place.”

“Hm? Official documents are usually like that.”

“It must be difficult to read.”

“Document work is always like that. Once you grow used to documents they become familiar.”

Any document meant to be read by another ought to be clean and orderly. Yet the schedule he had just seen, even if one granted it was not a formal document, contained only the objective schedule; everything else was subjective—in other words, unnecessary information—and she claimed it was always so. Hard to understand.

Catherine, taking it another way, rolled the parchment and lightly rapped her exclusive chef on the head with it.

“If you’re sleepy, go sleep.”

“I suppose I should.”

“Yes. Good work.”

He was sleepy in any case, so Karem washed his face lightly in the room prepared for him on one side of the lodging and lay down at once. A chef’s morning had to begin earlier than everyone else’s. Considering the rehearsals that would follow for receiving the Adobis envoys, Catherine’s words were not wrong; Karem closed his eyes without delay.