The Emperor's Chef (4)

Time flew, and before I knew it the day of the decisive meal was upon me.

I packed up every cooking tool and piece of tableware I owned, along with the ingredients I'd prepared in advance, and hauled the whole lot to the imperial palace I'd visited only a few days earlier.

There was no grand welcome waiting for me.

They hadn't even been able to honor me at the official merit ceremony, and had summoned me in private instead. If they made a show of receiving me now, all that careful discretion would have been for nothing.

Only the old head steward I'd met then, a handful of attendants, and the food taster—the palace tasting matron—came out to greet me and help with the luggage.

Honestly, I hadn't expected the head steward himself to come meet me. This counted as quite the welcome, didn't it?

"I am truly sorry we could not observe the full courtesy due to you, Chef Kang Jinwoo."

"Oh, not at all. Honestly, I never thought the head steward would come out in person. Thank you."

"Compared with the young, the only thing this old man has to his name is the etiquette worn into his bones. Observing proper form is the one thing I can still claim with confidence."

So saying, the head steward laid his right hand elegantly over his left breast and bowed his head. The whole sequence was so practiced it could have put a noble to shame, and I felt the weight of the years and effort behind it.

I thanked him for the welcome and stepped into the palace.

It was around five in the afternoon—early, still, for supper. For a six-course French dinner, though, the hour was already a little tight.

I walked to the kitchen at a pace just shy of outright rudeness. The attendants split my enormous luggage among them and came panting after me. Even as they hurried the bags along, they kept stealing curious glances at the tools, clearly dying to know what each one was for. Not one of them opened his mouth. For a servant to address the chef who had come to prepare the Emperor's meal was so far outside their common sense it might as well have been another world.

Hm. So that's how it is.

By my standards, of course, there was nothing remotely wrong with asking.

"Curious what that is?"

"Y-yes? No! It's quite all right!"

"Come on, don't be so stiff. It's fine. Relax."

"Er... th-that is a cloche, is it not? But why is it so small...?"

What they'd been staring at was the cloche—the domed lid set over a plate on a trolley when a course is served, to keep the food from going cold. They wanted to know why it was so small.

To a modern eye it was an utterly ordinary size. Small? This? But to attendants used to serving an entire table at once, the cloche looked absurdly tiny. Their food culture was one of a lavish spread set out for everyone to share, so the plates had grown huge, and the cloches had grown with them.

By comparison, the cloche I'd worn out my shoes hunting down was only a little larger than a grown man's hand. Just big enough to cover a main dish.

"Th-then... is the food only this much?"

"Well... yeah. That's right."

"Huuuh?!"

I answered plainly, and the attendant recoiled as if he'd been struck. His thoughts were probably something like, This is all he prepared for His Imperial Majesty? Has he lost his mind?

There was no need to correct the misunderstanding. Once my courses began, he'd understand it intuitively enough.

"Don't worry. Oh—could I ask one favor?"

"Yes. Please, say the word, Chef Kang Jinwoo."

"I'd like to entrust the service of my dishes to the head steward. Would that be all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠right?"

"Me? Of course it would, but... at my age, anything too heavy is a bit difficult. My apologies."

"Ah, then we'll be fine. Thank you!"

At my casual assurance that there was no problem at all, the head steward's eyes wavered for an instant.

Fair enough. Banquet food in actual medieval Europe had been monstrous to look at—and that wasn't a figure of speech. It had been genuinely monstrous. At the last merit banquet, hadn't a whole roast pig sat square in the middle of the table? Dishes like that, enormous joints of meat served whole, were symbols of noble and imperial power, and vanity had sung that same song through every verse until there was nothing left to sing. They'd even plucked a swan bare, roasted it whole, and stuck the white feathers back on for decoration. Past the point of excess, and straight over the cliff into farce.

So of course the head steward was worried about ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the weight.

My way, though, was service à la russe—course by course. And modern courses at that: clean, spare, precise. Aside from the ache in his legs from six trips back and forth, weight would not be an issue.

"Are you busy at the moment, Head Steward?"

"No. Nothing urgent."

"Perfect. Then I'll explain the dishes as I cook. Listen carefully, and when you serve His Majesty, explain them in my place."

"Y-yes?! Ahem. Forgive me. But... am I permitted to give the explanation?"

Ah. This time he'd failed to keep his face in order. The head steward, who so rarely raised his voice, sounded openly flustered.

It couldn't be helped. I was preparing everything alone, from the appetizer through the dessert and the tea. If I also had to serve and explain, I'd never hit the timing. The greatest virtue of a course meal is that you can control exactly when each dish is finished—and by doing so, catch the food at the very peak of its flavor.

"The explanations won't be difficult. Short and clear. Which course it is, what the main ingredient is, how it was cooked, what the sauce and the accompaniments are. That'll be plenty."

"Ah. Understood. I'll do my best to remember everything you tell me."

The head steward seemed a little reassured; the tension eased out of his face.

I had my help. No reason to delay any further.

As I started pulling ingredients out one by one, everyone except the head steward left the kitchen. An unspoken rule: one does not casually watch a chef's recipe. It didn't matter much to me... still, fewer people in the room made it easier to concentrate, and I wasn't about to complain.

Before I began in earnest, I ran through the courses once more in my head.

Even I have to admit the concept is airtight. If only the tea were black tea, it'd be perfect.

Venison gibier returning again and again, and ingredients that ran red through the whole meal—that was the hint threaded through the courses. The lion, king of beasts, reigning at the top of the land's food chain. In station, and in that brave, fearsome presence, he resembled Leonik, the Empire's highest power. I wanted the course to bare, as fully as it could, the wildness of a predator on the hunt.

The mood of the meal was the hunt. Its color was red.

Kariel and Leonik alike—red hair and black eyes were the mark of the imperial house. So I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had set the tone of the courses to red, the most intense of colors, and deliberately reached for venison, beets, pomegranate, anything that carried that hue. I hadn't let the concept swallow the food, either. Every pairing had been built with how the flavors would sit together in mind. Which meant the taste was already guaranteed.

All right. Let's do this.

Supper was nearly upon us. Fortunately, I'd brought most of the ingredients already prepared, so the usual tight-chest anxiety never quite arrived.

I gave the head steward a brief rundown of everything from the appetizer through the tea. I'd be adding explanations as I cooked anyway; hearing the shape of it first would only make the rest easier to follow. He nodded along appropriately through most of it, and tilted his head only at the main. The look of a man who thought he might have misheard, or who needed a little more ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠explaining.

Well, I could say more when I made the sauce for the duck confit. That would be fine. The apple tart, the dessert, needed an hour in the oven, so I could slide it in the moment the appetizer went out. For now I only had to get a head start on the caramelized onions and stock for the onion soup, and the pomegranate sauce for the main.

I talked through the steps out loud as I took the onion soup right up to the verge of finished. Soup didn't mind being made a little early. If anything, the flavor only deepened, which was all to the good.

"The soup course is onion soup. First you cook the onions down until they brown and the sweetness is at its peak."

"Yes. Remarkable. There's no scent of scorching at all—only a deep, savory sweetness hanging in the air."

"That's the proof of the caramelization. Now we add a bouquet garni of rosemary, thyme, and green onion, pour in chicken stock, and bring it to a boil."

"Ho. Quite a bit more refined than the onion soup common folk eat. It looks delicious."

The old head steward's reactions were so flavorful they made the cooking itself more enjoyable. Aside from the finishing touches—the croûtons and a firm aged cheese—the soup was done.

Time to get the pomegranate sauce underway.

Since it would accompany the duck confit, carrying a flavor close to the duck's own would let the tastes link more smoothly. I took out the duck leg confit I'd cooked for twelve hours in duck fat at about a hundred degrees. I'd brought it to room temperature ahead of cooking, so it had softened, but until yesterday it had been aging for three days under a cold spirit's care. In that state the duck fat had set hard and chalk-white, nearly impossible to work with.

I laid about two spoonfuls of the duck fat in a pan, loosened the pomegranate arils, crushed them lightly, and tipped them in.

Chiiiiii—

Fat met pomegranate juice and flared hot. Once the fruit had cooked down enough for the flavor to climb, I poured in red wine until it just covered the bottom.

Chijijijik—

This wasn't meant to bubble along like a gentle simmer. It had to reduce with the thick, clinging viscosity of lava. I added sugar, salt, and balsamic vinegar to balance the taste, and kept stirring. When I drew the spatula through the center of the pan—sak—and the track took two or three seconds to fill back in, I killed the heat, strained the sauce through a sieve, and set it neatly aside.

Sugar, balsamic, and wine had gone in, so the sauce itself ran hot, and its specific heat was higher than plain water's. It would take a little longer to cool. Left at room temperature, it ought to be at a pleasant temperature to eat by the time the main was served.

When I finished the sauce and looked over at the head steward, he spoke at once, as if he'd been waiting, his voice startled.

"C-Chef Kang Jinwoo. What is that?"

"Ah. This is the sauce for the main, the duck leg confit. As you can see, the ingredients are all right there, so there isn't much to explain..."

"Not the sauce—the duck confit! It really was confit? I thought I must have misheard."

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

He'd burst out so suddenly that I'd assumed something was wrong with the sauce. What he'd seized on was the duck confit. I'd only taken it out for a moment to use the fat, and he was staring at it as if he'd seen a ghost. I hadn't made a single mistake, and yet he was so strongly shaken that I found myself retracing my own steps, wondering if I had.

While I was replaying everything in my head, the head steward—rarely for him—spoke with real force.

"To serve His Imperial Majesty a salt-cured preserve... no matter how one looks at it, isn't that going too far?"

"Ah. So that was it."

"'So that was it'? A banquet table is one thing, but to set anything but fresh meat before His Majesty at a formal dinner he is to enjoy alone—that is a challenge to his authority!"

"No. Is it really that serious?"

From the impression Leonik gave, I doubted he'd care about anything but skill and flavor. But the old head steward was this worked up, so there was nothing for it. I'd been a little curious myself, and the duck leg had already been cooked tender for twelve hours at a hundred degrees. It could be cut and eaten as it was.

I sliced off a piece of the duck leg confit meant for tasting and held it out to him.

"Here. Try it. See whether it's a flavor that challenges authority, or one that'll have His Majesty on his feet applauding."

"What a presumptuous thing to say... Very well. I would like to trust you, Chef Kang Jinwoo, if I can. I'll eat it now."

Even for a mere scrap of duck leg, the head steward used fork and knife with practiced ease. The tines sank into the confit with no resistance at all.

He flinched.

The fingertips wrapped around the fork trembled, just slightly. The natural reaction of a person meeting extreme tenderness for the first time.

Then, careful not to catch it in his white beard, the head steward brought the duck leg confit to his mouth.

A soft bite. A slow chew.

For a brief stillness, the only sound was the cautious working of his molars. He closed his eyes and savored it. Beneath the beard, the corner of his mouth rose, unmistakably.

He spoke, low.

"How... how in the world? This is that dreadfully salty, foul-smelling confit?"

He wore the look of a man whose whole understanding of the world had just been denied. I didn't bother answering. I only smiled, wide.

And I hadn't even begun the real cooking yet.

Maybe—just maybe—I really would get to see Emperor Leonik dance his lion dance of joy.