The Emperor's Chef (5)
Confit, a word born from the notion of preserving, was a method of cooking that sealed an ingredient in fat to keep it. It was a preserved food devised so people might survive the barren winter, when protein was hard to come by—a charm altogether different from salting or smoking. True to those origins, though, it carried a high saltiness and a gaminess that nagged at the palate. The peculiar, faintly rubbery chew that came of the curing was something one was simply expected to accept.
Why would I.
Of course, I did not accept it. That was the story of confit as it lived in medieval history. The confit refined for the modern age was another thing entirely.
Flavor is water-soluble; aroma is fat-soluble. Following that formula to the letter, I steeped the confit fat with spices that would make the duck's savor explode. Duck legs cooked in that fat at a hundred degrees for twelve hours, then left to age in the cold for three full days—what taste and aroma could they possibly be clutching? A flavor past all imagining, the sort you could never believe until you tasted it yourself, just as the chief steward was doing now.
"Merciful Lady Maria. This flavor is nothing short of treasonous."
"Uh... that is a compliment, right?"
"To think confit—something I had dismissed as food for commoners, or at best the lesser nobility—could taste like this. You truly are the chef Lady Ermia and His Imperial Majesty have recognized."
"I hardly know what to do with myself. Thank you."
The chief steward knew nothing of the full reach of my ability, nor of the influence I had already brought to bear on the Empire. He simply took me for a chef skilled enough to be granted a private table with both Leonik and Ermia.
In any case, the proof was in. The hour of the meal was truly upon us, and it was time to begin the course. I set about the appetizer: venison gibier terrine with pistachios, and campagne bread.
Terrine, the French manner of pressed meat, was not a thing one could throw together in a hurry. You began by mincing the meat fine and working it into a forcemeat, poured liquor over that forcemeat and let it age, then packed it layer upon layer into a dedicated ceramic mold and cooked it gently in a water bath. I had gone a step further still. Because this was an appetizer terrine, it had to pass through a cold aging as well. So what was I to do? Bring it already made.
Seeing every last thing prepared in advance, a person might well think, This bastard shows up when he ought to be cooking it on the spot—what is he, all flash and no fire? But that is precisely how a working kitchen operates. I had never myself stood the line in a fine-dining house, yet it was the sort of thing you heard easily enough if you so much as dipped a toe into the talk of the trade.
I drew out the venison terrine, still cold from its aging in the mold. The ratio was venison two, pork one, beef one, with duck liver folded in at a half. I had called it a venison gibier terrine, but use nothing but venison and the flavor stays narrow—and above all, there is not enough fat. Fine venison might have carried it on its own... even so, where fat was concerned, deer could not stand shoulder to shoulder with pork and beef of the same grade.
And I had mixed in duck liver. That was the famous foie gras. Some will insist that only goose liver deserves the name, but the words themselves mean fatty liver. Duck, goose, or wild goose—if the liver was plump with fat, foie gras was a fair name for it. In practice, most foie gras is produced from the livers of those three birds. To make a French terrine and leave out the foie gras would be like making pressed boiled meat with no head meat in it.
Which is to say, it would be nothing at all.
Foie gras was that essential to a terrine. I could not have left it out.
Sssk—
I tapped the terrine gently free of its rectangular mold and set a knife to it with care. It did not part with quite the zero resistance of slicing acorn jelly, but it cut softly enough. There was a reward in having cooked the forcemeat in a water bath to an internal temperature of about seventy degrees, then aged it in the cold. The texture stayed springy, while the interior was as fine and smooth as a purée. Pale-red lean, studded with green—excellent to the eye, and excellent on the tongue.
Pistachios: less hard than almonds, yet denser and crisper than cashews. Those who love them will not so much as glance at any other nut, and eat these alone. That exquisitely crunching texture is enough to drive a person mad.
Mm... this really is a flavor that drives you insane.
I shaved off a sliver of terrine and stole a quick taste. The flavors of the ingredients written into the recipe had melded across a long stretch of time, building an explosive rise of savoriness. Above all, that aroma—the one that lingered softly through the mouth like a perfume—was unbearably sweet. I drew it in, sniff after sniff, savoring it, and explained the dish to the chief steward. From somewhere he produced a notebook and took down my words with careful attention. So a chief steward, it seemed, was permitted a paper notebook of that quality.
"Chef Kang Jinwoo. It is nearly time for His Imperial Majesty's meal. Are all the dishes prepared..."
"Ah, understood. I'll set aside, for each dish, the portion the food taster needs to inspect. One moment."
I had been so lost in the mise en place that the hour had come around. I toasted slices of campagne bread cut to about a centimeter, just right for a bite, and spread them with a thin film of whole-grain mustard. Onto that I pressed a thick slice of terrine, gentle as a seal. A single piece of vivid beet pickle, made from brined beets, went on top. Last of all I finished it with a light scatter of crushed pistachios.
Dang, daaang—
At that same moment the palace bell rang to announce six in the evening. It was also the signal for the Emperor's rigidly appointed meal. I completed the appetizer in time with the bell and traded a look with the chief steward. We were comrades in the same boat now; his eyes were full of trust as he nodded.
"Chief Steward, you're ready?"
"Of course, Chef."
"Then... let's begin."
Soft, soft—
He did not so much as use a serving trolley. He lifted the plate lightly, truly as if it were a feather—a touch so deft that even I, who had just been plating that very dish, was startled. And without a single irritating footfall, he carried my appetizer quietly out of the kitchen.
For the next hour and a half or so, I could not afford the slightest lapse if the flavor was to be the best it could be. The chef's knife in my hand flashed, showing off a keen edge.
"Hah—hahk!"
"Huh. What's the matter?"
"Ah, forgive me. It simply felt a little... chilly."
"The taster's portion is here. I'll give you a taste from every plate first, so if anything seems amiss, please say so."
"Yes. Thank you."
The food taster, who had been holding his breath along with the rest of us, sucked in a useless gasp at the sight of the knife. I had only picked it up because I wanted, for a moment, to look resolute. Now I felt needlessly sorry.
I have conviction. Absolute conviction that this cannot possibly taste bad.
If a cook does not believe in his own cooking, who on earth is going to be moved by it? Land, sea, and air—before every ingredient, I stood with a clear conscience and my head high. In every dish, there had been no mistake.
From morning until evening, the Emperor's work had gone on without a pause. Leonik disposed of every last task, waiting with desperate longing for nothing but the evening meal. Because today was the day the cooking of Kang Jinwoo—the hero who had defended the Empire with food—would be presented before him.
I am looking forward to this. To demand, as his reward, the chance to cook... bold of him.
A smile at the corner of his mouth, Leonik sat at the table and waited for the food. The meal was being conducted in secret, so he had chosen his private chamber—yet that chamber was no less splendid, no less antique, than a banquet hall.
Had the man asked for gold and jewels, Leonik could have parceled them out little by little so as not to rouse suspicion. Had he asked for a noble title, it would have been somewhat burdensome, but even that could have been arranged by a workaround. What he had wanted, however, had missed every one of the Emperor's expectations. A chance at which any rare thing he named could have been laid in his hands—and he had squandered it on mere cooking.
Ah. To think of it that way would be rude.
Born the legitimate heir of the imperial house, he had sat the throne for several decades now. Even without the title of Emperor, the imperial blood in his veins had let him taste every delicacy under heaven. And so Leonik, looking toward his sixtieth year, had grown used to all of it. Do not let familiarity cheat you of what is precious. It was one of the maxims he favored. Even so, a palate growing accustomed was an unavoidable course for any living thing. All Leonik could do was try his utmost to savor.
The seat of the apex predator, if one spoke in terms of the food chain, and an unending labor of the palate. Those two conditions together had raised the threshold of his gastronomy considerably high.
Will you be able to take away what you want, cook of another land?
The imperial throne was not a thing he had been handed for nothing. Retainers who kept faces of iron, rival factions, and beneath the surface a constant spray of blood from slander and intrigue. It was no exaggeration to call the political arena a war in miniature. He had seized the throne there and held it for decades. The meaning of that clear fact was equally clear.
Leonik was strong. In force of arms, and in force of mind. And so he could see perfectly well what Kang Jinwoo was aiming at. Most likely the man meant to set forth food of the highest order, capture his palate, and use that opening to land an even bigger fish.
Amusing. It feels like setting out on a hunt for the first time in a long while.
Of course he had not the slightest intention of harming Kang Jinwoo should the food fall short of expectation. It was only a figure of speech. The life of an emperor who had climbed to the summit of the Empire and reigned over all its people—live a life like that, and there came times when it felt rather pitiful, how the fangs once honed razor-sharp had worn themselves blunt. How long had it been since he last went hunting? All he was doing now was granting a young hero's impudent request, and yet even that was enough for the thrill of the hunt to lift its head, ever so slightly.
Please. I hope you will wet this old lion's throat with bright red blood. Cook.
Leonik smacked his lips like a lion.
Dang, daaang—
Beyond the window, the bell announcing six in the evening—mealtime—rang out. Leonik pricked his senses sharp at the sound, as if answering the rustle of prey parting the grass. Soon now, the black-haired cook's food would arrive. From what he had heard, the man had presented all manner of outlandish dishes, and even his lovely daughter Kariel had fallen utterly for that outrageous food. What delicacy, or what novelty, would he show him? Leonik's black eyes glinted, eerie.
Kiiiik—
At last the dining-room door opened, and the chief steward appeared. There was no trolley of the sort that usually bore the food, and no attendant following behind with further dishes. In the hands of the steward, whose manners were second nature, there was only a small plate—light enough for an elderly man to lift with ease. At a quantity of food that would not even register against his usual meal, bewilderment flickered through Leonik's eyes.
He stared at the steward in confusion, and the steward came forward briskly and presented the dish without the slightest discourtesy.
"The first plate of a formal dinner composed of six courses: the appetizer."
The introduction flowed with composure. Leonik's questions, however, did not cease at words he was hearing for the first time. Six courses? This was not a matter of tactics and strategy, nor of a marching route. Why should the word course be fastened to cooking? The one thing he could make out was appetizer—a simple dish meant to whet the appetite before the meal proper. He gathered every clue and understood it at a glance.
"Chief Steward. Five further dishes are yet to come, and that is what you mean by a course?"
"Without a single error. Entirely correct, Your Imperial Majesty."
Faced with a manner of service he had never heard of in his life, Leonik could not relax his guard by so much as a fraction.
I thought you were the prey. Have you fangs of your own? Is that it? Interesting.
True to a cook who had made a request that shattered common sense, even the presentation of the food was anything but ordinary. Leonik smiled, a short breath of amusement, like a lion whose interest had been caught. Before that chilling smile the steward barely held his composure, and lifted the cloche that covered the plate.
"The appetizer: venison gibier terrine with pistachios, and campagne bread. Whole-grain mustard, beet pickle, and a pistachio topping have been added for your pleasure. Please enjoy."
"Hm. Very well."
What is this? This terrine, red upon red?
The terrine Leonik knew was not this color. An ordinary terrine, made of pork, beef, and liver, came out a pale pink, or something close to it. The terrine Kang Jinwoo had made flaunted a clear red, and the vivid beet pickle set upon it seemed to declare that even among reds there were ranks above and below, asserting a presence all its own. Even so, it did not clash by itself. Earthen-brown campagne bread, pale-red venison gibier terrine, red beet pickle, layered in order—a sight that called someone to mind.
"Ha, hahaha!! Are you depicting Us, black-haired cook?"
The people laboring for the Empire in the fields of earth. Every retainer of the imperial household, devoted to public order, administration, and all manner of official duty. And himself at the very crown of it all, bearing the blood of the imperial family. By the steward's account this was merely the first dish—and already it was delighting him so. His mood thoroughly heated, Leonik put the terrine into his mouth in a single bite. It had been served bite-sized to begin with, meant to be eaten lightly, and his way of dining had always pursued this kind of boldness.
A food that had rendered the vast Aethernia Empire into something smaller than a handspan. Every element of that small thing was chewed and mixed, crunch upon crunch, inside Leonik's mouth.
"Hnnnngh!!"
At the same time, Leonik's eyes flew wide.