I'll Teach You Baeksuk (2)
"Figures. Not a soul."
It was the monumental first day of business, and I'd even gone so far as to prepare a precious pot of chicken baeksuk — and yet not a single customer had come. I couldn't so much as hear a beast in the woods.
Before I knew it, true dark had settled outside. The restaurant stood deep in a lonely forest; even in broad daylight, whether anyone would find it was anyone's guess. At night, there was nothing to say.
Right. Who ever gets full on the first mouthful?
I smothered the expectations that had grown too large and looked up at the ceiling. The building was exactly the shape I had always dreamed of. The first-floor hall wasn't particularly wide, and that was precisely what made it feel warm; the second floor was given over to my own living space. Nothing too traditional — a Western-style house of the sort that might have been raised sometime between the 1990s and the early 2000s, pleasantly retro in its lines.
And hanging there with quiet pride was the name of my shop.
I'd named it from a simple thought: when you're paying to eat out, don't you at least want to eat only what you like? It was my dream, so merely looking at it was enough to satisfy me. My stomach, unfortunately, remained unconvinced.
Grrrgle—
I'm doing this to make a living. Might as well eat.
If a customer did turn up, there was still plenty of baeksuk left to serve. From the great cauldron boiling away, I ladled out only as much as I meant to eat myself. Personally, I preferred the kind simmered in an ordinary pot until the flesh stayed springy and alive, rather than baeksuk pressure-cooked until the grain of the meat fell completely apart. This batch was exactly to my taste — chewy, tender, the meat still holding its own.
"Ahh. Now this is it."
Steam curled off a chicken leg as I opened my mouth for a great bite, and in that very instant—
Jingle—
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
A customer had arrived.
The sudden intrusion threw me, but I gathered myself at once and offered a greeting.
"Welcome!"
A silver-haired woman who looked like a university student in something resembling a private-school uniform, and a plain, honest-faced middle-aged man. The interior seemed to unsettle them; they glanced this way and that before easing, hesitant, into their seats.
"My lady, I'll eat separately, at another—"
"No. It's really all right. Please, sit."
"Yes, my lady."
What kind of pairing is that? The conversation was impossible to follow, and all the more interesting for it, but a cook's first duty came before curiosity.
"Right now the only thing on the menu is chicken soup. Will that be all right?"
"Yes, that's fine. One serving each, please."
"I'll have it right out."
I portioned the baeksuk in a hurry, scattered finely cut green onion and a dusting of pepper over the top, and set out alongside it the fresh cabbage pickle I'd tossed that morning.
"Your chicken soup. It's hot, so please be careful."
"Um... Chef? Owner? What should I call you?"
"Please call me Master."
On Earth it was a title I never could have claimed, but this was another world. If you didn't live the fantasy at a moment like this, when would you? And yet the instant she heard what I'd asked to be called, she flinched. What was that about?
"M-Master. This is chicken soup, isn't it? I think the wrong dish may have come out..."
"Ah. It's an Eastern-style chicken soup — a dish called baeksuk. It may be different from the soup you're used to, but it's quite good, so please eat without worry."
"Is that so? All right, then. Thank you."
She tried to hide how flustered she was, but she couldn't hide the saliva gathering in her mouth.
Gulp—
Faced for the first time with the overwhelming splendor of a whole, luscious baeksuk, they had the food in front of them and still didn't know what to do with themselves.
They don't know how to eat it?
Well, of course. People who had spent their whole lives eating chicken soup as a cream-based stew. Set a pale chicken in front of them with its legs neatly crossed, and it was only natural the method wouldn't come to them.
"If you'd like, I could explain how to eat—"
"No! I'm fine."
She was plainly struggling, and still she refused the help. The refined clothes, hands like white jade, a face that could put a K-pop idol to shame — she had the look of a child from some distinguished house. Was that it? I could feel a quiet pride in her. The sense of how dare you teach me how to eat.
I'd given them a fork and a spoon on purpose, certain chopsticks were out of the question, and she was still straining at it. How was I supposed to show her the way...? Then a good idea struck me.
"I haven't eaten yet myself. Would you mind if I had my meal?"
"Yes. Please, go ahead?"
"Thank you!"
She answered as if puzzled why the permission to eat was being left to her. Puzzled or not, I brought over the portion I'd set aside and never gotten to taste, and deliberately sat where the customers could see me clearly.
Sure enough, the moment I began to eat, the two who had been floundering stole glances my way. Feeling their eyes on me, I pinned the chicken with my fork and tore a baeksuk leg free with my other hand.
"Yeah. This is baeksuk."
Crunch—!
I bit without mercy into the drumstick, torn off as thick as a Jamaican jerk leg. Gloss ran over it like light on a jewel. The flesh resisted, soft and springy, then yielded gently to the teeth. Chewing a mouthful of meat, I stole a look at the girl.
Crack!
Hesitant as the motion was, both of them tore off a leg the way I had and stuffed it into their mouths. Her blue eyes went perfectly round — and from that single bite, the way she moved changed.
"Haaa!!"
Like a beast with eyes only for the prey in front of her, she began to eat.
Until the food came out, Isilla could not shake her suspicion. The smell was delicious, yes — but the unfamiliar shape of the building, the interior, even the owner's unusual hair. Suspicion was inevitable.
Not long after they ordered, chicken soup was set before Isilla and the coachman. Both of them stared at what lay in front of them, dumbfounded. What they had ordered was ordinary chicken soup: a pale, watery broth with a few vegetables and scraps of chicken in it. So why had an entire chicken come out whole?
Wondering whether the cook had made a mistake, Isilla spoke.
"Um... Chef? Owner? What should I call you?"
"Please call me Master."
Flinch—
The moment they heard the word Master, both Isilla and the coachman felt something in them go still, and they looked at the man. Everyone called Master possessed ability enough to lead the world — the master of an adventurers' guild, the greatest master smith of a blacksmiths' guild, the Empire's Sword Master. Living legends, their influence so vast that one could not move them at will.
And in the long history of the Empire, not once had a cook ever been acknowledged as a Master. Did this black-haired man even understand the weight of that title?
Isilla's suspicion only deepened. And yet the food before her looked unbearably delicious. Telling herself there was nothing else for it, she played along.
"M-Master. This is chicken soup, isn't it? I think the wrong dish may have come out..."
"Ah. It's an Eastern-style chicken soup — a dish called baeksuk. It may be different from the soup you're used to, but it's quite good, so please eat without worry."
"Is that so? All right, then. Thank you."
The man accepted the title of Master as if it were familiar to him, then explained the dish in a few simple words. An Eastern chicken soup. Baeksuk... Could he be a Cooking Master of the East? She sensed no hint of a lie. If he truly was a Master of the East, then of course there would be things she did not know.
Thinking she had nothing to lose, Isilla lifted her fork. And then—
H-how am I supposed to eat this?
Isilla's blue eyes wavered. She was the treasured daughter of the Duke of northern Silbaerin, a young lady who had tasted every fine cuisine there was and had the etiquette of the table by heart. Eastern table manners, however, were beyond her.
Ugh... if I make a spectacle of myself here, a noble's pride...
Worse, even the coachman across from her was watching, with the look of a man who assumed a noble would of course know how to eat it.
"If you'd like, I could explain how to eat—"
"No! I'm fine."
Isilla refused even the Master's offer to show her. If she broke here, she would be utterly disqualified as a noble young lady...!
"Ahem. I haven't eaten yet myself. Would you mind if I had my meal?"
She was in the middle of the dilemma of a lifetime when the restaurant's Master suddenly asked whether he might take his own meal.
"Yes. Please, go ahead?"
"Thank you!"
No one had ever asked permission like that before eating, so Isilla found it strange — but she allowed it. The Master carried his own baeksuk to the table across from them, pinned the chicken with his fork, and tore off a leg with his other hand in one bold motion.
He's tearing it apart with his hands?
Isilla's eyes and the coachman's went perfectly round at the shocking method, but whether he knew it or not, the Master ripped into the chicken before him with something wild in the way he ate. On any ordinary day, a Master tearing into a bird like a beast of the wild would have struck her as barbaric. But before an unfamiliar place and an unfamiliar food, Isilla's common sense had already begun to shift.
If the Master eats it that way... then in the East, isn't that the proper way to eat?
"Haaah! Now this is it!"
Watching the Master take the chicken apart as if possessed, Isilla made up her mind. Just as he had, she tore a leg free with her hands. From the thick, tender drumstick, rich broth dripped in heavy drops.
Gulp—!
The enormous thing before her eyes. Faced with the chicken leg, Isilla felt a small, involuntary fear. But she shut her eyes tight, found her courage, and bit down.
And in that moment, the world of chicken soup as Isilla had known it collapsed.
"Haaaa!!!!!"
A texture neither tough nor mushy, pushing back against the teeth just enough to wake an instinctive, predatory pleasure. A broth as rich as if a hundred chickens had been simmered down into it, yet clean and mild where it lingered on the tongue. And a red pickled vegetable, cool and spicy, that kept the main dish from ever growing tiresome.
Every chicken soup I've eaten until now... was a fraud.
The hesitation left Isilla's hands. She alternated between the chicken and the pickled vegetables, and now and then rinsed her tongue in the hot broth. The savory depth of the baeksuk, sunk into every last taste bud, would not let her stop the spoon. Her face, white as eternal snow, gradually flushed red.
"Haa... haa..."
Sweat beaded on her brow. Even as she breathed out in a heated rush, Isilla did not stop eating. By the standards of a noble meal — all face and propriety — it was an unthinkable display.
My body's hot... I'm burning...
But Isilla paid it no mind. In truth, she no longer had the presence of mind to care. Baeksuk was a dish brimming with warming yang — garlic, onion, green onion, astragalus. Born to a cold-running bloodline, Isilla felt that heat all the more fiercely.
More... a little more...! Huh?
Isilla, who had been devouring the baeksuk like a starving lioness, came back to herself when the spoon grew light. Before her eyes lay a chicken's bones, picked perfectly clean, not a shred of meat remaining.
"The... the meat?"
Isilla murmured, dazed.
"Looks like it was to your liking. Honored guest."
At some point — she couldn't have said when — the Master had begun to smile, thoroughly pleased. Having watched her torment nothing but an innocent pile of bones, he said quietly:
And in the bowl newly set before her...
was the essence of baeksuk. Chicken porridge.