Elves' Kitchen (2)

Back in Korea, the Netflix show Culinary Class Wars had kicked off yet another chef boom. The generation before it had the old fixtures of homegrown cooking survival — MasterChef Korea and Korean Food Wars. Overseas, the most famous of them all was Gordon Ramsay's Hell's Kitchen.

What those programs shared was simple: every contestant was already a professional. A few of them even fielded monsters so absurdly overqualified that calling them "professionals" felt like an insult. One showdown, staking the culinary road they had walked, their pride, and their flavor.

And this place had declared the elves' own cooking survival: Elves' Kitchen. In the kitchen of the Sildiel manor's dining hall, a showdown of exactly that kind...

"Who the hell cut the onions like this?!"

"I-I'm sorry!!"

...never actually broke out.

I touched the onions Elf No. 1 had sliced. They weren't cut through at all. Every piece still hung together. What even was this? A chain of paper people, snipped with pinking shears to hang on a Christmas tree.

"Every single onion you cut is stuck together so tight you could hang them on the World Tree as decorations!"

"Huh? Thank you for the compliment...?"

"Haa... Just go cut another crate of onions."

"Hieeek... My tears won't stop..."

The energy died on the spot. I tossed No. 1 the extra homework. Enjoy the burn.

It was the day after we'd caught the recipe ignorance, the unauthorized changes, and the lying to the chef. Every last charge had landed dead center — painfully so. Hygiene, especially, was not a concept you got to shrug off.

Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak—! The relentless percussion of knife on board said it plainly enough. Knife work.

I hated to admit it, but the elves were surprisingly strict about hygiene. Not that they were looks-obsessed; more that they prized nobility and refinement. Personal cleanliness and kitchen cleanliness both, they kept. Seasoning, though, and actual culinary knowledge, were already a lost cause. They had a living produce stand called the World Tree and had still spent their lives with a wall between themselves and cooking, between themselves and eating well. That alone ended the discussion.

So if their ability sat past zero and somewhere in the negatives, letting them grow slowly and stack experience was fine. Their lifespans were ridiculously long. Give it a hundred years and wouldn't they cook better than me? I wouldn't be in this world by then, but still.

Either way, starting them on knife work was the rational choice from every angle. Seasoning you could learn by tasting. Slice off a finger because you couldn't use a knife, and that hurt. The sooner they began, the fewer mistakes waited down the road. Which was why the kitchen had been full of onion's sharp reek since morning. Sharp enough that even I — hardened by years of onion duty back when I was the youngest in the kitchen — felt my eyes sting.

Onion, scallion, or shallot and leek. Taxonomically, these vegetables belong to the genus Allium. They come in layers, and they spray a pungent sap, so the knife work that keeps that sap to a minimum matters. Wet the blade. Soak the onion in cold water. There are plenty of methods. The heart of all of them is cutting well. Use whatever trick you like; crush the onion's surface with the knife and none of it helps.

By that measure, the knife work unfolding in this kitchen was the worst of the worst.

"Hehe, sniff. I think... my knife work got a little faster!"

"Kehing. Really! All that hard work paid off."

Snot and tears running free, and still they fussed at each other. Full-blown elf fussing. I walked over to No. 2 and No. 3, the ones behind that empty little conversation.

"Your knife work got faster?"

"Huk. Y-yes... it did get faster."

"Hmm. So sad. Truly, unbearably tragic."

"Huh?"

I lifted what No. 2 had sliced — no. What No. 2 had pulverized — and shoved it under No. 2's nose.

"Keheng! Kek!"

"I cannot stand how pitiful these onions are, dying fast because of your useless hand speed!"

"Hieeek..."

"Hey. No. 3. You're the same. You didn't cut this. You beat it. You beat the onion to death. If this onion comes demanding damages, you'll be selling World Tree fruit to pay the bill. You hear me?!"

"I-I'm sorry!!"

Right. Nobody gets full on the first spoonful. Keep at it and they would improve. I didn't doubt that for a second. In that spirit, I tossed No. 2 and No. 3 another crate of onions each.

"No!! You caaaan't!!"

"Ugh... I can't even see what's in front of me..."

Frustration raises a man. They were women, but they could take the spirit of it.

Last, I checked the work from No. 4, No. 5, and Iseria. Their eyes were impressively red, but all three were holding the tears back as far as they could go. The simple fact that they could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stand ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there without crying already told me what I was about to see.

Tuk-duk-duk— I scooped up a handful of sliced onion and scattered it. The pieces fell apart cleanly along the grain. Nothing clinging. The cut faces weren't perfect, but they were sound.

"Mm. Good. All three of you pass. Go rest for a bit."

"Thank you, Chef!"

"Than— ah, thank you!"

No. 4 and No. 5 lit up at the praise and headed off to rest. Iseria meant to follow, then kept sneaking glances at me. What. Something to say?

"What's wrong, Iseria. Something you want to ask?"

"It's just... did I really do well...?"

"Hm?"

Polite speech still didn't sit naturally in her mouth, and the grammar came out strange. Even so, I caught what she meant. We'd known each other from the start, so was I going easy on her out of affection?

I, Kang Jinwoo, do not lie about cooking.

That kind of suspicion she could put away completely. Like a certain chef who said he would never plate what he hadn't tasted himself, I was a cook who had sworn never to lie with flavor.

"Yeah. You really did well. So from now on, you don't have to think like that."

"Th-thank you!"

Only then did the knot seem to loosen. Iseria went to rest with a visibly lighter face. I hadn't seen much of her lately, and somewhere in that gap she had clearly been working hard. Thinking back to when she'd come to my place, she had broken down that boar beast with uncanny precision. An elf who had probably never even seen a butchering, and her boning had been that clean. Looking at today's results, Iseria had the talent for this.

A delicate sense lived in the fingertips around the knife. Each strand of the onion's fiber, one by one, severed on a blade held perfectly upright. Tud-deud-deuk— Control that kept needless wounds off the cut surface. Even the instinctive, exquisite give-and-take between the guiding hand and the edge. Skill on the level of cutting meat with magic and lifting objects into the air. I figured it came from those keen senses of hers. A student who stood out from the rest made the work feel worthwhile, somehow.

Finished with Iseria, I looked around the kitchen again.

"Heeek! Heek!"

"My eyes, my eyes sting so much!"

Apprentice elves No. 1, 2, and 3, suffering through the homework I'd assigned with magnificent enthusiasm. The three washouts kept cutting. The elves who had shown decent results were resting. Meanwhile I gathered every onion they had sliced into one place and re-prepped them to the size today's dish actually needed.

Shwa-sa-sak—! Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak—! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I picked out only the pieces that were undercut or too thick and sliced them into thin matchsticks.

"Whoa..."

"As expected of Chef. Your knife work is on a completely different level!"

"Nnngh. I want to cut like that too..."

The elves stared, souls halfway out of their bodies, at knife work that looked possessed. Everyone crowded in to watch and call it amazing, and Iseria had her mouth hanging wide open, eyes locked on my fingertips. She had seen this knife work plenty of times. Learning it herself must have made it look different.

If something looks easy, that person is a tremendous master.

Just like the old saying. I cooked so easily that it must have looked truly easy — until she tried it and understood the difficulty. I hadn't re-cut the onions to show off, but I'd drawn every eye anyway. I finished the prep and spoke.

"All right, you three. Stop now... and the elves who were resting, all of you get in here."

"Yes, Chef!"

They moved as one at the order and soon stood before me in a single rank.

"No. 1. Where do you think all these onions are going?"

"Uuuhn... Tomato sauce, or ratatouille...?"

"Not wrong. But if we used them for that, there'd be so many we'd throw most of them out, wouldn't there?"

"Yes. There really are too many."

The elves had probably felt it too. Practice was practice, but why only onions? Wouldn't it be more efficient to cut the ingredients for today's menu? There were two reasons.

The first was the nature of the onion, which I'd already gone over. An onion, whose pungent sap is pure misery, stings the eyes less the better you cut it. And it is an ingredient of endless use — slice it once and it goes anywhere. The second reason was that I meant to use them in a new dish.

Without much comment, I brought over a large pan and set it on the fire. The elves, who still had no idea what breakfast was, only stared in confusion.

"Today's menu, these onions are the star."

"What? The onions?"

"Yeah. We're making onion soup."

Chiiik—! I oiled the heated pan and dumped in a heap of onions. They gave off a pleasant Maillard sizzle as the moisture was driven out of them. This was the heart of today's dish.

"Watch closely. And... if you can, go around telling anyone and everyone."

"Ah, yes, sir!"

That was how elven food culture would get anywhere. Onion soup let them practice knife work, and I figured the elves could eat it without too much love or hate. The process wasn't purely simple, either, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠which made it a good place to lay a foundation. A French home dish: sauté the onions, pour in the stock, bring it up to a boil, done. Look at the details, though, and there was a reason it was French.

"First, sauté the onions until they turn brown."

"Uh... if they turn brown, doesn't that mean they're burnt?"

"No. Medium-low heat, slowly, with the feeling of driving the moisture off. This is called caramelizing."

The apprentice elves pricked their ears and locked onto the explanation. I lowered the flame and salted the onions. Before long, osmosis pulled the water they held out of them. Moisture seeped free, hit the pan, and kept up a steady chiiik—.

"Salt the surface of any ingredient and it gives up moisture. Especially with something you're roasting or sautéing — salt it ten to twenty minutes ahead, pull the moisture out from the inside, and you're better off."

"What's good about taking the moisture out?"

"It's easier to brown it and build savoriness, and you shorten the cooking time."

Chiiiik—... Slowly the onions turned translucent, their insides showing through, and went soft and slack. I added butter and kept sautéing. Butter and oil have different smoke points. Put the butter in from the start and it can burn later and ruin the dish. Hmm. There were a lot of concepts still waiting to be taught. Smoke point could wait for another dish. Dump too much knowledge in at once and none of it actually lands.

"You can't put the butter in with them from the beginning. Add it once the onions go clear."

"Uh, why?"

"Just take it as that's how it is. I'll tell you later."

"Hiiing..."

I brushed off No. 1's question without much ceremony. Not long after, the onions began to take on brown. Still a light brown, not deep. I plated some of that light-brown onion beside raw onion and passed them around.

"Taste both. See how the flavor changes."

"Sniff, sniff, it smells good! There's no sharp bite at all..."

"Really. But I don't want to eat the raw one..."

"Eat it while I'm still asking nicely."

"Hieek..."

A little of the light-brown onion, a little of the raw. They compared.

"It's sweet! The brown onion is sweet and delicious!"

"This isn't the onion I knew..."

"That's why it's called caramelizing. As you sauté, you drive off the moisture and the bite, and leave only the sugar."

The elves nodded over and over, eyes full of wonder. Iseria tasted it too, and her eyes went wide — not the flavor she had expected. By then the onions had sautéed down to a deep, proper caramelization. Stuck to the bottom of the pan was the source of the flavor, cooked on and clung there: the fond.

In French the word also means "bottom," and it's the root of fondue. As a cooking term, fond is the residue on the pan floor where flavor has concentrated. Scraping that fond back up is called deglazing. That was the skill I was about to show them.

I poured in a little of the white wine I'd set aside and scraped hard, as if melting the fond free.

"In cooking, that crystallized flavor stuck to the bottom of the pan is called fond, and you never throw it away. You melt it with wine or stock and fold it back into the food. That's deglazing."

"Hieek. Something... something about this is hard."

"Suddenly there's way too much we have to know..."

Under the unfiltered dump of knowledge, the elves focused and turned their heads over as hard as they could. I could still see them struggling, a little at a time. Even so, the hard part was behind them now.

I added the vegetable stock, white wine, and herbs I'd prepared to the caramelized onions and brought it to a boil. Bglug, bglug—... Aside from the salt used to drive off moisture, it wasn't seasoned yet, so I finished it with salt and pepper until it was good to eat. It didn't need a long boil. Just long enough for the stock and the onions to marry — ten to fifteen minutes was plenty.

In no time the onion soup was simmering, sending up a sweet aroma. But this was not the end.

"Heek. It smells so good..."

"Is it... is it still not done?"

"It's almost there. Hang on a little."

I transferred the soup into a vessel and laid thinly sliced, crisply toasted bread across the top. Then cheese in the same vein as Parmesan, showered on until the bread disappeared under it — Nuardel cheese. Parmesan is called that because it comes from Parma. This one deserved to be called Nuardel cheese.

Cheese grated fine as fresh snow piled high over the onion soup. I set the whole vessel in the hearth oven and waited for the cheese to melt.

"Heek, heeeek... Delicious food I've never seen before. Delicious food!!"

"I'm not that fond of cheese. Even so, this looks like it'll be so good..."

Somewhere along the way they forgot this was a lesson. Their eyes spun at the onion soup. The vegetable soup they usually ate was mushy, a flavor that set out toward something and quit halfway, and a look that murdered the appetite. Against the beautiful contrast of deep, glossy brown and snow-white cheese — against onion soup whose sweet caramelized aroma goaded an empty morning stomach — they never stood a chance.

Once the cheese had fully melted, I took the soup out.

"There. It's done."

"Th-this is soup made from nothing but those onions?"

"Quick. Give it here, quick!"