Banquet? Noodles (2)

The menu was settled, so I exchanged the ingredients without a second thought.

What I mainly needed were dried anchovies, green onions, onions, and eggs. Kelp for the broth, and gim—those thin sheets of dried seaweed—would only have been a welcome bonus. The Silbaerin market, though, stocked dried fish and nothing else. No gim. No kelp.

I was browsing for something passable, not expecting much, when—

Gim and kelp? They're in here?

Western palates had never cared for either, so I'd assumed they simply wouldn't be registered. Why were they on the list? I cast back to the dried-fish shop.

Ah. Those leaves stuck dry to the anchovy crate?

Buy dried seafood often enough and you learn the little betrayals of the bin: a big-eyed herring tucked in among the anchovies, some other fillet slipped between the dried filefish. Kelp and gim had ridden into the anchovy box the same way, and I must have touched them without noticing.

I'd been ready to shrug and live with a slightly disappointing bowl if the ingredients weren't there. This was a different story. Every last thing I needed for banquet noodles was in hand.

First I filled a large pot with water, tied the anchovies, kelp, green onion, and onion into a cloth, and set it over the fire. Anchovy and kelp turn cloudy and bitter if they steep too long, so I made a note to pull them out partway through. For the noodles themselves I would use the dried somyeon—thin wheat noodles—I'd prepared in advance. Dried noodles are easy to take down whenever you need them, and they keep, so I'd made a good store of each kind.

In a medieval world with no food-processing craft to speak of, perfect drying and sterilization were possible only thanks to the spirits.

Technologia.

Nothing elaborate was required. With nothing more ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than Basic Spirit Arts, the quality of life rose a full notch. This was technology—the real kind.

Of course I still kneaded and cut the dough myself, so the strands could never be as precise or as fine as a machine's. But was that really something to complain about? Back in the army, even cup ramen bloated in lukewarm water during night training had tasted incredible. Setting does half the work of flavor. No need to nitpick. Be grateful, and eat.

The broth would steep on its own, and the somyeon had to be boiled with the moment of serving in mind. All that remained, then, was the toppings.

The classic banquet-noodle garnish is carrot, zucchini, egg jidan, kimchi, and crushed gim. I julienned the carrot and zucchini, gave them only the lightest salt, and sautéed them. Reckoning on twelve servings, I beat a generous lot of eggs and fried them out into thin sheets.

The work was flowing without a hitch when a small problem presented itself. Banquet noodles aren't seasoned straight into the broth so much as finished by the toppings and a seasoned soy sauce. My soy sauce still wasn't properly made, so a seasoning sauce was impossible. The kimchi going on top would have to carry ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the salt.

Stir-fry that kimchi, though, and the broth turns heavy and dark. Not a bad thing in itself—but on banquet noodles the kimchi is meant to crunch between the other sautéed garnishes and add a little play. Raw, it also brings a clean, cool heat that sits beautifully with a light anchovy broth.

The debate didn't last. I decided. A shallow seasoning of salt in the anchovy broth, ahead of time. And a kick in the raw kimchi.

I cut the kimchi into easy bites and tossed it with chili powder, sugar, and a little fish sauce. The sauce carried a nuance close to the fermented fish sauce from back home, so I'd snatched a bottle the last time I stopped at the dried-fish shop. In cooking, seasoning should always be divided evenly across the ingredients, a little in each. To the person eating, the scent and taste of broth and garnish arrive separately, and there's a pleasure in feeling those layers.

Kimchi: settled. The last garnish was crushed gim. Crushed gim was... well, nothing much. I brushed raw sheets with oil and salt, toasted them crisp, crumbled them, and set them aside.

This might go faster than I thought.

Say banquet noodles and most people picture a difficult dish, all showy garnish and a broth that has to taste clean. Tedious, yes. Difficult, no. With no radish to simmer down, it was actually on the quick side for a soup.

Before I knew it the broth was at a rolling boil, and I lifted out the anchovy bundle and the kelp. A glance through the window showed the yard: a dozen or so burly knights sat together, checking their gear. I caught a few eyes and traded a small nod.

In the big cauldron I'd set over the fire earlier, plain water was bubbling hard. I scattered the somyeon in like a shower and stirred for all I was worth so the strands wouldn't glue themselves together. You can boil the thin noodles by the standard method, but I followed the one I'd learned at home—shock the pot with cold water the first time it surges, and again the second, and take it off on the third boil.

Speed was the whole trick. The moment the pot left the heat I dumped the hot water and washed the noodles in water cold enough to bite. Yes. Really like laundry. I took the freshly boiled somyeon in both hands and rubbed the strands against each other. Touch them straight from the pot and the surface feels slick, almost mucous. That's the starch film, and if you don't scrub it hard, it will not come off. Leave it on and the chew drops by half, and what's left is a slippery, unpleasant mouthfeel.

My hands went red and aching in the cold, but I gritted my teeth and kept washing. When they were clean I turned them onto a large woven tray and drained off every drop. For all practical purposes, the cooking was done.

I opened the door and called to the knights.

"Serving now! Please come and form a single line!"

For the first time in another world, banquet noodles showed their face.

Moonlight flickered pale across the restaurant's front yard, where the knights sat putting their gear in order. One wiped spring-thawed mud from his gaiters. Another turned a blade this way and that, studying the edge. Then a smell none of them had ever known leaked from the restaurant before them, and cooking smoke curled up in soft billows through a narrow gap in the window.

"Hey, what's that smell? I've never smelled anything like it."

"A first for me as well. Savory... and it smells of the sea."

"I've got a feeling this is going to be good!"

The knights talked over one another, anticipation rising. Listening, Arthur sank into thought.

The family head never bends a principle. Why today?

Silbaerin's commoners knew Duke Kailan as their virtuous, merciful lord. That wasn't wrong, but a few words needed adding. Ask about House Silbaerin in the imperial capital and a hundred people out of a hundred would answer the same way.

"The lord of Silbaerin... he's a wall. The coldest wall there is."

"He's the season of winter given a human shape. I only glimpsed him at the last banquet, and that look froze me through."

A soldier guarding the border already carries a heavy weight on his shoulders. What, then, of the man who must command every one of those soldiers? A single moment of carelessness could become a scar on the empire. So while he was about official duty, Duke Kailan kept his nerves drawn tight and his principles closer still.

It'll be the young lady again. It always is.

When the family head did something out of character, name her and you were almost always right. She had probably made some request involving that restaurant this time as well. Arthur stole a quiet look at Duke Kailan, seated in silence. With a face that could have frozen lava, the duke was watching the moon.

Worry for the young lady, and the work. That's what he's turning over.

A platoon leader's rank meant Arthur met Duke Kailan often. He had always taken ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the man's devotion—wherever he was, whatever the hour—as the standard to strive toward, and that respect had not changed.

Ah, I'm hungry. That smell...

In truth, Duke Kailan was only staring into space and breathing it in.

He was out on reconnaissance for the first time in a long while, and only because Ishilla had asked. Even the hardest ice cannot outlast the years, it seemed. He could feel his strength failing in real time.

"Serving now! Please form a single line!"

Kailan, who had been waiting on the meal with everything he had, snapped back to himself at Kang Jinwoo's call. Arthur, beside him, startled and straightened in the same instant.

"Ahem. Then, first—"

Hungry, and drawn by that savory smell, Kailan started to rise.

"First Squad, form a line in order and receive your rations!"

Arthur, who had noticed nothing, simply controlled the men the way he always did.

"My lord, did you say something?"

"Ah—no. Ahem! Go and get in line."

Kailan and Arthur took their places at the very end and waited. There were only twelve of them, so the line shrank quickly, but Kailan could not hide his impatience.

"Squad Leader, what is this? I've never seen food like it!"

"Yeah, me neither. All those colors—it looks ridiculously fine."

The dishes already in the hands of the soldiers turning back from the line were simply too beautiful. Even a thing that only flashed past, a man who had reached Kailan's level could read in detail.

Over white noodles, thin and neatly laid, a pickled vegetable red as blood was heaped soft and high. Above that, carrot, zucchini, and egg jidan lay in a Y, each flaunting its own color. In the slightly open heart of the Y, a coarse powder had been scattered thick—white grains set like stars in a pitch-black field.

A thought flashed through Kailan's mind. He shook his head. Needless worry. Coincidence.

"Ah, sorry to keep you waiting. This dish is called banquet noodles. The red is something called kimchi—perfectly safe to eat."

"My thanks."

Kailan took the bowl with his face set in its usual hardness. The look unsettled Kang Jinwoo, but he served Arthur, last in line, all the same.

Kailan carried the food he had wanted so badly back to his camp chair without sparing it a glance, sat, and set the banquet noodles on the table. Only then did the bowl come fully into his sight. He stared at it without a word.

Noodles white and orderly as a midwinter snowfield. On that white, kimchi red beyond any washing clean. Garnishes that could not cover all of the kimchi—and precisely because they could not, the beauty of their many colors stood out all the brighter.

Kailan understood Kang Jinwoo's intent.

The heart of the man they called winter incarnate pitched and heaved. From the eyes of the coldest man alive, a single hot tear slid down his cheek.

Arthur, who had been waiting to take his own bite the moment Kailan did, stared at him as if the man had lost his mind.