The Guest Who Sneaked In (1)

After the knights' banquet-noodle dinner the other day, the restaurant had acquired regulars. Not many — but regulars all the same.

"My lord, you've come?"

"Good to see you. The usual today, if you would."

"Of course. And you, Sir Arthur?"

"I..."

When Arthur didn't name a dish at once, Kailan shot him a sidelong look.

"I'll have the same as my lord, if you please..."

"Ah. Yes..."

When the boss declares that the whole table is getting jajangmyeon, there aren't many brave souls who'll pipe up with I'll have the ulmyeon. In a medieval age with a chain of command carved in stone, that went double.

The cool-headed, silver-haired, handsome middle-aged gentleman who had sniffled his way through a bowl of banquet noodles was none other than Duke Kailan Silbaerin.

Not knowing that, I had been somewhat rude to the lord of the territory. The first time I learned the truth, I all but slammed my forehead into the floor.

"I'm sorry I didn't recognize you!"

"What are you doing? Carry on as you were."

"Huh?"

Contrary to every preconception I had, our duke turned out to be rather friendly toward commoners — which is to say, a noble who wasn't particularly hung up on his own authority.

"You came from the East, so it's only natural you might not know the Empire's courtesies. I don't mind. And besides... common-born or not, even a noble cannot treat a master lightly."

"Ah... thank you for the consideration, my lord."

I had come from the East, yes. Just not the East of this world.

And I was a master, sure — but not the official sort of master Duke Kailan had in mind.

In short, not one of the duke's guesses was actually true. I didn't go out of my way to correct him. Who knew whether he'd suddenly decide it was some crime of insulting the nobility and lop my head clean off?

"Your banquet noodles are ready."

"Thank you. I could eat this every day and never tire of it."

"Thank you..."

Duke Kailan's one true order was banquet noodles.

He'd come by quite a few times, so I'd tried him on the plain boiled chicken — baeksuk — and the chicken gomtang that Ishilla had eaten, but in the end he circled all the way back to noodles. Even back in Korea, noodles were favored more by the middle-aged and older than by the young, which had always struck me as curious. At home, older folks love flour-based snack food as a taste of memory, for historical reasons. This place had no such history. And yet every time he ate banquet noodles he prayed with a solemn face and ate as if the world held nothing left to envy, so it seemed Duke Kailan had a reason of his own. Arthur, pulling a miserable face beside him, had liked the chicken gomtang better than the noodles, after all. Even so, once he actually started eating, he finished the meal looking perfectly happy.

"Kraaah! Now that's good!"

"It was delicious, Jin."

"Haha. Thank you."

Watching the two of them after the meal, I found myself thinking of Ishilla, my very first customer. Now that I considered it, Ishilla had silver hair and blue eyes, and the duke had silver hair and blue eyes. The looks, too, were outstanding enough to reduce a human being to a boneless squid. Could it be?

"Um... my lord?"

"Hm? What is it?"

"Do you have any children?"

"One daughter. Dear enough that I could set her in my eye and feel no pain."

"Would your daughter's name happen to be Ishilla?"

Perhaps they took it for an unexpected question. A strange light kindled in both Lord Kailan's eyes and Arthur's. Then, as if it had only just occurred to him, Lord Kailan spoke.

"Ah. Did I never tell you? It was thanks to Ishilla that I learned of your shop."

"It was?"

Ishilla had definitely said, when she left, that she would spread the word. Had it led all the way to this?

"Ho ho! The first time she tasted your cooking, she said it shook her to the core, and she praised it to the heavens. Asked me to spread the word while I was at it."

"Ah... the young lady did say she would tell people, but I didn't realize she meant you, my lord."

"Just so. I introduced you to other nobles as well."

"Pardon? Me?"

At my question, Lord Kailan let out a soft little chuckle.

Don't laugh. Answer me, old man.

"They'll be along before long, I'd wager. I sang your praises, so see that you receive them well."

"Oh my g—"

"Hm? What was that?"

"Ah... it was a way of saying I'm glad to be receiving guests."

Something... something troublesome was about to happen. I could feel it. No customers at all would be a problem, but too many — or customers of too high a station — were uncomfortable in their own way. The restaurant I wanted was, in the end, a place where a handful of regulars gathered close and shared the ordinary shape of their days. I had never wanted to boast some mad turnover and pack the house, or run an omakase for noble sirs. But what could I do? My lord had already made the introduction. All I could do was smile.

"Ha! If you're pleased, then so am I. I'll come again."

"You've worked hard, Jin."

"Thank you. Go safely."

Having dropped that bombshell, Duke Kailan and Arthur departed with cruel good cheer.

Once they were gone, the restaurant was quiet again. What was done was done, so I decided to focus on the present. I'd know the moment a customer walked in, anyway. I headed out to the crocks in the backyard, deep in their ferment.

Whirr, whirr— Eee!

The spirits were hard at work today, too. Watching the tiny things bustle about so briskly was honestly pretty cute. I tasted each of the three pastes in turn.

Hm... the doenjang's a little disappointing, but the rest are all right.

The soybean paste hadn't quite come into its own. The soy sauce and the gochujang, though, had real flavor. At this level, cooking with them ought to be possible. I'd expected another two or three weeks at least; the spirits must have been working double shifts like maniacs.

Sure enough, when I opened the status window, Beginner Spirit Arts had gone up a level. Working this hard without even taking pay — I couldn't have asked for better good-luck charms.

Wheee—!!

The spirits themselves, mind you, threw a fit when I carried off the sauces they'd been making day and night.

Sorry. Can't be helped.

I'd made the stuff to use myself, after all. Later I'd have to toss them something to play with.

Now that I had soy sauce and gochujang, the range of dishes I could make widened enormously. It wasn't that Korean food was all I knew how to cook, but I was Korean, and I'd cooked in Korea, so it was what I did best. And the greatest hallmark of Korean cooking, say what you like, is fermentation. There may be no such thing as a curry refrigerator or a sushi refrigerator, but there is a kimchi refrigerator, isn't there? Kimchi is a fermented food, and so were the sauces I'd just made. A deep, dark seasoning with all the character of fermentation, and from that base a cooking that ranges freely across spicy, sweet, and salty. That, to my mind, is the greatest charm Korean food has.

Object, and you're right. There.

And kindly show a little respect for people whose opinions differ from mine.

Anyway. The sauces were made, which meant there was something I had to do first.

And that was—

Bibimbap!

I had to make bibimbap and eat it. Nearly three months had passed since I transmigrated, and I still hadn't had a proper gochujang or a proper plate of namul, those seasoned greens. That meant a drop in the concentration of Korean in my bloodstream — a dangerous condition that could spiral straight into a collapse of the immune system.

I immediately traded for carrots, zucchini, and spinach through Mana Market. I couldn't get the variety of namul you'd find in Korea on the spot, so other vegetables would have to be stir-fried and added. Fortunately I already had sesame oil and soybean sprouts on hand. Ingredients I'd been sure I could never find, and I'd gotten them more easily than I'd thought.

Sesame is an import from the desert regions. The soybean sprouts I grew myself, from soybeans.

Soybean sprouts, even in the modern world, are a vegetable mostly Korea bothers to eat. Japan, China, the Philippines, Vietnam — they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have them, but they generally prefer mung bean sprouts. Looked at that way, you might think the plant is rare. It isn't, particularly. Sprout mung beans and you get ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mung bean sprouts; sprout soybeans and you get soybean sprouts. And beans like those, dried for transport, keep perfectly well even in a medieval fantasy world, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so the market had them.

Once everything was ready, I set a pot of water on to blanch the vegetables, and while it heated I prepared the rest.

Julienne the zucchini and the carrots, then stir-fry them with a light pinch of salt until they go tender.

The bibimbap in a certified Korean-cook's recipe calls for all sorts of namul — bracken, seasoned radish, bellflower root, mushrooms, and more. I had neither the leisure to make it that way, nor any particular desire to.

It's not even that good.

In the end, bibimbap is best made to your own taste. Ingredients aren't guilty of anything, but I personally cannot abide bellflower root and mushrooms.

I checked that the water was bubbling hard, dipped the spinach by the roots for just fifteen seconds, then dropped the rest in. Steam rolled up like a volcano, viciously hot, but it was the only way to blanch roots and leaves evenly. No need to leave it long — thirty seconds to a minute, then out. The spinach I had looked a bit tough, so I gave it a full minute. Once it was properly blanched I shocked it lightly in cold water and set it on a colander to drain. Into that same water went the soybean sprouts, for a four-minute boil. Undercooked, they can throw a raw, beany stink, so I boiled them uncovered at a hard roll. When they were done I rinsed them in cold water too, and then it was time to season.

The seasoning for spinach and soybean sprouts is the same: minced garlic, sesame oil, sesame seeds, a pinch of salt. And so the namul were finished, a scatter of bright colors. I laid rice in a big bowl and arranged the greens over it in a patchwork of color. A soft-yolked fried egg, a spoonful of gochujang, a thin drizzle of sesame oil — and then?

Can't hold it. Grrrr!

I planted a spoon in that bowl of bibimbap, brimming with a very Korean kind of beauty, and mixed like a man with nothing left to lose. The glossy yolk burst and ran, and together with the blazing red gochujang it stained the snow-white rice a deep blush. A brisk, thorough mix, and every ingredient fused into one. I immediately dribbled a heaping spoonful up the wall of the bowl. Bibimbap, by ancient law, is something you pack into your mouth and chew with abandon.

"Haaap!"

I tipped the angle just so, and the mountain of a spoonful slid cleanly between my lips. The bibimbap settled in my mouth in exactly the right bite, and the moment it was in, the harmony of everything I'd put there rang out. The gentle sweetness of carrot, spinach, and zucchini. The crisp snap of soybean sprouts. Spicy gochujang filling in the mild depth of the salt. A fried egg making up the protein I'd been missing, its rich yolk pressing every ingredient into an even balance. And last of all, binding the whole of it into one — the cheat code of Korean cooking, nutty sesame oil.

Holy shit, this is good.

Genuinely, fucking delicious. There was nothing else to say. It was a flavor no Korean could help but lose their mind over. I shoveled it down in a daze, and before I knew it the bowl was showing its bottom. I knocked back a glass of cold water, and the traffic jam in my stomach — the price of eating too fast — sluiced away in one clean rush.

"Kyah."

Now that's the taste.

When I finished and cleared up, a good deal of namul was left. I packed the greens into containers and put them in the refrigerator.

A refrigerator, in the Middle Ages? How?

How do you think.

Medieval technologia. A spirit of cold was dancing its heart out behind the fridge.

I was full, there were no customers, and the hour was late. I closed up for the day and went up to my room. Fresh from a proper shower, it occurred to me — hadn't I left the back door open?

Right. I did.

I'd been so excited about the bibimbap that I hadn't even locked up properly. I groped my way down the dark stairs to the first floor.

And at that moment—

Creeeak—

A sound from the direction of the kitchen. The back door. The loose clack of a hinge I'd heard to death, going in and out of the backyard day after day. That was, without question, the sound of the back door opening.

A thief? All the way out to the middle of the forest, to steal?

What in my house was even worth stealing? No breath of beast or monster followed the opening of the door, so the odds were high it was a person. I had skills, sure, but every one of them was about cooking, and I was a man who had lived in Korea, glittering among the top three in the world for public safety. I had not cultivated the sort of physique that deals with crime. Even so, it would be nice to have something in hand that could pass for a weapon. I seized the broom left in a corner of the first floor and walked slowly toward the kitchen. Holding my breath, padding soft as a cat without a single footfall, I crept up to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the light switch— and then.

"Freeze! Freeze! Freeze! Hands up, you disrespectful little shit!"

I hit the light and burst into the kitchen, delivering a flawless sentry's challenge.

"Kyaaah!!"

Crash—!

In the instant I had the broom raised to head height, ready to bring it down, the identity of the thief who had snuck into the restaurant came into view.

An elf?

A blonde, green-eyed elf had toppled over and was looking up at me — with the soybean sprouts and spinach I'd made dumped all over that golden head.