The Honorable Head Chef (15)

The paper was covered in line after line of ornate, elegant script. Idwild, who had been pressing her ample chest against the nape of my neck from right behind me, scratched her head and murmured.

"Uh... is this... a menu...?"

Now that she mentioned it, it certainly looked like one. There were about ten dish names listed. But every single one was an extravagant delicacy that you'd be hard-pressed to find in any ordinary restaurant.

"So, I just pick one of these?"

Francois smiled gracefully and shook her head at my question.

"That's not a single-item menu. It's the sequence for a haute cuisine course."

"All of this comes out in one course?"

We all stared at the menu again in astonishment.

The staff exchanged stunned glances, speechless. I'd never seen such an outrageous course menu in my life either, so I had no idea what to say.

"Um... are these from Cuisine Academy?"

"There are more, but that's the basic structure. Aperitif, appetizers, soup, salad, fish, meat, poultry, dessert, fruit, coffee. I've tweaked it a bit."

"Ah... I see..."

"Pick ones that match the inn's ingredients. Some might not be feasible right away due to shortages."

I handed the paper to Pelle, who glanced at it and shook her head.

"We can't make any of these properly with what we have. Why not just look at the ingredients and improvise?"

"Right. Got it."

Francois hummed cheerfully as she headed into the kitchen. Pelle followed to release the preservation ritual on the ingredients.

"Um... isn't she a bit too refined for our inn...?"

Unlike Marim's worry, Idwild giggled with eager anticipation.

"Hehe... at least we'll get some real tasty food today..."

But I wasn't listening to the staff at all. I stared toward the kitchen in shock. Francois had endured a lifetime's worth of ordeals in a single day for an ordinary person—then ended up working in an inn's kitchen as a noble. Yet she hummed away without a care, thrilled just to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cook. She was genuine. That noblewoman was dead serious about cooking. No one could act that carefree in this situation otherwise.

The staff continued their concerned chatter, but I knew. Francois was definitely worth keeping. No, I had to hire her, period. Even if her skills weren't world-class, true passion for cooking like hers was rare. I'd judge after tasting, but anything above average was an instant pass.

And when the food arrived, even that "above average" qualifier vanished from my mind.

Francois set a large pot on the table. It looked like a chicken stew. Chunky pieces of chicken mingled with thick-cut onions, carrots, and potatoes in a rich, reddish-brown broth. The colors alone were appetizing, but the aroma made my mouth water and my jaw ache.

"What's this?"

"Coq au vin. Chicken and veggies braised in red wine. Normally it needs time for the wine to infuse, but I skipped some steps since you're all hungry."

We gulped as we watched her portion it out onto small plates.

"Della. We definitely need bread. Dipping it in that broth would be killer."

"I was thinking the same, Master."

Della dashed to the kitchen and returned with soft loaves from the bakery. We thanked Francois politely, then each grabbed a chicken leg and popped it into our mouths.

"Oooohhh..."

Idwild reacted first, letting out a dazed groan the moment it hit her tongue.

"Wow... what were all the chickens I've eaten before?"

"Yeah... never imagined chicken could taste like this."

Marim slurped noisily, fingers dripping with broth. Della demurely filleted hers with fork and knife, nodding in agreement. Even Pelle, unusually, didn't refuse the meat—she silently devoured a whole leg without complaint.

This coq au vin made chicken melt-in-your-mouth tender. The meat and cartilage slipped off the bone effortlessly. The wine's sweet essence, with all alcohol evaporated, flooded my mouth alongside the juices, blended with buttery richness and tomato paste's tang. An indescribable depth enveloped my tongue. The potatoes and carrots were perfectly creamy—no chewing needed; just press them against the roof of your mouth, and they burst and dissolve smoothly.

We ate in silence for a while. Francois watched us fondly, beaming with a chef's pure joy at her creation being savored.

"How'd you make it this tender in such short time?"

"Cuisine Academy secret. I'll explain someday. How's the taste?"

"It's the pinnacle of chicken dishes. Delicious."

Francois smiled elegantly and continued.

"Cuisine Academy teaches methods optimized for banquets and weddings. For an inn this size, even a full hall won't be an issue."

"Music to my ears. I was worried about that."

"And I don't do only haute cuisine. I adapt to ingredients, so no need to fret over costs."

"Nothing left to say, then. You're hired. Honestly... I never expected to be blown away by the food."

No objections from the staff. They scraped the pot clean, signaling their enthusiastic approval of her as head chef.

Francois started as head chef that very evening. The effects were immediate. The same ingredients and recipes transformed into noble-house caliber gourmet ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fare under her hands. Our inn was already a local favorite, but her cooking was on another level entirely. How good? Celereja, who usually scarfed dinner the moment she got home, screamed and dropped her spoon.

Unlike Della or me prepping in bulk, Francois cooked to order. Food came out piping hot every time—thanks to her lightning-fast hands. So skilled, she whipped up dishes per order, tidied the kitchen between, and even sipped tea leisurely.

I dropped the plan to verify her Cuisine Academy enrollment. Pointless. The northern road blockade nearly doomed the city, and I'd beaten those six lords senseless amid the frustration. But it all paled against the jackpot reward: Francois. My long-sought head chef was finally here.

With that burden lifted, I could plan ahead more leisurely. Time to counter rivals, expand facilities, maybe open branches. Add short-haul escorts, travel goods, basic potions. Even a bard or band could work—with more capable staff, of course.

"Balder. What're you up to?"

Late night, lost in pleasant visions while balancing books at the bar, Francois sat across from me. She wore Della's casual clothes—plain, unadorned—but they looked exorbitantly expensive somehow.

"Closing the ledger. How was your first day?"

"Pure bliss. Embarrassing to admit, but today was my first real day as a professional kitchen chef."

"Makes sense. Glad you enjoyed it. Make yourself at home, humble as it is."

"Humble? No."

She glanced around the dimly lit, empty hall.

"I pictured inns as smoky dens with low ceilings, drunks brawling. But this is spotless, stylish. And cool. How's it so chilly?"

I opened a wall-mounted box and showed her. Two Asenaris chattered inside.

"עוד בן אדם יפה הגיע! (Another pretty human's here!) "

"My goodness, what are these?"

"Asenaris monsters. Rare ones that generate cold air. Caught 'em in northern Apenzel mines."

"This inn's full of wonders. Half-elves and demons as staff, too."

I laughed and gave her a brief history of the place. Francois listened wide-eyed.

"Incredible... even bards couldn't dream this up..."

"Stick around, and you'll hear ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wilder tales from the others."

"Yeah... but one thing I'm dying to know."

"What?"

"Who you are—the man I'll serve as boss. Cheeky, after begging you to hire me first."

"What about me?"

"You're the one who raided those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠six western Vurn Mountains baronies, right?"

"Yep."

No point hiding it. She'd witnessed me wrecking her barony's castle firsthand.

Francois stared steadily.

"Balder. Who are you, really?"

"Owner of Rosens' Salvation Inn. That's it."

"Fair enough."

True to her noble grace, she didn't pry. Just glanced at the Holy Sword on the wall behind me.

"Well, you're no villain. And you pay my wage. That's enough; I won't dig further."

With an elegant smile, she changed topics.

"About the menu. Keep it as is?"

"Was gonna discuss that. We're basically doing temple free meals now—same dish per sitting."

"Exactly. Now that I'm head chef, how about a proper menu and orders? Just my personal idea."

"Perfect. I was thinking the same. Ingredients here never spoil—inventory's a breeze."

She gasped. I explained Pelle's preservation ritual.

"The kitchen of my dreams... was here all along..."

She murmured ecstatically. For a cooking fanatic, a rot-proof pantry was paradise.

"It's late—get some rest. We'll talk details later."

"Night, Balder."

"Sleep well, miss."

She gathered her skirt and ascended the stairs lightly. Watching her, I pondered our nicknames. Noble or not, "Balder" and "miss" between boss and head chef felt odd. But she was aristocracy... Wait, what was her family again? Baroness at least, if marrying into a barony. Guess "Francois" or "head chef" it is.

Word of Francois's cooking spread like wildfire, exploding our customer numbers. They came to sneak peeks at the staff, feel the Asenaris chill, and devour her dishes—lines snaking through the courtyard from morning.

Francois handled the nonstop orders with baffling ease, almost leisurely. When time allowed, she'd mingle in the hall, chatting up guests and gauging reactions.

What were those Cuisine Academy secrets...?

The staff got busier instead. Orders flooded, but food paced perfectly—constant hall-kitchen dashes. I pitched in serving too.

Thought a head chef would ease things... but more customers made it worse!

In the bustle, one table caught my eye. Odd pair: young woman and wrinkled old man dining across from each other. Grandfather and granddaughter? Fine. But her build snagged my attention. Towering like an adult man, her sleeveless arms rippled with tough muscle at every spoon motion.

As I stared, the old man met my gaze and lifted his wrinkled lips in a grin.

Wait... that guy...