8-1 Drawn In By The Scent Of Udon

This is a story from about three months after I came to this other world—back when I first met the little ones.

I don’t really have much talent for cooking.

No—let me be clear: I have none at all.

Most of my meals were supermarket prepared foods or instant stuff.

And yet, despite that, I thought it’d be fun to go camping now, of all things—what a reckless idea.

I tried making various dishes in this world too, but honestly, it was all half-assed.

So I figured I should just ask the pros. I went to the Royal Capital’s Commerce Guild and had them gather up “spare hands” from restaurants—third sons and younger who weren’t going to inherit anything.

I’d have them make ramen and such.

I was planning to build a food court anyway.

So I built a “Ramen Research Institute” in a rundown area on the edge of town.

I bought a suitably sized building that was already standing there, then used my Regeneration skill to restore it to like-new.

I had brought some gas equipment with me, but I decided to work with a kamado hearth instead.

If we used things that existed in this world, the method would remain for future generations.

And there was also the issue of heat output.

There were magic stoves too, but those were generally expensive, so since my goal was to spread ramen widely, I decided to try doing it without relying on those.

And if I made that kind of device myself, it’d probably cause trouble again.

I lined up the stone kamado hearths I’d bought earlier, and gathered various cooking tools.

Instead of a full-fledged magic refrigerator, I prepared a “refrigerator” with an embedded magic stone that used ice magic—without using an Item Box.

It was basically the image of those old ice-based fridges in Japan.

Apparently my parents used something like that when they were young.

I’d never actually seen one in real life.

I’d only seen them sold online.

It was probably from that era stretching from prewar into the postwar period, when burned-out Japan was rebuilding.

I never asked what exact time it was.

Back then, ice sellers must’ve been making a killing.

I didn’t want to deal with frequent magic replenishment in the stones, so I prepared cartridge-style replacement magic stones.

No matter what, it was too much to expect normal people—who weren’t key insiders—to carry Item Boxes around.

We could’ve done udon too, since it’s made from the same wheat flour, but if we tried to do everything, it’d all turn half-baked, so I didn’t.

For now, this place would be ramen-only.

That was the first objective.

Sure, since these people were already cooks, I did ask them to make other things sometimes—because I wanted to eat them—but fundamentally, this was a place to develop ramen.

I’d heard there was a workshop nearby that used to make things like bread dough from wheat, so I went to check it out.

The craftsman was there, but he said he wasn’t running the workshop anymore and was doing other work on a small scale.

I asked if he’d work for me, and he said yes, depending on the conditions.

Materials and equipment would be on my side, and the pay would be one silver coin per day—deal made.

He was fairly old, so maybe that was normal here in Adros.

Even so, that was basically like 300,000 yen a month, so it wasn’t a bad offer.

And it was just udon-making.

Of course, there weren’t any “no side jobs” rules, so he could keep doing his other work too.

Recently, I discovered my magic PC had a translation function.

It could translate documents too.

That hit me like a whip across the heart.

If I’d found that at the start, I wouldn’t have suffered so much from not being able to read back then.

I couldn’t even enter an outskirt town because of it.

Well—things worked out in the end.

I quickly downloaded an udon recipe off the internet, translated it into this world’s language, and transferred it onto paper.

I seriously wanted a printer.

Without an Item Box with absurd convenience features, none of this would’ve been possible.

For the soup, I compromised: I used the cheap powdered udon soup I always had.

Man… that Iberico pork soup dipping udon I ate at a nearby udon shop back home was delicious.

I asked the old man if he could make something like that, and he said he could—he used to run a restaurant.

Thank goodness.

The Osaka-style soup base I had was thin and unsatisfying.

I only bought it because it was on sale at the supermarket.

Anyway, we decided to try making soup once.

After an hour or so of kneading and doing various things, we made the dough and let it rest.

Now it was time to make a meat-based soup.

Using salt, soy sauce, mirin, and so on, we tried making various versions.

Having online recipes helped a ton.

We used cheap pork, since I was thinking about eventually selling udon too, but it seemed totally workable.

The smell spread a lot.

Oh man, it was irresistible.

Then I realized—there wasn’t even a kitchen vent fan here.

What did people do in old Japan?

I guess they just let the smells drift out.

And that’s when it happened.

In the corner of my vision, something moved.

I could see “mimi.”

Not “ears,” but mimi—the cute kind of “mimi.”

A small, adorable head peeked timidly in through the doorway.

The mimi looked kind of fox-like.

C-cute!

My eyes locked on the mimi, and naturally, my gaze met the owner’s.

The mimi immediately vanished.

That fox kid was a boy.

I pretended not to notice, and then—

“Guuuu…”

His stomach made the cutest sound.

So I spoke softly, trying not to scare him.

“Hey. You hungry?”

A small head appeared again, and he silently nodded once—making his cute mimi wobble.

“I see. Then eat.

It’s just a test batch, so I can’t guarantee the taste.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Fidgeting a little, the boy asked:

“Can I bring the other kids too?”

“Sure. No problem.

There’s plenty.

We’re making it now, so it might take a little time.”

The fox kid immediately dashed off.

Man… that swaying tail from behind was too cute.

Of course, it was being recorded by the filming pod.

Watching that little back view, the old man muttered quietly.

“Those kids… their parents are dead. They’re all orphans. It’s still way better here than the neighboring country, but beastfolk kids… they don’t get treated well. Poor things. They can’t even get into an orphanage.”

“I see…”

All right—time to shake off the gloom.

I used a rolling pin we’d prepared ahead of time and stretched the dough out with a solid thump-thump-thump.

The old man’s hands were impressively quick.

He kneaded udon dough—something he was probably making for the first time in his life—like a pro.

Well, he’d made bread before, so that tracked.

I copied every stage of the process so we could redo anything at any time.

Then the old man used a knife to cut it as neatly as possible, and in no time at all, our handmade udon test batch took shape.

If I did it, I’d be so overly careful it’d take forever.

And the shapes would come out weird too.

I’m like that when cutting vegetables as well.

Yeah—leave everything to the pros.

We also copied the soup at every stage, so we could restart from anywhere.

That way, no matter how many kids showed up, we’d be fine.

Then, those cute little mimi popped into view again.

“I brought them!”

Five kids total, huh.

I laid down an aluminum insulated mat on the floor, then put blankets on top, and arranged cushions like seat pads.

I also used a skill to shorten the legs of an aluminum table and decided to serve the food on that.

Some kids were snuggling into the blankets, all fluffy and cozy—ridiculously cute.

Could they eat udon properly?

They were all so small.

They probably couldn’t use chopsticks.

And dipping udon would be hard.

Hot food would be rough too.

So instead, I served them udon in warm meat soup.

There were scallions in it, though… were beastfolk kids okay with that?

They looked like a mix of fox, cat, wolf… and one bear.

The bear kid’s little round tail was adorable.

They all looked about three to six years old.

Oh right—I’d made something called an “udon fork.”

A fork with wider gaps so you could scoop noodles more easily.

It wouldn’t get scorching hot like metal, and it was wooden, so it had a warm feel.

Wooden spoons feel like they’re harder to clean, but these were copies, so they were disposable.

Someday, I’d spread chopsticks in this world too.

Even Americans can use chopsticks just fine.

There isn’t a single “dumb American” eating at a Japanese restaurant with a fork.

‘And as humiliating as it is to admit, they’re often more dexterous than me and better with chopsticks.’

I went around the little ones one by one and taught them how to eat.

“’S good!”

“Yummy!”

“Best ever!”

They ate udon like they were possessed.

Honestly, the taste wasn’t bad.

No surprise—this was made by a former restaurant cook.

Once their bellies were full and they passed out cold, I made sure to film that too.

And then I posted it online right there.

My first-ever thread on the internet.

To be honest, it was a huge pain.

It took forever.

“About those beast-eared kids passed out in another world”