11 — Chapter 11

This dish—brazenly high in calories and salt—violently shook the souls of those who had been awake since the crack of dawn and were now facing the arrival of noon.

“Hey… Elma, wasn’t the deal different? This was supposed to be a meal for the nobility, wasn’t it? Are you planning to earn points by sucking up to the servants?”

Georges, who had been meticulously chilling his Vichyssoise using precious ice alongside Elma’s frantic performance, narrowed his eyes and raised his voice.

He was a man who detested underhanded tactics.

If she intended to bypass a sacred competition through sycophancy, he could never forgive it.

However, Elma lightly shielded a portion of the sandwiches—presumably the royal offering—from the servants swarming the counter. She replied in smooth Montaigne.

“This isn’t sycophancy. Our definitions of ‘noble figures’ simply differ, that is all.”

“Hah…?”

Georges furrowed his brows at her fluency and the content of her words.

Then, Elma held out one of the sandwiches she had secured in her arms.

“I have no surname. Strictly speaking, I have no family register, no town I can call home, and I have never attended one of those schools that commoners can go to. By all rights, I am a person of a status that would never be allowed to work in a place like this.”

“What…?”

“Therefore, from my perspective, everyone who has obtained a position at the Royal Palace through intense study and competition is a noble figure. And that includes you.”

Though her eyes were hidden by glasses, making even their color impossible to discern, he could tell she was looking at him with total sincerity.

The way her arm held the sandwich straight out and the weight of her words carried no hint of a lie.

“Proud Head Chef Georges Ramadier. Please, do me the honor of tasting this dish, made with all my heart.”

Her voice was quiet, but a certain intensity radiated from her small frame.

Overwhelmed by her presence, Georges unconsciously accepted the sandwich.

As he watched Juliana and Lucas take their offered sandwiches and bring them to their mouths with curiosity, he took a large bite himself.

“…!”

It was good.

The naan, opened like a pocket, had a softer and chewier texture than it looked, and a faint, sweet aroma of wheat spread through his mouth as he chewed.

As his teeth crunched through the fried coating, salty fat immediately rushed across his tongue.

The heavy tartar sauce and the texture of the shredded cabbage—which had a subtle hint of lemon—followed right after.

The same wave of emotion seemed to be spreading through the spectator seats, as roars of “Oooooh!” erupted from the souls of the crowd, but Georges suppressed the urge to join them.

He was a professional.

When encountering something delicious, he should strive to analyze it before being moved to tears.

“…”

From a chef’s perspective, the oil was a bit too heavy.

If using tuna with this much fat, the frying oil should have been drained as much as possible.

Since the sauce had plenty of salt, there was no need to mix this much salt into the batter or the cabbage.

And yet—

‘This richness, and this punch of salt… it’s irresistibly delicious.’

Having rushed through preparations since morning and cooked while exposed to the summer sun, Georges realized only now that he was craving calories and salt more than usual.

At the same time, a realization struck him. He looked up sharply to see Elma, who had returned to the kitchen, nodding as if to confirm his thought.

“The people of Luten are industrious. Even the royals wake with the crow of the rooster and do not shy away from labor—and the servants even more so. By the time we eat, our bodies are nearly in a state of starvation. The level of craving for oil and salt cannot be compared to the Montaigne royalty and nobility you have served until now.”

That was it.

Why hadn’t he noticed?

Georges felt like slapping himself across the face.

The people he had cooked for until now were royalty and nobles who indulged in gourmet food and beautiful women, sinking their bodies into elegant sofas.

In Montaigne, the land of beauty, and Luten, the land of martial prowess, the desired flavors were naturally different.

What the servants—who were rushing through massive workloads with few staff—wanted was a meal that would quickly restore their bodies and fill their stomachs. In other words, a greasy and salty meal.

If one presented a refined and delicate soup to such people, they would indeed only say,

“Is this it?”

“…What on earth have I been doing?”

Without considering the preferences of those eating, he had dismissively replaced a valid critique with a perceived insult.

As for which dish could satisfy the people’s palates, the answer was obvious just by looking at them happily stuffing their faces with naan sandwiches.

He hadn’t even stood at the starting line as a chef.

Just then, the ice clinked inside a bowl on the prep table, making Georges snap his head around.

The Vichyssoise, which he had chilled rapidly using ice without restraint so as not to kill the flavor of the ingredients.

It was about time to serve it.

But…

Georges quietly set down the server he had picked up.

He couldn’t bring himself to serve this dish now.

Perhaps the two royals might say it was “delicious” compared to the other servants—no, there was a former consort who acted perfectly natural mingling with the servants, and a peculiar prince who stayed busy moving his body in the knights’ order.

Surely even they wouldn’t care for it.

Etching a bitter smile on his face, Georges was about to take off his chef’s hat when a voice called out from behind him.

“Head Chef Georges Ramadier.”

“…What is it?”

It was Elma.

The maid in glasses, whose expression remained unreadable, asked the question in a flat, monotone voice.

“That potato soup—the Vichyssoise. Are you not going to serve it?”

“…Take a look around. I can’t serve this.”

Even as a loser, he still had a modicum of pride.

However, Elma tilted her head slightly and took an unexpected course of action.

“I see. But do not worry. I anticipated such a situation and prepared about a hundred spoons.”

“…Huh?”

The conversation wasn’t connecting.

But before Georges could question her intent, Elma handled the spoons with that inhuman movement of hers.

The moment he finished blinking, rows of white porcelain spoons, each cradling a portion of Vichyssoise, were lined up atop the massive tray the maid held.

Serving a dish one bite at a time on a spoon—it was a style known as “one-spoon,” often seen at evening parties in Montaigne.

“…Huh?”

“I humbly thought that even in this amount, if served as a ‘one-spoon’ dish, we could offer it to over a hundred people. I believe the Vichyssoise you create deserves to be tasted by everyone in the castle, even in small portions. Myself included, of course.”

“…Huh?”

He had been unable to say anything but “huh” for a while now.

But ignoring the slack-jawed Georges, Elma began swiftly distributing the Vichyssoise to everyone, starting with Juliana…!

“Hey… wait, hold on, you—!”

What was this?

Was this a humiliation intended for Georges, who had wanted to at least choose his own moment to withdraw?

To eat a dish that didn’t suit their tastes to begin with, and while their stomachs were already full of naan sandwiches—wouldn’t it just taste bad?

That was right. His subordinates in the kitchen, the maids, the stable hands, the guards—they would surely look at him with those troubled or mocking faces again—

“So… GOOOOOD!”

“…!?”

Georges doubted his own ears.

When he looked, the servants were standing there with their eyes sparkling, the spoons still in their mouths.

Their eyes were moist with ecstasy, their cheeks were flushed, and their hands gripped the spoons tightly.

It was as if a sincere praise of “Delicious!” was echoing from their entire beings.

“Ah… As expected, Head Chef Ramadier’s seasoning is truly delicate and profound.”

“He has suppressed the harshness of the potatoes and carefully drawn out only the sweetness and umami. Beautiful work.”

Setting aside the two royals who were accustomed to this kind of cuisine, even the servants were talking excitedly.

“So good… it’s delicious! For the first time, I finally understand what a potato is supposed to taste like!”

“I feel like I’m being given something incredibly high-class!”

“It’s like I’ve become a King…!”

They all turned toward Georges at once and came running over, driven by their excitement.

“Georg—no, Jo-yoru-ju, Head Chef! It’s delicious! This is incredibly good!”

“Geor—no, Ge… Georges Head Chef! To think we were being fed such delicious things before! We wasted it by just gulping it down without tasting it!”

“Geo… Georges Head Chef! I want to eat this again!”

They were trying to call out his unfamiliar Montaigne-style name, even as they tripped over their tongues.

Their words were frank and simple.

…And that was exactly why Georges felt a sudden, stinging heat in the back of his throat from happiness.

‘What the hell…?’

Then, he understood.

That’s right—it wasn’t that they didn’t understand the taste of the food.

They had been so hungry they lacked the luxury to even taste it.

And now, because Elma had satisfied them, they were finally able to understand something foreign and reach out to it.

“As expected. My cooking merely dropped calories into their stomachs, but when it comes to Head Chef Georges’s cooking, it seems even a mere servant can feel like royalty just by eating it.”

Elma, having finished distributing the Vichyssoise, returned to the kitchen and spoke to Georges.

Then, she pushed up the bridge of her glasses and declared:

“I surrender.”

“Eh…?”

He stood there blankly.

But before Georges could say anything back, Juliana, who had elegantly set down her spoon, spoke up.

“As for which suited the palate of a ‘noble figure’ better… it seems this match was in Head Chef Geor—Georges Ramadier’s favor. After all, your cooking has the power to turn people into ‘noble figures’ themselves.”

“Your concentration in completing your cooking even while paranormal phenomena were occurring at the next counter is also worthy of praise.”

Prince Lucas added with a shrug.

As Georges stood there dazed, Elma lightly pinched the hem of her maid uniform and took a deep bow.

It was a gesture of profound respect toward the victor, Georges.

Noticing this, the spectators cast looks of admiration toward Georges.

The atmosphere was one of anticipation for a victory declaration.

‘What the hell…?’

Georges muttered once more in his heart and stole a glance at the maid who remained bowed.

Then, he reached for his tall chef’s hat—and took it off toward her.

“No. Lady Consort, Your Highness.”

He spoke in broken Luten.

It was the first time he, who had stubbornly stuck to Montaigne because it was understood, tried to speak in the language of this country.

“I am… happy for your words, but this match… at least, let it be a draw. I may have satisfied their tongues… but I do not feel I have won against her.”

If you are starving, you cannot understand. Because you are satisfied, you can reach out.

That was surely the same for him.

Because Elma had shared with him a place to belong in Luten—something he had wanted for so long—Georges now felt like he wanted to get closer to them as well.

“One day, when I have defeated her soundly… only then, please promise me Your Highness’s patronage. And also—my name is Georg. That is fine.”

At this rate, his name was going to become “Geogeorges.”

When he spoke with a shrug, Juliana and the others laughed pleasantly.

From that day on, Georges—now known as Head Chef Georg Ramadier—devoted himself to even greater study, and eventually, he would go on to create numerous palace dishes that would be hailed as the “Edible Treasures of Luten Royal Castle.”