Nobuyuki’s eyes were more serious than usual.
It was no wonder. He had been told that his prized oyster gratin did not represent his true flavor.
Shinobu had also noticed that Nobuyuki’s cooking had been a little inconsistent lately.
If it had been Nobuyuki’s master, Tohara, he might have severely reprimanded him.
Since he had started showing his cooking to Shinobu, his flavors had gradually become more settled, but he still sometimes created dishes with seemingly random seasonings.
Shinobu understood that he was trying to break out of his shell.
As the daughter of a ryotei chef, Shinobu also knew that no one could help him out of this predicament.
Krowinkel had noticed this.
That’s what a true gourmand is like.
The other customers also seemed to be aware of the unusual atmosphere in the kitchen.
Godhart and Arnoux, in particular, were watching the proceedings with bated breath. They seemed curious to see what the admired minstrel Krowinkel would do.
What would Nobuyuki make? Shinobu had no idea.
The order was for his most confident dish.
It couldn’t just be something delicious, or made with good ingredients, or something novel to the people of the old capital. It had to be a dish he was truly confident in.
It’s not easy to come up with something like that on the spur of the moment.
Nobuyuki began to whisk some chicken eggs.
There are many dishes that use eggs. Some are elaborate, others are simple.
The eyes of the entire restaurant were focused on the kitchen, watching to see what kind of dish would emerge from Nobuyuki’s hands.
Naturally, the one watching most intently was Krowinkel.
Looking over at Branton, who had brought the minstrel, he was, for some reason, exchanging words with Arnoux.
Perhaps they were bonding over their shared admiration for the same minstrel.
The light, rhythmical sound of Nobuyuki whisking the eggs was the only sound in the quiet restaurant.
Dashimaki tamago. That’s what Shinobu thought it would be.
Lately, Nobuyuki had been paying close attention to how he made his dashi.
The dish he was most confident in right now was the dashi itself, and he would choose dashimaki to let Krowinkel taste it.
Tightening her apron, Shinobu headed for the cupboard.
Which plate would make the dashi-maki look the most delicious?
When she was at her family’s restaurant, Yukitsuna, she had a wide variety of plates to choose from, but Izakaya Nobu didn’t have that many.
Even if she was to carefully select one, the options were naturally limited. Still, she wanted to choose the plate that would be worthy of Nobuyuki’s most confident dish, with her own hands.
The smooth, blended egg mixture sizzled as it hit the dashimaki pan.
Nobuyuki’s skill in rolling the omelet with a flick of his wrist was truly impressive.
In no time at all, he had rolled up a generous dashimaki using three eggs, and he caught it with a bamboo rolling mat.
Yukitsuna-style dashimaki contained a lot of dashi, so it would fall apart if it wasn’t shaped with a bamboo mat.
“It’s done.”
The pale yellow of the dashimaki stood out against the green plate that Shinobu had chosen.
Krowinkel, who had been watching the cooking process with his arms folded, slowly picked up his fork.
“To choose an omelet without any filling, you seem to be a courageous chef. This dish, in which everything is condensed into the careful selection of ingredients, the heat control, and the skill of the cooking, is certainly one of the best ways to demonstrate one’s skill. But I wonder if it will be enough to satisfy me.”
Krowinkel’s fork sank gently into the dashimaki.
It didn’t crumble, yet there was no resistance. It was perfectly cooked.
With a puzzled look on his face, the old minstrel brought the dashimaki to his mouth.
Silence.
No one in Izakaya Nobu spoke a word.
They were simply waiting for the minstrel’s reaction, which would surely be expressed with many words.
“…Magic.”
But Krowinkel’s comment was just one word.
He muttered just that, and then proceeded to savor the rest of the dashimaki carefully. Before anyone knew it, the plate was clean as a whistle.
A subtle atmosphere filled the room among the customers, who had become spectators.
They had been bracing themselves for some elegant phrase.
But it was just one word.
Branton, Godhart, and Arnoux, in particular, were staring blankly as Krowinkel wiped his mouth.
“Master, as promised, I will grant you one wish. That is, if it’s something I can grant.”
Krowinkel’s face was bright after wiping his mouth.
Shinobu had seen that look many times before.
It was the face of someone who had eaten something truly delicious and was satisfied.
“Thank you very much. Then there is one thing I would like to ask of you.”
“What is it? I can’t imagine what a chef of your caliber would ask for.”
“Would you please take a look at Arnoux’s poetry?”
Nobuyuki’s wish was unexpected.
Arnoux, who had been suddenly nominated, was standing there speechless, his face a mixture of surprise and joy. In contrast, Godhart looked mortified.
“Are you sure, Master? I could easily spread the word of this restaurant’s excellence throughout the Empire. I could even have you set up a shop ten times the size of this one in the Imperial capital.”
“No, thank you for your kind offer. I believe it is some kind of fate that I am able to run my restaurant here. I am not thinking of moving anywhere else at the moment.”
“Fate, you say. I see. Then, I shall look at the poetry of the lucky young Arnoux. In the meantime, please prepare those teppougai in a wine-steamed dish. Of course, if there is a more delicious way to prepare them, I would be happy with that.”
That evening, a small, convivial banquet was held throughout the evening.
While enjoying Krowinkel’s lute and singing, beer and sake flew off the shelves, accompanied by oyster fries, beef tendon doteyaki, and a large amount of tempura.
Krowinkel kept his promise and read Arnoux’s poetry carefully, but he said he would send a letter later with his suggestions.
“We will give top priority to receiving letters from Arnoux of Sachsenburg. If you send them through Baron Branton, I will make sure they are delivered properly.”
Krowinkel left the restaurant around the time the rooster crowed.
On the neck of the drunken Arnoux, a blue jewel in his amulet shone coolly.