Johan-Gustav was first surprised by how warm it was inside the establishment.
He was only familiar with the city’s taverns as standing-room-only places with drafts whistling through. This place, however, was different. Though small, it had chairs, arranged so patrons could relax, enjoying food and drink. This kind of thoughtful consideration suggested a place with some promise.
He gestured for his companion to take a seat first, then Johan-Gustav took a moment to survey the interior.
The walls were covered with wooden tags, crammed with what appeared to be menus in a foreign script. This too had its own charm. He wiped his hands with a warm, thick hand towel called an “oshibori”, which had been naturally offered to him, savoring the atmosphere of the place.
The fact that menus were posted suggested that the establishment expected “customers of a literate class,” and the sheer variety of dishes implied the skill of the chef. If the symbols written below the words represented the prices, it also showed the chef’s pride in providing dishes at the same price regardless of the fluctuation of ingredient costs.
Before even tasting a single bite, Johan-Gustav already found himself liking this place.
At the same time, he felt a pang of guilt that he was about to place an unreasonable demand on the talented chef of this fine establishment.
“May I take your order?”
A female server asked with a gentle expression. Not rude, nor overly polite.
“Well then… Hildegard, what would you like to eat?”
Johan-Gustav asked his companion, the young girl Hildegard. He felt like he was playing the unpleasant role. The answer was always the same.
“I want to eat something delicious that isn’t smelly, spicy, sour, bitter, or hard, and isn’t bread, potatoes, porridge, eggs, or stew.”
Hildegard, a girl with features as refined as a doll, placed her usual impossible request. The selection of foods available in the old city during winter was limited. Most dishes were either pungent or heavily seasoned to mask the smell. Something that wasn’t bread, potatoes, porridge, stew, and was delicious, was an impossibility in this winter city.
Hildegard herself didn’t think such a thing could really be made, but rather, she enjoyed watching the chefs scramble in response to her outlandish orders. She was quite malicious.
Although still only twelve years old, Hildegard would soon be married off. As a small consolation, he had brought her to this popular tavern in town, but it seemed her wish was unlikely to be fulfilled.
Feeling apologetic, Johan-Gustav glanced at the server’s face. However, there was no sign of the flustered look he expected.
“Something delicious that isn’t smelly, spicy, sour, bitter, or hard, and isn’t bread, potatoes, porridge, eggs, or stew, you say. Please wait a moment.”
She confirmed the request with a cheerful voice and relayed it exactly to the chef, who simply nodded in silence. What on earth could they possibly be planning to serve?
Despite appearances, Hildegard was a noble lady, a viscountess and an heiress. It wouldn’t do to feed her anything questionable. Having lost her parents at a young age, she had been raised by her uncle, Johan-Gustav, who had spoiled her a bit. He adored his headstrong niece as if she were his own daughter. That’s why he was determined to ensure she was well and healthy when she was married off.
He had been so worried about not being able to satisfy her unreasonable demand that he was now ashamed of his short-sightedness. He hadn’t imagined that the “actual serving of food” would become a cause for concern.
The female server skillfully placed an iron box in front of Johan-Gustav and Hildegard. No, this was no mere box. It was apparently a portable miniature stove. He wondered which blacksmith had conceived of such a contraption. If possible, he would invite him to his own land.
“Alright, the fire’s starting, so be careful now!”
As she spoke, the server turned a knob on the box, and a pale blue flame sprang to life with a pop. This was incredible. A ceramic pot was placed on top of the fire. Ah, so they were planning to cook in front of the customers. This was a thoughtful touch for a cold day. No matter how delicious a dish was, its flavor would deteriorate if it cooled before reaching the table. Enjoying freshly made food was a luxury that even nobles rarely experienced.
Inside the pot was something submerged that looked like green skin. Probably seaweed. Could this be the delicious thing that was not smelly, spicy, sour, bitter, hard, bread, potatoes, porridge, eggs, or stew?
He looked towards Hildegard, who was watching the water bubbling in the pot with anticipation. He supposed so. Having been raised in such a sheltered environment, Hildegard had surely never seen water boil up so close. Even during her bath, she was treated with such care to prevent scalding that they used lukewarm water poured into a basin.
The server slowly slid something white and block-shaped into the pot. He had never seen anything like it before. Could this be the dish?
Johan-Gustav, Hildegard, the server, and even the chef, were all silent.
Only the glug glug sound of the white block simmering filled the room.
