novelraw Chapter 71 : Granfen (4)
Chapter 71 : Granfen (4)
Granfen (4)
The day after deciding to make makgeolli.
Perhaps having heard belatedly, the battalion commander summoned me.
The bald old man puffed on his cigarette and spoke.
–"I'm disappointed. Have you forgotten your status?"
The battalion commander rambled about 'your inn is not personal property but an asset of the Duchy', and sternly ordered me to win no matter what.
He threatened severe punishment if I lost.
'If it's that important, why don't you step in yourself with your authority as battalion commander? It's not even an official duel.'
–That thought crossed my mind for a second,
but as time passed, I understood his real intention.
An unprecedented entertainment was revitalizing the village's mood.
The leader couldn't afford to rain on everyone's parade.
Of course, a few days later, the battalion commander summoned me again.
This time, unlike before, he wore a gentle expression.
For some reason, I couldn't help feeling uneasy.
–Let's make a bigger spectacle.
As expected.
–It's a bit early, but we'll tie this deployment ceremony with your cooking contest. Ha ha.
What a sly old snake.
It was obvious he wanted to use my contest to boost the morale of both the village and the military.
'And all the pressure is on me!'
In any case, on the day when the cooking contest became the eve of the deployment ceremony,
I and Dunbell from Wyvern Tail set the contest rules, with Sergeant Pab mediating.
That skinny guy wore a constant expression of 'why do I have to get involved in this?'
What could he do?
He was just doomed to serve under a master sergeant like Hank who eagerly accepted extra work.
'And losing this contest would mean the end of the line for me, too.'
As a result, the rules ended up like this:
A total of 9 judges were chosen.
Three were picked from our regulars,
three from Wyvern Tail,
and the remaining three would be the battalion commander, the two company commanders, Lantz and Hank.
Finally:
'All would wear blindfolds and make their decision based on taste alone—a blind taste test.'
Naturally, this was my idea.
Thank you, chef Baek Hyuk.
So, Dunbell and I shook hands and agreed to meet again in forty days, the evening before the deployment ceremony.
Time was needed for fermentation and maturation in alcohol production.
'Forty days.'
A long time if you look at it one way, short if you look at it another.
Within this span, I would craft the best makgeolli.
Resolutely, I returned to my shop and relayed the rules to the employees.
"Since there are no external experts, this seems the best method. But it's not entirely fair,"
Harper said, stroking his chin.
Plerine also nodded.
"Even with blindfolds, they'll probably tell which drink is ours and which isn't."
Naba added,
"That means it all depends on which side Commander Lantz favors."
That was right. If you could recognize whose drink it was even when blindfolded, that's what would happen.
The regulars from each side would naturally choose their preferred shop, making it 3:3.
The battalion commander would pick our side,
and Hank would of course pick the opposing side, making it 4:4.
So the final decision would come down to the last, the blond guy Lantz, making it a 5:4 split depending on his choice.
'Is this why politicians try so hard to win over the moderates?'
The three employees each gave their take on Lantz.
Some said he'd side with us due to the battalion commander's order, others felt nervous since he'd been known to frequent Wyvern Tail in the past.
Haaa. As the boss, it was frustrating.
"Everyone, quiet."
Three people closed their mouths and looked at me at my grave command.
"We're not running in a popularity poll, are we? This is a cooking 'contest'."
The whole 'Lantz holds the key' scenario is only valid if it's obvious whose alcohol is whose by taste alone.
But if it gets difficult to distinguish between the two by taste—
in other words, if our liquor's flavor is that good—
then that situation never materializes.
'And I'm not the type to calculate all the possible scenarios for making it to the World Cup round of sixteen.'
I'd rather face it with a mindset of winning it all!
"In the time we have, let's just focus on making a drink as good as Wyvern Tail's. That's all. Got it?"
At my words, Plerine smiled with a bit of surprise.
"Now you sound more like a boss."
Hmm. I'll admit, I was intimidated when I first tasted Wyvern Tail's beer, but not anymore.
Harper's expert advice had bolstered my confidence, but beyond that,
'That Dunbell guy...'
While setting the rules and shaking hands,
that pig's expression disgusted me.
That look that said he was giving a little encouragement to someone far beneath him,
with the absolute conviction that he could not possibly lose—
'Sheer arrogance.'
Remembering it made me angry all over again. Regardless, Dunbell spoke with that face.
–Let's hope you don't resort to underhanded tricks or political maneuvering from the shadows.
I almost accidentally crushed his hand with my grip, but barely restrained myself.
As a chef, I would win with cooking.
–I'm a cook before I'm a soldier of the Duchy. No dirty tricks from me.
–Hmph. That's more like it.
At this point, the battalion commander's command, the fact that the contest now served as the eve of the deployment ceremony, and all those other issues—whether I knew the flavor of alcohol or not—none of it mattered anymore.
I just... really wanted to beat that bastard Dunbell of Wyvern Tail.
"Until the contest, we're closing to regular customers. All of you, help out as much as you can."
I had to win, and I would win.
As a chef.
*
Harper and I created an imaginary recipe.
We didn't know the exact flavor or brewing process for makgeolli,
but, as people with modern basic education, we at least understood the principles of fermentation.
The first step was growing nuruk (starter culture).
We needed to cultivate mold and yeast in steamed rice, which required a warm, well-ventilated, and humid environment.
So how did we create warmth in the frigid northern climate?
We had our ways.
'Help me out, Plele-Mon!'
Didn't Plerine have a warm wind spell for drying her hair?
I asked her to heat up an empty room,
then we spread out the steamed rice in a layer.
'We ended up using so much rice that I had to rely on [Upgrade] to lower the price further.'
As a result, rice could now be bought for 1 pt, down from 2 pt.
Who knows when I'll earn more upgrade points, but in a do-or-die moment, who cares about efficiency?
So we spread out massive quantities of would-be nuruk,
then sprinkled a mix of dry flour, straw, beer foam, and sugar on top, praying earnestly.
O gods, please let mold grow.
'Please!'
Ten days passed.
I was about to curse the gods for turning a deaf ear—when Harper suddenly shouted wide-eyed:
–Boss!
Amazingly, patches of white mold had formed here and there on the steamed rice.
Sniff.
I smelled it.
It was tangy but not unpleasantly so.
–... It worked?
I didn't know why, but something looking very much like nuruk had formed.
Harper and I hugged each other in delight.
But there was no time for celebration.
We had to move to the next step right away.
We pounded the finished nuruk, mixed it with a bit of sugar and glutinous rice,
put it all in new wooden barrels, and poured in water.
Finally, we covered it with a thin cloth.
Another round of fermentation was needed.
'Help me again, Plele-Mon!'
We had Plerine warm another empty room and arranged the barrels there.
Thank goodness there were no overnight guests.
And after three days—
a much shorter time than for producing the nuruk—
"Boss!"
Harper called me urgently to the barrels.
"No way—is this really happening?"
Bubbles were rising to the surface of the liquid.
I quickly grabbed a ladle and stirred.
The grains of rice had dissolved, leaving a thick, milky liquid.
"Should we strain just one barrel first?"
"Let's do that."
We strained out the dregs with a thin cloth, letting only the liquid run through.
Drip drip.
A deep, mellow aroma wafted up—definitely alcohol-like.
Harper's expression was still complicated, though.
It was a mix of doubt and anticipation.
I probably had the same look myself.
The tension was intense.
"Let's have a taste."
"Sounds good."
Clink.
Harper and I clinked glasses and sampled it.
Slurp—the heavy, sweet liquid rolled into my mouth.
Then a bitter note, followed by a light kick of alcohol.
... It was real alcohol.
"We did it, boss! It tastes like real liquor!"
Regardless of whether it tasted great, we had succeeded in brewing our own fermented drink.
It was astounding and satisfying, not to mention a relief.
Because the real goal wasn't just alcohol, but 'delicious' alcohol.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Now, we have to refine the flavor."
The taste of fermented liquor changes depending on circumstances, climate, even the timing.
In other words, it was time to research and polish the detailed recipe.
'Twenty days left until the cook-off.'
Within this period, we'd finish it.
The best makgeolli.
*
Testing, recording.
Tweaking, recording again—reflecting.
Over and over.
Through repeated experimentation, I came to a realization.
'I've never honed a recipe so obsessively in my whole life as a chef.'
Until now, I'd just used established recipes as they were,
or made minor adjustments to suit my taste.
So, I think I finally understand a bit.
'Why my father never passed down the Happiness Gukbap original broth recipe.'
Father always said, 'it's too soon,' and never gave me our house's secret recipe.
He put me in charge of every part of the restaurant except making the broth.
Anyway, if I were to guess why my father kept postponing handing down the recipe...
'He probably wanted me to do my own research and soul-searching.'
Now that I've worked on refining a recipe myself, I get it.
Every recipe contains a chef's thoughts, philosophy, and ultimately, life itself.
Only someone who has earnestly created a recipe can truly value what a recipe means.
'I can't believe I'm only now realizing this.'
I learned this facing off against a medieval chef I once scoffed at.
Life is unpredictable.
And so, now there's only a day left before the cooking contest.
Twenty days to make makgeolli—
Twenty more days to develop a great flavor.
After forty days and blood, sweat, and tears, I finally perfected the best makgeolli I could.
Leaving aside the outcome, I just felt relieved.
"Everyone... Thank you for all your hard work until today."
On this late night, we were sharing drinks with my three hardworking employees.
This wasn't just the usual tasting but a real company dinner.
Of course, the boss can't miss this chance to say a few words.
"Clink! Let's hang in there till tomorrow, then sleep!"
We might not have enough makgeolli for all the deployment eve guests, even if we sold everything we'd made up to now.
I was in high spirits because of that, but—
"... I'm stiwill worweed abowwt towmorwow, heh."
Naba, thoroughly drunk, frowned into his glass.
"Don't worry, senior. Our booze is good,"
Plerine said.
"I agree! The liquor we made is definitely competitive. Hic!"
Harper chimed in.
Even with Harper's confident (hiccuping) face, Naba was still down.
"Wehll, I admitsh it's tastwy even if we loosh..."
He trailed off and hung his head.
I could guess why that kid was anxious.
No matter how much our brew had improved,
'You never know what'll happen in a contest.'
Wyvern Tail's alcohol was that good,
and you never knew if the opposition was pulling any underhanded tricks, either.
Still, even with an uncertain future, I didn't feel too bad right now.
Because—
"We all worked really hard together. No regrets!"
For the first time, I'd made liquor,
and obsessed over perfecting just one menu item.
Not alone, but with my employees.
Isn't that enough?
"So the result—it doesn't matter!"
The result, really, means nothing!
"...."
Maybe moved, Plerine tilted her head and said,
"Boss, you're drunk again. Talking like you actually mean that."
Huh? What does she mean?
What do you mean, I don't really mean that?
And why is Plerine wobbling?
"Huh?"
Thud!
I slumped onto the table and dreamed.
A dream of beating Dunbell to a pulp with a club.
It must really be March now.
The icicles hanging from the eaves of the village buildings have gotten shorter.
'It took 40 days to make the makgeolli for the cooking contest.'
Those long days flew by in the blink of an eye.
Compared to the 3 days I spent preparing for my duel with Sergeant Pab, or the half-day it took for the minor Demon Realm raid, 40 days is really long—endlessly so.
'With that much time, all sorts of things were bound to happen.'
During all that, whether lucky or not, the guy who killed that person presumed to be Legion never showed up.
Neither did the real Legion, for that matter.
Well, either way, the upcoming cooking contest is far more important to me than any of that.
"So this is how they set it up. Much more serious than I expected."
Harper admired the stage set up in the plaza,
and Naba shrugged and replied.
"It's a bit more modest than during the sparring tournament, though."
"Both of you can admire it later—start hauling out the barrels! Don't you see Plerine working?"
Immediately after the cooking contest, the departure ceremony's eve festival will be held.
Already, stalls were being set up all around the plaza.
We, tonight's main act, had a booth just to the left of the main stage.
Naturally, Wyvern Tail's guys were on the opposite side—
'Damn.'
I wasn't really trying to, but while I was glancing over, my eyes met Dunbell's.
He stopped what he was doing and looked at me for a moment.
"......"
Then, deciding to just ignore me, he resumed working.
Our brief eye contact was surprisingly uneventful.
'I thought he'd act cocky like last time.'
Who knows what's gotten into him. But getting worked up over it would only hurt me.
"How long are you going to space out, boss?"
"... I'm going, I'm going."