Chapter 4

With a sizzle, the chicken is submerged in the oil.

The pleasant sound resonates through the not-so-wide shop, and Beltholt can't help but swallow his saliva.

Using plenty of oil to fry is quite a luxury. Normally, one would just gather a bit of oil at the edge of the pan and fry something halfway between frying and grilling.

But how about this place?

The chicken is being fried leisurely in enough oil to make it swim.

"But, how will it taste?"

As Beltholt mutters, Taisho gives a smile with his eyes, clearly very confident in this dish.

Still, the main ingredient is chicken.

Whether it's thigh or breast, the meat of the old chickens available in the ancient city's market is tough. No matter how much you marinate and fry it, how good can it really taste? Beltholt's rationality tells him this.

However.

But, this sound and aroma are unfair. Even the occasional sound of the oil popping stimulates the stomach.

Is it ready yet, is it ready?

As if his prayers were answered, Taisho starts to take the chicken out of the oil.

But, he doesn't place it on a plate.

When Beltholt looks to see what's happening, Taisho puts it back into the oil.

"What, wasn't it fried enough?"

"No, sir. This is a cooking method called double-frying. The oil is hotter this time."

Crackle, crackle, crackle, crackle.

Indeed, the sound is different from before.

The meaning of this is unclear, but the passion put into the cooking is evident.

It's not just about making it edible.

There's a consciousness to make it delicious.

"Here, please wait. It's fried young chicken."

"Fried young chicken, huh."

Next to the fried chicken, there's some kind of fruit. Perhaps it's a dessert. This kind of thoughtful touch is delightful. It must be Taisho's consideration for customers who have eaten greasy food, Beltholt thinks positively.

Now, time to taste it.

"It's hot, so be careful."

"Ah."

Beltholt pierces a large piece with his fork.

Juice oozes out from the crispy batter. He brings it to his mouth.

Crunch.

The moment he takes a bite, Beltholt realizes his defeat.

The outside is crispy, and the inside is fluffy.

The juice that flows out is rich, containing the full flavor of the chicken.

"Delicious!"

He immediately brings another piece to his mouth.

It's hot.

But, it's delicious.

Even if his mouth gets a little burned, it doesn't matter.

It's not the toughness of old chicken. It's soft, yet not weak.

Thinking about it, Beltholt reaches for the Triaez Namah.

He ordered "chicken dish that goes well with ale" from Taisho.

This should definitely go well.

He takes a bite of the fried chicken and washes it down with the ale.

It goes well.

This is a meeting.

Like the hero and princess in a knight's tale being drawn to each other, the fried chicken and Triaez Namah were destined to meet here.

Looking at the next seat, Hans is already eating the fried chicken.

Beltholt really wants to eat Hans's portion too, but he's not that immature.

But, it's delicious.

It's no wonder this dish is talked about among soldiers.

As he eats one piece after another, a slight confusion arises in Beltholt.

...There are only two pieces left. If he eats them, this miraculous encounter with the fried chicken will end.

It's a feeling of loneliness, one might say.

He savors the last piece and enjoys the aftertaste.

It was delicious.

An indescribable sense of satisfaction envelops the battle-hardened Beltholt.

This, this is what cooking is.

Now, he reaches for the dessert, a halved yellow citrus fruit. But, his battlefield experience warns him of danger.

What's wrong? What's the problem?

He glances at Hans, who has eaten half of the fried chicken and is squeezing the citrus over the remaining half.

"Hey, Hans."

"Ah, what is it, squad leader, I mean, Mr. Beltholt?"

"This fruit, though."

"Lemon, Mr. Beltholt didn't use it?"

"...Lemon? Use it?"

In front of the confused Beltholt, Hans demonstrates squeezing the lemon.

"By squeezing lemon, the fried chicken becomes refreshing and easier to eat."

"What...?"

Realizing this, he looks at his own plate.

Of course, there's no fried chicken left.

"...Hans."

"Mr. Beltholt, even if you make that deep, resonant voice, I won't share. This is my portion."

"But..."

"Mr. Beltholt, you ate a whole plate, didn't you?"

Mmm, Beltholt grunts, and just then, Shinobu returns with, "I found pickled ginger."

"Oh, really? That's good. We're almost ready here too."

Leaning in, Beltholt sees that Taisho is dipping the crispy fried chicken into some thick, gooey substance. This will surely ruin the crispy texture.

"Taisho, what is that!"

"What, it's chicken Nanban. For Shinobu and myself."

Chicken Nanban?

Makanai?

He doesn't understand what Taisho is saying, but it's clear from the nuance that this dish isn't for the customers.

The white, ingredient-rich sauce is poured over the fried chicken, which has been dipped in a sweet and sour liquid.

It's like magic.

The fried chicken was already so delicious. It was a complete masterpiece on its own.

The idea that adding something could make it even more delicious is...

"Taisho... I'm sorry, but..."

"Sir, even if you make that deep, resonant voice, I won't share. This is my portion."

"Then, Shinobu?"

"No way. I love chicken Nanban."

Saying this, Shinobu grabs a piece of chicken Nanban from the plate and takes a bite. A bit of sauce sticks to the corner of her lips, which is charming.

"Mmm, yes. Delicious! The commander's chicken Nanban is the best!"

"Right? The pickled ginger really adds to the flavor."

Seeing Shinobu rudely lick the sauce off her lips, Beltholt quietly decides to become a regular here.