Chapter 11: True Cooking

Chapter Eleven
True Cooking

Everyone involved dies is the norm? They are pleased I am still alive? Fortunate I am still alive?

Klein shuddered sharply, hurried two steps toward the door, and tried to chase after the policemen to seek protection.

But the instant his fingers touched the handle, he stopped.

“That officer made the matter sound so terrifying. If so, why are they not protecting me, an important witness—or a key clue?

“Isn’t that far too careless?

“Are they testing me? Or using me as bait?”

All kinds of thoughts fought inside Klein’s mind. He began to suspect that the police might still be watching him in secret, observing his reaction.

With that in mind, he felt much steadier inside and was no longer quite so panicked. He slowly opened the door and, deliberately making his voice tremble, shouted toward the stairwell, “You will protect me, won’t you?”

Tap, tap, tap. The officers did not respond. The rhythm of leather shoes striking the wooden stairs did not change at all.

“I know! I know you will!” Klein shouted again in a tone of feigned conviction, doing his best to behave like a normal person who had encountered danger.

The footsteps gradually weakened and vanished at the bottom of the apartment building.

Klein gave a low humph and sneered inwardly.

“That reaction was too fake. Unqualified acting!”

He did not pursue them. Instead, he turned back into the room and closed the door casually behind him.

For the next several hours, Klein fully displayed what it meant to be unsettled, restless, anxious, agitated, and unable to absorb a single word he read—terms from the great foodie nation that he performed with proper dedication. He did not relax his standards simply because there was no one around.

This is called an actor’s self-cultivation!

He mocked himself inwardly.

Only when the sun leaned westward and the clouds on the horizon began to “burn,” and the apartment’s tenants returned one after another, did Klein shift his attention elsewhere.

“Melissa should be getting out of school soon…”

He cast his gaze toward the stove, lifted the kettle in one swift motion, parted the coal, and took out the revolver.

Without pause or delay, he reached beneath the lower bunk’s wooden board, where more than a dozen slats crossed one another for support.

After wedging the revolver between one of the slats and the board, Klein straightened up and waited uneasily, afraid that the police might suddenly break down the door, guns in hand, and rush into the room.

If this had been an ordinary steam-era world, he would have been certain that no one had seen what he had just done. Yet this was a world with extraordinary powers—powers he had verified with his own experience.

After waiting several minutes, there was still no movement at the door. Only the voices of two tenants arranging to go to the Wild Heart bar on Iron Cross Street drifted close, then faded away.

“Hoo.”

Klein exhaled and let his heart settle back into his chest.

Now all that remained was to wait for Melissa to come home and make the tender-pea lamb stew.

The moment that thought appeared, the aroma of meat juice seemed to fill Klein’s mouth. Along with it, he remembered how Melissa made tender-pea lamb stew.

She first boiled water to blanch the pieces of meat, then added onions, salt, a tiny bit of pepper, and water before stewing everything directly. After a certain amount of time, she added peas and potatoes, covered the pot, and let it simmer for forty or fifty minutes.

“That really is simple. Crude, even… It relies entirely on the flavor of the meat itself!”

Klein could not help shaking his head.

But there was no way around it. How could an ordinary family possess many seasonings, or any variety of cooking techniques? What mattered was simplicity, practicality, and thrift. As long as the meat was not burned or spoiled, it would taste good to people who ate meat only twice a week—perhaps even only once.

Klein was no culinary master. His daily life had mostly relied on eating out. But cooking three or four times a week, accumulated week after week, had still given him passable skills. He felt he could not let that pound of lamb go to waste.

“If I wait for Melissa to return before cooking, it will be past seven-thirty by the time it is ready. She will be starving by then… It is time to let her witness true cooking!”

Klein found himself an excuse. He first rekindled the stove, then went to the shared washroom to draw water and clean the lamb. Afterward, he brought out the cutting board and kitchen knife and chopped the meat into small pieces with steady thuds.

As for how to explain suddenly knowing how to cook, he decided to push it onto dead Welch McGovern. That classmate of his had not only hired a chef skilled in Midsea-style cuisine, but had also often studied food himself and invited others to taste his attempts.

Mm. A dead man cannot refute me!

However—hiss—this is a world with Beyonders. Dead people may not necessarily be unable to speak…

Thinking of this, Klein inexplicably grew a little guilty.

He tossed those stray thoughts aside and placed the pieces of meat into a soup bowl. Then he brought out the seasoning box and shook in a spoon and a half of yellowish coarse salt. From a special small bottle, he carefully and solemnly took out several black peppercorns and mixed them together with the lamb and salt, giving the meat a brief marinade.

He set the stew pot on the stove. While waiting for it to heat, he found the carrot left over from yesterday and the onion bought today, then cut them both into many pieces.

With the preparation done, he took a small jar from the cabinet. Once opened, it revealed the little remaining lard inside.

Klein scooped out a spoonful and put it into the pot, letting it fry and melt. Then he poured in the carrots and onion pieces and stir-fried them for a while.

A fragrance began to spread. Klein added all the lamb and carefully seared it for a while.

During this step, one ought to add some cooking wine—or at the very least substitute grape wine. Unfortunately, the Moretti family possessed no such luxuries. Benson could only afford one glass of beer a week. Klein could only make do with what he had and pour in some hot water.

After stewing for about twenty minutes, he opened the lid and added the tender peas and chopped potatoes, along with another cup of hot water and two spoonfuls of salt.

Closing the lid, lowering the flame, Klein exhaled in satisfaction and waited for his sister to come home.

Time passed minute by minute. The aroma within the room grew richer and richer: the temptation of meat, the mellow thickness of potatoes, the “freshness” of onions.

As the scents gradually mingled, Klein swallowed from time to time and pressed open the cover of the pocket watch to look at the minute hand.

More than forty minutes later, footsteps approached. They were not light, but their rhythm was orderly. A key slid into the lock. The handle turned. The door opened.

“It smells so good…”

Melissa had not yet entered before she murmured the words in confusion.

Carrying her bag, she stepped inside. Her gaze swept toward the stove.

“You made this?”

Her motion of taking off her gauze hat froze midway. The look she gave Klein was filled with horror.

She sniffed, inhaling more of the aroma. Her gaze quickly softened, as though she had found a little confidence.

“You made this?” she asked again, puzzled.

“Were you afraid I would waste the lamb?” Klein replied with a smile. Without waiting for an answer, he continued on his own, “Do not worry. I specifically asked Welch how this dish should be made. You know he had a good cook.”

“Your first time making it?” Melissa’s brow unconsciously furrowed, only for the fragrance to smooth it away.

“It seems I am quite talented.” Klein laughed. “It is almost ready. Put away your books and hat, go to the washroom and wash your hands, then wait to taste it. I have confidence.”

Hearing her elder brother arrange things in such an orderly way, seeing his gentle, calm smile, Melissa stood dazed at the door and did not respond.

“Do you like it stewed a bit softer?” Klein urged with a smile.

“Ah. Yes. All right!”

Melissa came back to herself. Bag in one hand and hat in the other, she hurried into the inner room.

Klein lifted the lid of the stew pot. Steam rose before his eyes. The two pieces of rye bread had already been placed beside the lamb and tender peas so that they could absorb the aroma and heat and become soft.

By the time Melissa finished putting away her things and returned from washing her hands and face, a plate of tender-pea lamb stew garnished with potatoes, carrots, and onions had been set on the desk. Two pieces of black bread, dyed slightly with the color of meat juices, waited on their own plates.

“Come. Taste it.” Klein pointed to the wooden fork and spoon beside the plate.

Melissa was still a little dazed, but she did not refuse. She picked up the fork, speared a piece of potato, brought it to her mouth, and took a small bite.

The soft mealiness of the potato and the rich aroma of meat juice spread at the same time, sending saliva rushing into her mouth. In two or three bites, she finished the piece of potato and swallowed it down.

“Try the meat,” Klein said, indicating the plate with his chin.

He had already tasted it earlier and felt that it was only at the passing line. But for a young girl who had seen little of the world and could only eat meat occasionally, it was more than enough.

Expectation brightened Melissa’s eyes. Carefully, she forked a piece of lamb.

It had been stewed quite tender. The moment it entered her mouth, it felt as though it were about to melt. The true fragrance of meat burst out, and wonderful juices filled her mouth.

It was a beauty she had never experienced before, and Melissa simply could not stop.

By the time she came back to herself, she had already eaten several pieces of lamb.

“I—I, Klein, this was made for you…” Melissa’s face flushed red at once, and her words became halting.

“I already stole some beforehand. That is the privilege of the cook.” Klein smiled and soothed his sister. At the same time, he picked up his own fork and spoon, sometimes eating a piece of meat, sometimes spooning peas into his mouth, and sometimes setting down the utensils to break off a piece of black bread and dip it into the sauce.

Melissa relaxed. Influenced by Klein’s utterly normal behavior, she once again sank into the delicious food.

“It is really good. You cannot tell at all that this is your first time making it.” Melissa looked at the empty plate, which had not even a trace of sauce left, and praised him sincerely.

“It is still far from Welch’s cook. When I have money, I will take you and Benson to a restaurant outside and let you eat something even better!”

As Klein spoke, even he began to feel a little longing.

“Your interview will—hic…”

Before Melissa could finish speaking, she suddenly made a sound of satisfaction she could not control.

She hurriedly lifted a hand to cover her mouth, her face full of embarrassment.

It was all the fault of that tender-pea lamb stew. It had been too good!

Klein laughed inwardly and decided not to tease his sister. He pointed at the plate.

“This is your task.”

“All right!”

Melissa stood at once, almost impatiently, picked up the basin, and rushed out the door.

When she returned after washing everything, she opened the cabinet and habitually checked the seasoning box and other items.

“You used these?” Melissa blurted out in surprise, turning her head to look at Klein while holding the black pepper bottle and the lard jar.

Klein spread his hands and smiled.

“A little. That is the price of deliciousness.”

Melissa’s eyes flickered. Her expression changed several times before she finally pressed her lips together and said, “I should still be the one to cook in the future.”

“Mm… You need to hurry and prepare for your interview. You have to think about work.”