“Lana, I know I’ve asked you this before, but…”
“Yes?”
My party and I had taken another day off, probably the tenth in a row. It was a serene afternoon, and for once, Lana and I found ourselves alone at camp. Éa, who was usually with us, had run off with Machina to play with our newest friend, the Dark Lord. As soon as the elven archer had woken that morning, she’d turned to me and said:
“I’ve had an incredible revelation: What if we had udon with curry? It’d make an unbeatable combination, don’t you think?!”
“You thought of that on your own? Seriously, you’re a genius.”
“Right? Go on, tell me how amazing I am!”
“While you’re at it, I need to get rid of that mountain of leftover pasta. Got any brilliant ideas?!”
“That pasta did nothing for the curry. I’ll think about it later!”
With that, the promising young chef left camp in high spirits, carrying the udon she’d made from scratch first thing that morning in tow. She had one goal in mind: to make the goblin and Dark Lord gasp—payback, apparently, for how the two had scared her the day before. Éa was a valiant little sister. That royal elven blood did not run through her veins for nothing. She took life by the horns more proactively than any normal person could. Actually, maybe she was just a child at heart.
As for the others, Lanceil had returned to the royal palace to take care of some business, and Lady Mythlanica was pouncing around with the flying rabbits in the meadow. Sometimes, they mistook her for one of their own and would whisk her away into the air, so I had to keep an eye on her.
“I want to know what kind of food you like,” I told my wife. “Or rather, what sort of tastes you prefer.”
“Taste? Well, this is delicious.” She and I were having curry, à la traditional Japanese style with rice. And it was heavenly. The rice was delectable, its sweetness pairing wonderfully with the mild curry, whose savory flavor matched perfectly with the hearty pork. This killer combination made you want to gobble the whole plate up.
All that aside— “I mean, do you wish it had more of a kick to it or was a little less sweet? Where do you stand on sugar or salt levels, for example? Do you prefer firm or soft textures?”
I’d had my elven wife put an apron on before she started. Any curry that got on her white robe would make doing laundry a big pain. Not that I did it—that was Machina’s job.
“That’s a difficult question. Honestly, I can’t think of a single thing I dislike about your cooking. I feel so spoiled getting to enjoy something different every day. That’s what makes it even tastier. I imagine only a gluttonous king used to the most lavish fare would find any fault here. We elves live rather simply to begin with, and I doubt my preferences would be of any use to your craft.”
The humble elf had gotten one fundamental point completely wrong. “Lana, I’m not asking you this to make myself a better cook.”
“Hmm?” She turned her head, looking perplexed, spoon still in her mouth in a rare deviation from her perfect manners. But damn, was it cute. Setting my high-resolution glasses to camera mode, I took a burst of photos, blinking to operate the shutter, then saved the images to my personal file folder.
“I’m asking what you like because I want to make things you’d enjoy.”
“Oh, I see.” Hmm? Kind of a lackluster reaction. “I think I’ll help myself to another serving.”
“Be my guest.”
Lana got up and walked over to the open-air kitchen. First filling her plate with a heaping mound of rice, she then smothered it in curry and topped it all off with a ton of pickled vegetables. She returned to her seat. Silently, the elf stirred her curry around; with quick, precise, and efficient yet graceful movements, she continued making her way through her second serving, carefully chewing each mouthful and leaving no pickles behind. Having lost the thread of the conversation, I turned to my own curry as well.
Oh, shit. I forgot.
“Hang on a sec, Lana.”
“Okay.” She waited. I went and got a couple of eggs from the pantry.
“Here, mix this in with your rice,” I instructed.
To show her how it’s done first, I cracked the egg over my rice and mixed it in, then dribbled the tiiiiniest bit of soy sauce over it and took a spoonful. Infused with the soy sauce, the raw egg melded together with the rice to create a subtle, delectable taste. It had a rustic simplicity to it, which from time to time would inspire an insatiable craving. To this mixture, I then followed with a bite of curry, its mild spiciness blending with the egg-and-rice pairing, along with the juicy morsels of meat. All these players, and yet every one of them matched like they were made for one another. I couldn’t imagine a better combination of flavors.
This meal featured two of the biggest names in Japanese home cooking—raw egg on rice and curry—costarring in a beautiful production. Never had I dreamed I’d get to experience this magic in this foreign realm. Raising chickens had been a brilliant move; it was worth violating some religious tenets in the process.
“………” Lana’s face froze in shock. “Darling…I must admit I was surprised to learn you used uncooked fish for the tekkadon fish-and-rice bowl you made, but now raw egg? Do all Otherworlders have iron stomachs?”
“Don’t worry, the stuff that causes food poisoning is only found on eggshells, and I’ve already thoroughly disinfected them. Plus, we’re using the freshest eggs, so it’s quite safe. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’d happily slow-boil or poach them for you.” Truth was, I’d found a raw egg–disinfection kit among our supplies. Still, I could see how the Japanese devotion to indulging in raw foodstuffs like horse or chicken sashimi, young sardines, or even live octopus to tap into their full flavor potential might seem insane to an outside observer.
“Oh, no, I don’t want to have you go through such trouble. I’ll—gulp—have it………raw,” she bravely declared through tear-filled eyes.
“If it bothers you that much, just let me boil it.”
“No!” she refused, blocking my hand as I tried to reach for her egg. “It is not a wife’s place to second-guess her husband’s commands!” Hey, I’m not about that toxic masculinity.
Clumsily, Lana cracked open her egg on top of the rice on her plate and added a heavier dash of soy sauce, then mix-mix-mixed it all up. Bracing herself as if about to battle a hideous monster, my brave wife brought a spoonful of the egg rice to her mouth.