The troublesome thing about dragon blood is its unique property—it resists any form of solidification due to temperature. Unlike regular blood, which coagulates with salt or heat, dragon blood remains fluid. A pinch of salt doesn't help; instead, it dehydrates the dragon blood completely. Honestly, what kind of dignity is left for humans or dragons if something so basic doesn't work?
This particularity renders many traditional blood-based recipes completely useless. Take, for instance, the French black pudding, which blends various spices with onions and lard. Or the Northeastern Chinese blood sausage that mixes pork, mutton, and aniseed. Even the spicy Maoxuewang relies on blood coagulation. All of these are off the table when it comes to dragon blood.
In essence, pure dragon blood cannot solidify.
To cook with dragon blood, one must mix it with a stabilizing medium—something that can accommodate and bind the blood. Ingredients like glutinous rice or flour become essential.
However, glutinous rice was a rare commodity in the UK, and certainly not something Tom's kitchen had on hand. Given the limitations, Allen chose flour as his binding agent.
Since there was no wok or a proper stove for stir-frying, Allen couldn't toast his spices in the usual way. Instead, he ground the spices and mixed them directly into the flour. He then baked the spiced flour mixture in the oven until it turned a rich, brown color and gave off a fragrant aroma. After baking, he added salt to enhance the flavor.
From there, Allen poured a third of a pint of dragon blood into the spiced flour mixture, stirring until it formed a thick, dark-red batter.
Casings were the next obstacle. While Tom's shop lacked them, sausages—especially in French and German cuisine—frequently require casings, and they were widely available in London. Allen sent Tom out to procure them. Once obtained, he began the meticulous process of preparing the blood sausage.
Allen considered adding pork or mutton to enhance the texture and flavor. However, it felt almost sacrilegious to mix mundane meats with the rare and potent dragon blood. His instincts—and the mysterious "God's Hand"—resisted the idea, so he discarded that option entirely.
He placed the blood sausages into a pot of cold water and gradually brought it to a medium boil. Once the water reached boiling point, he lowered the heat. The process wasn't particularly difficult, especially with a magic kitchen that responded to his every thought—far more convenient than a smart kitchen.
As the sausages simmered, their casings began to swell slowly under the heat. Allen turned off the flame and allowed the residual heat to finish the cooking process. Once ready, he took them out, placing them carefully on a cutting board.
With practiced skill, Allen sliced one sausage in half.
He closely examined the cross-section. The flour had bonded with the dragon blood's proteins, forcibly coagulating the mixture. This fusion, though artificial, was successful. The once-proud dragon blood, resistant to change, had now been completely integrated—transformed into a humble culinary dish.
Confident in his result, Allen cut the sausage into thick, one-inch slices. After preparing a full plate, he turned to the frying pan. He fried each slice in butter until the outside crisped up, releasing a savory, spiced aroma thanks to the Maillard reaction. Once golden and sizzling, he plated them neatly.
And just like that, a new dragon blood-based delicacy was born.
A captivating fragrance filled the kitchen, overpowering even the most pungent of potion residues. Black, perched on Allen's shoulder, closed his eyes in ecstasy and didn't utter a sound—completely intoxicated by the scent.
"Mr. Cecil, didn't you say there would be no special dishes today?" Tom asked, pushing open the kitchen door.
Allen had rushed into the kitchen as soon as he returned, and Tom—who had been waiting outside, curiosity piqued—couldn't resist any longer.
The moment he opened the door, a wave of aroma spilled out, enveloping the bar in mouth-watering fragrance.
The previously disheartened wizards, disappointed by the news that Allen wasn't planning to cook, were immediately revived by the scent. They stood up in unison, sniffing the air like enchanted bloodhounds.
"What is that smell? It's amazing!"
"Mr. Cecil is cooking again! I knew he wouldn't abandon us!"
"I've never smelled anything like it before. Is it a new dish?"
A crowd of eager wizards swarmed toward the kitchen like a zombie horde. Thankfully, Tom's burly figure held them back.
"Don't crowd! Back off! Let Mr. Cecil cook in peace!" Tom shouted as he shoved them away from the door. "Wait here." Then he firmly shut the door behind him.
Despite the door being closed, the scent only seemed to intensify. The wizards, lacking all dignity, crouched by the door crack, inhaling deeply—as if one more breath might bring them closer to heaven.
Back in the kitchen, Tom rushed to Allen's side. He stared at the dark sausage slices on the plate. Despite the color, he didn't hesitate.
"Mr. Cecil, can I have a taste?" he asked, barely able to restrain himself.
"Just one piece. Don't finish the plate," Allen replied, casting a knowing glance.
"Don't worry, I know the rules." Tom rubbed his hands together and grabbed a slice.
The crispy outer layer gleamed with buttery sheen. The subtle aroma of browned spices and the Maillard reaction wafted from the sausage. Although visually unimpressive, it easily roused Tom's hunger.
He bit into the sausage without hesitation.
Instantly, a wave of rich, savory warmth flooded his mouth. The perfectly balanced saltiness tickled his tongue, and his saliva glands kicked into overdrive. The sausage glided effortlessly down his throat—too effortlessly.
Tom blinked in confusion. It was over too fast.
Did he even taste it properly?
Not ready to accept it was gone, he reached for another piece—but Allen was faster. He snatched the plate away and offered a piece to Black instead.
The little creature let out a mocking squeak at Tom, snatched the sausage, and gobbled it in one bite.
Then something strange happened.
With a quiet "thud," Black's body stiffened and dropped from Allen's shoulder.
Tom, startled, lunged to catch the little beast, but his reflexes were too slow. Fortunately, Allen reacted swiftly and caught Black before he hit the floor.
"What's wrong with Black? Did he eat something bad?" Tom asked anxiously, rubbing his own belly.
"No," Allen replied, his gaze calm. "It's not an illness. He's just eaten too well for too long."
Allen's "Eye of Discrimination" had already revealed the truth: Black wasn't sick.
He was evolving.
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