The lingering aroma of seared meat and melting butter still hung in the air.
⠀
The steaks, freshly taken off the charcoal grill, were not sent directly to the table. Instead, each piece was carefully placed into a specially prepared magical container. The moment they were sealed inside, the heat was preserved perfectly—kept hot, yet in a strange way that did not continue to cook the meat any further. When the lids were opened later, the steaks would still be as they were now: at their peak, neither gaining nor losing anything.
⠀
Only after that was done did the staff begin carrying the plates out.
⠀
For a brief while, the dining room was filled with nothing but the quiet, almost reverent sounds of cutlery and satisfied breaths. The charcoal-grilled steak had done its job far better than anyone expected. The surface had been crisp, the inside tender, and the compound butter—already half-melted by the remaining heat—had added a final, indulgent touch that left no room for complaint.
⠀
Saphy watched the scene with a small, pleased smile.
⠀
It was always like this. No matter how many times she cooked, that moment—when the dish reached the table and people's expressions changed—never grew old.
⠀
Once the last plate was taken away and the staff began clearing the table, she lightly clapped her hands, more to herself than to anyone else.
⠀
"Alright," she said, her tone bright and calm. "Now that the charcoal-grilled steak with compound butter is done, it's time for the next dish."
⠀
A few of the cooks straightened their backs without even realizing it.
⠀
They had already learned, through many similar experiences, that those simple words usually meant something strange, something new… and something that would soon become impossible to forget.
⠀
Saphy turned back toward the kitchen, her mind already moving ahead to the next set of steps, the next flavors she wanted to bring out, and the next small surprise she planned to spring on everyone.
⠀
After all, this was only the beginning.
Saphy did not waste time after saying those words.
⠀
The staff was still riding the aftertaste of the steak when she had already moved on, her hands calmly preparing the next cut of meat on the counter. This time, it was a beautiful piece of picanha, its thick fat cap intact and glistening faintly under the kitchen lights.
⠀
"The seasoning stays simple," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.
⠀
Salt. Pepper. And nothing more.
⠀
Unlike before, she did not reach for the garlic powder. The meat itself, especially this cut, did not need that much interference.
⠀
A heavy-bottomed pan was placed on the stove and left there until it was properly heated. Only then did she add a very small amount of beef tallow. It melted quickly, spreading into a thin, glossy layer.
⠀
"Picanha already has a big fat cap," Saphy explained as she lifted the meat. "It doesn't need much oil."
⠀
She placed it into the pan fat-side down.
⠀
A deep, steady sizzle filled the kitchen.
⠀
Slowly, the fat began to render. The thick cap shrank little by little, releasing its own oil into the pan and filling the air with a rich, nutty aroma. That rendered fat, now pooling beneath the meat, became part of the cooking itself.
⠀
Once the fat cap was properly rendered, Saphy turned the meat and placed the flesh side down onto the pan.
⠀
She did not leave it alone. Instead, she flipped it regularly, making sure the heat was distributed evenly rather than burning one side while neglecting the other.
⠀
When the surface started to take on some color, she lowered the fire.
⠀
"If it's too hot," she said calmly, "the butter will burn before the basting is done."
⠀
Only then did she add a generous amount of butter to the pan.
⠀
Along with it went crushed garlic, sliced shallots, and a handful of herbs. The butter melted almost instantly, foaming softly as it mixed with the rendered beef fat and aromatics.
⠀
But instead of grabbing a spoon, Saphy took the meat with a pair of tongs.
⠀
She lifted it, turned it, rolled it gently through the bubbling butter, letting every surface bathe in it. Again and again, she flipped and turned it, coating it thoroughly, building color and aroma at the same time.
⠀
Slowly, a beautiful golden-brown crust formed.
⠀
She then took a thermometer and inserted it into the thickest part of the meat.
⠀
"…128°F."
⠀
She considered it for a moment. It was close, but not quite where she wanted it.
⠀
So she let it cook just a little longer, watching it carefully, and then killed the heat.
⠀
Once again, the meat was moved onto a wire rack and left there to rest.
⠀
The picanha sat quietly, juices redistributing inside, its surface glistening with butter and fat, waiting for its turn to be revealed.
After the resting time was over, Saphy moved again.
⠀
She placed the meat onto a fresh plate and picked up her knife. With smooth, confident motions, she began slicing through the picanha. Each cut revealed a beautifully even interior.
⠀
"Perfect medium rare," she said with quiet satisfaction.
⠀
The slices were arranged neatly on the plate, and then she took the pan and poured everything over them.
⠀
The browned butter, the softened garlic, the shallots, the herbs—every last drop was sent onto the meat. There was no way she would waste any of it. That butter had absorbed too much flavor to be left behind.
⠀
A rich, almost intoxicating aroma immediately spread through the kitchen.
⠀
Then she turned and opened the magical container that held the charcoal-grilled steak.
⠀
The moment the lid was lifted, steam flowed out as if it had just left the fire. The steak inside looked exactly the same as when it had been sealed—hot, glistening, and perfectly cooked, as if time itself had stopped for it.
⠀
Soon after, the servants carried in a small table and several chairs and set them up right there in the kitchen. The kitchen was vast enough that such a thing did not feel cramped at all.
⠀
Charles and William sat down first.
⠀
Lisa did not.
⠀
She walked straight up to Saphy instead, her eyes sharp and full of worry. She checked Saphy's hands, then her sleeves, then even looked her over from head to toe.
⠀
"…No oil splashes. No burns," Lisa muttered. Only after she was fully satisfied did she finally sit down as well.
⠀
One of the maids carefully placed the two dishes on the table.
⠀
The moment the lids were lifted, the air changed.
⠀
The steak still carried the deep, smoky scent of charcoal, rich and heavy, while the picanha sent up a wave of buttery, nutty aroma mixed with the sweetness of shallots and the gentle sharpness of garlic. The surface of the meat glistened under the light, and the butter pooled around the slices like liquid gold.
⠀
For a brief moment, no one spoke.
⠀
Then Charles frowned slightly as he looked at the picanha.
⠀
"…Is it supposed to be this color?"
⠀
William leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "It's red inside."
⠀
Lisa hesitated. "…Isn't this… raw?"
⠀
Saphy blinked, then smiled.
⠀
"It's not raw. This is called medium rare."
⠀
"Medium… rare?" William repeated.
⠀
Saphy nodded and pointed lightly at the slices.
⠀
"Meat isn't just 'raw' or 'fully cooked.' There are many stages in between. Rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done."
⠀
She picked up a fork and gently pressed the surface of one slice.
⠀
"Medium rare means the outside is properly seared, but the inside is still soft, juicy, and just hot enough. The color stays pink, not gray."
⠀
Charles still looked doubtful. "But isn't it dangerous?"
⠀
"In this world, people overcook meat because they're afraid of that," Saphy said calmly. "But if the outside is seared properly and the meat is fresh, the inside doesn't need to be cooked until it's dry."
⠀
She pointed again at the surface.
⠀
"All the dangerous parts are dealt with by the heat outside. What you get in return is this."
⠀
She gently pulled one slice apart with her fork. Juice slowly ran out onto the plate.
⠀
"If you cook it more, this disappears. It becomes hard. Dry. You lose most of the flavor."
⠀
William swallowed without realizing it.
⠀
"So… this is the best?"
⠀
"For this kind of meat?" Saphy nodded. "Yes. Medium rare is where it tastes the best."
⠀
Lisa looked at the plate again, still nervous, but the smell was making it very hard to resist.
⠀
"…You're sure?"
⠀
Saphy smiled. "I'll eat it too."
⠀
That seemed to finally push them over the edge.
They hesitated.
⠀
For a brief moment, all three of them simply stared at the slices, as if waiting for the meat to somehow change color on its own.
⠀
Finally, Charles was the one who moved first. He cut a small piece, lifted it with his fork, and paused for half a second before putting it into his mouth.
⠀
William and Lisa followed right after, bracing themselves in their own ways.
⠀
And then—
⠀
Their expressions froze.
⠀
The first thing that hit them was not the taste, but the texture. The knife had gone through easily, but in the mouth it was even more surprising. It was so soft it barely needed to be chewed, yet it wasn't mushy. The fibers separated gently, releasing warm juice with every movement.
⠀
Then the flavor came.
⠀
A deep, rich beefiness spread across the tongue, full and rounded, not sharp, not heavy in an unpleasant way—just… pure. The browned butter followed immediately after, coating everything with a nutty, slightly sweet richness. The garlic and shallots were no longer harsh, only fragrant, their aroma melted into the fat, while the herbs left a clean, refreshing trail at the end.
⠀
And then there was the fat.
⠀
Not greasy. Not oily.
⠀
It melted.
⠀
It disappeared into the meat, carrying all those flavors with it and leaving behind nothing but richness and a lingering warmth.
⠀
"…What…" William muttered.
⠀
Charles had stopped chewing. He slowly finished the bite, then looked down at his fork as if he no longer trusted it.
⠀
"…This is… still beef?"
⠀
Lisa covered her mouth with one hand, eyes slightly widened.
⠀
"It's… sweet," she said softly. "Why is it sweet?"
⠀
"It's not sugar-sweet," Saphy replied. "That's the fat and the butter. When they're treated properly, that's what they taste like."
⠀
William hurriedly took another bite, this time much bigger than the first.
⠀
"…It's juicy," he said, almost accusingly. "It's not leaking everywhere, but it's full of juice."
⠀
They all took another bite.
⠀
And then another.
⠀
The more they ate, the clearer it became. This was nothing like the meat they had known until now. There was no dryness. No toughness. No need to drown it in sauce to force it down. Every bite was complete on its own.
⠀
Charles let out a slow breath.
⠀
"…I didn't know meat could taste like this."
⠀
Lisa nodded, still chewing carefully, as if afraid that rushing would make it vanish.
⠀
"We've been… eating it wrong all this time, haven't we?"
⠀
Saphy smiled.
⠀
"Not wrong," she said. "Just… very, very carefully."
⠀
William looked at his plate again, then at Saphy.
⠀
"…If this is 'medium rare'…"
⠀
He swallowed.
⠀
"…Then everything we ate before was a waste."
⠀
Saphy laughed softly.
⠀
"Now try the charcoal steak too," she said. "And compare them."
They turned their attention to the second dish.
⠀
When the steak was cut, the knife met a gentle resistance before sliding through, and a faint line of steam rose from the freshly exposed surface. The inside was just as pink and glistening as when it had been sealed in the magical container.
⠀
On top of the slices, a pale piece of butter was already slowly melting. Specks of herbs and spices were visible inside it, and as it softened, it flowed over the hot meat, carrying its aroma with it.
⠀
Beside it, a vivid green sauce was spooned neatly along the edge of the plate. Finely chopped herbs, garlic, and something bright and sharp-smelling were suspended in oil.
⠀
"What's this green one?" William asked.
⠀
"Chimichurri," Saphy said. "A herb sauce. Try it together with the buttered steak."
⠀
This time, Charles took the first bite.
⠀
The moment he chewed, his eyes widened.
⠀
First came the charcoal. A deep, clean smokiness from the crust, slightly crisp, slightly bitter in a pleasant way. Then the meat itself—tender, juicy, and full of flavor.
⠀
And then the butter melted completely.
⠀
The compound butter soaked into the hot surface, releasing the fragrance of herbs and seasoning that had been mixed into it. It rounded the sharp edges of the fire, added richness, and made the smoke taste warmer, deeper, more luxurious.
⠀
After that, the chimichurri followed.
⠀
Its brightness cut through the fat, its acidity and herbs lifting everything up again, making the next bite feel light instead of heavy.
⠀
"…This is…"
⠀
Charles stopped, clearly unable to finish the sentence.
⠀
William did not wait. He took a bite that included both butter and sauce.
⠀
"…It changes in layers," he said slowly. "First fire. Then rich. Then fresh."
⠀
Lisa tried it next. She closed her eyes for a moment.
⠀
"…It doesn't fight itself," she said quietly. "Everything… fits."
⠀
The crust gave a gentle resistance, the inside yielded immediately, and the juices mixed with butter and herbs on the tongue. Every chew released smoke, richness, and freshness in turns.
⠀
They began going back and forth between the two plates again.
⠀
One bite of the picanha—
⠀
Soft, round, buttery, deep.
⠀
One bite of the charcoal steak—
⠀
Smoky, layered, rich, yet bright.
⠀
"…They're completely different," Charles said slowly.
⠀
"But they're both…" William searched for words, then gave up. "…Unfair."
⠀
Lisa let out a small, helpless laugh.
⠀
"If you serve this in a restaurant," she said, "people are going to cry."
⠀
Saphy smiled, watching them eat.
⠀
"Fire, fat, and herbs," she said. "That's all."
⠀
Charles put down his fork for a moment and looked at her seriously.
⠀
"…No. That's not 'all.'"
⠀
He glanced at the two plates again.
⠀
"…This changes things."
⠀
William nodded.
⠀
"…Completely."