Well, this is a decent showing. No, actually, it's a lot better than last time.
It's not at the level where eating it would kill you, right?
"The potatoes have bloomed with a clean little flower. Ah, even in such a barren environment, the buds still manage to break through in the end."
"That is a sign of poison. It must be torn out at once. Don Quixote, confiscate it."
"Understood!!!"
"Ah... no, I cannot..."
...Or not? Did the risk of death just go up instead?
Sizzle...
"Something burned can still have meaning in its burned state. In truth, 'burned' may merely be a fictional concept defined by humans, and its essence may not have changed at all."
"Exposure to high heat over a long period alters the surface beyond a certain color and leaves a smoky odor. That is what is called burning."
Yeah, that does sound like the odds of dying just went up.
"And this has burned through to the inside as well. If consumed over the long term, it may trigger adverse reactions in the body, so it should be discarded."
"How disappointing..."
Still, Mr. Meursault is handling things properly, so I guess it's fine.
At this rate, it should only be a matter of time before the food turns out properly.
Scrape, scrape.
Oh, Mr. Heathcliff is surprisingly fast at peeling potatoes. Does he have some back-alley experience after all?
"Don't talk to me. It breaks my concentration."
Ah, so me hanging around nearby was getting in the way.
"A knife is a luxury. A true pauper can peel every potato with nothing but an iron spoon."
That's kind of cool, but also a strangely awkward line.
"....."
Mr. Meursault watched Mr. Heathcliff peel the potatoes at high speed with close attention. Does he have something to say?
"Pass. I'll give you extra points for the skill shown in shaving them at an angle."
"Yes!!!"
Whoa, that startled me. For someone so prickly, he sure loves praise. Since he's the only one Mr. Meursault approved, I guess that makes sense.
...So that group is basically done being checked. At a glance, there didn't seem to be any major problems. Then I should move on to Mr. Otis's side.
Now then...
"Look properly. Ingredients should be used in a balanced way. You keep eating only what you like, so you never grow taller."
"I-I'm still growing, you know...!"
Sinclair snapped back at Otis's dazzling tongue-lashing.
"...Probably."
...She stopped halfway through.
Hm. Come to think of it, how old was Sinclair again? Middle school? High school?
If he's in high school, that's bad. By that age, growth is basically over. But with that height...
Well, I'll pray Sinclair is younger than I think. Otherwise, that'd be pretty sad.
"And eating such an unbalanced diet is why your hair has gone so white."
"Faust is... naturally..."
"The reason your hands got so rough is all because you're a picky eater."
"What? This is from years of work at sea!"
"Otis! What about me? What about me?"
"Stop shouting so noisily! How vulgar!"
...This feels weirdly familiar. Am I not at the Company right now, but back at my family home?
That slightly warped common sense, the age, even the way they speak—it all somehow reminds me of every mother in the City.
Well, compared to Mr. Meursault's side, these people are relatively normal, so there shouldn't be any real problem.
So what's the result going to be...
This time, unlike those hideous and incomprehensible dishes from before, I was actually looking forward to it.
*
Clack.
The dish from Mr. Meursault's side looked like something straight out of a cookbook, leaving no room for a single flaw.
A dish worthy of being called a first real meal after three rounds of cooking... something moving enough to bring tears to the eyes.
"Then, I'll taste it."
First, the aroma passes. It's the most basic kind, but also the most appetizing chicken scent.
The appearance, too, was already mentioned, so there was no need to say more. Pass.
The most important part is the taste, though...
"Hup. Munch, munch..."
Hm... It tastes... good. It definitely does... but...
"How is it? Is it acceptable?"
"Yes, overall it's a pass... point. But..."
It was a clean, flawless chicken. But...
"For something that's supposed to be a dish that opens the heart, it feels a little lacking."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
Oh no, if I don't explain this, I'm going to get beaten to death. Better explain quickly.
"...Judging by the circumstances, this chicken shop was probably not far behind that Bodhisattva Chicken place. It was this close to a franchise chicken shop, and if it had a recipe, it wouldn't have gone under until now."
"Right."
"But even so, this chicken shop probably wasn't the kind that tried to win purely with basic chicken. A neighborhood chicken place can't beat a franchise shop on fundamentals alone."
"...So?"
"Which means this place must have had its own distinct character. Something special enough for a neighborhood chicken shop to stand against a franchise..."
"....."
"In the end, this dish is a passing grade. But to open the heart of a once-thriving neighborhood chicken shop owner, it feels like something... is missing. That's about it."
Mr. Heathcliff, who had been badgering me for an explanation, fell silent at my conclusion.
"...I'll admit it. Still, I think it was a meal without regret."
"Personally, I'd like to keep eating this, Mr. Meursault."
Unfortunately, Mr. Meursault was eliminated by a narrow margin. Then it's Otis's turn now... and this is?
"Neat. It's not flashy, but it's clean and pleasant to look at."
As Dante said, the plating of Otis's dish was quite good. This is promising.
"What do the hour and minute hands on the food mean, Otis?"
"I decorated it modestly to show my respect for the Manager."
"Oh...! It's a shame I can't give extra points."
"...Ugh..."
Hm, so the hour and minute hands were Ishmael's work. Unlike Otis's words, it looks like she had a pretty rough time of it.
Hmm... Ah! I forgot for a moment. First, let's check the potential—
"Let's hand this straight over to the pub owner."
"For what reason?"
"Just looking at it, it seems like it'll taste good, and even at a glance it feels like a passing grade. From that alone, I really do want to try it."
"Then why refuse it? I hope you have a proper reason."
Alright, let me explain.
"The basic reason for refusing a tasting is the plating. It's arranged so neatly and pleasantly that it gives off the exact feeling of something meant to be eaten as is. If I were to taste it, that plating would inevitably be disturbed in some way. Then, naturally, it would move one step farther away from opening the heart."
"Reasonable. Then what's the other reason?"
"Just looking at it, I can tell. This dish has something that draws people in. At that level, there's something you can feel just from the aroma and appearance alone."
That's not wrong, since I actually observed a visible possibility.
Well, in the end, not eating it also roughly fits the idea that preserving the plating raises the chance of opening the heart.
...It's true.
"...I don't really get it, but you mean we just need to bring back that owner or whatever, right?"
"That's right."
Then the person with the most strength is...
"Meursault, Heathcliff. Could I ask you two for this?"
"If it is an order."
"Good. Let's go!"
After that, everything moved like clockwork.
The owner was brought in before the food could cool, and then came the tasting.
The impression that came out of that was so sensory that even Dante said it was beyond words, so I'll replace it with a scene only faintly observed through the eyes instead of language.
*
...Yes, it's a flashback.
"What is that look on you? Why are you wearing some grotesque mask on your head?"
A woman who instinctively felt like the owner's mother was scolding him in a familiar tone.
"Back in my day, I went through all kinds of things and still managed to live! If you get discouraged over something that small, how are you supposed to survive this harsh world? Honestly..."
[My mother was always... like that. More often than not, instead of gentle or comforting words, she wore criticism like armor and kept nagging. Even something as ordinary as a single piece of chicken that everyone else ate, she handled so strictly... While frying the chicken, I had somehow forgotten something important. I...]
"Mother..."
Just before the words from the man who seemed to be the owner could continue, the consciousness that had sunk beneath the surface suddenly rose back up.
"Now! The owner's Distortion is weakening!"
No, not at a time like this!
"Look at this! A door of some kind has appeared in front of the owner! Are we supposed to go inside?"
"What exactly was different about Otis's dish?"
"Well, I suppose it might have been something like a mother's touch."
"Advance, everyone. We're going to finish this."
Finish it... might not be the best expression, but I can't forgive abruptly cutting off a story I was finally getting absorbed in.
Once we went inside, that story would probably continue as well. Without hesitation, we headed for the door to resolve the Distortion.