I’m Quitting Everything and Selling Cola

Chapter 166

Chapter 166. The Invitation (2)

The demand set out in the invitation from the Royal Household was simple.

[Prepare banquet cuisine to mark the occasion of Her Majesty the Queen's Birthday.]

A single sentence, yet its weight was by no means light. At the same time, it was no ordinary matter.

One could easily forget, given the atmosphere in the North of late — but this was Britannia.

A culinary Wasteland where the whole of cooking culture amounted to boiling or grilling, and nothing more.

The conservative Royal Household, choosing to invite a newly risen trading company from the distant North — and to no less an occasion than the Queen's Birthday, the most important event of all?

By any ordinary standard of common sense, it was a startlingly unconventional invitation.

Yet Penelope, who had kept a close eye on market trends, had a sense of what lay behind it.

"So the capital has developed a demand for Fine Dining of its own lately. I see now just how far it's gone."

As one well knew, the latest trend sweeping the North of late was, without question, 'Fine Dining.'

The culture of enjoying fine food — not merely filling one's stomach — had spread rapidly through the ranks of the nobility.

The great houses of the North had each been scouting capable cooks for themselves. They were competing to outdo one another, racing to host banquets with ever finer food.

There was no reason why this vast tide should be confined to the North alone.

Noble society is a small world. The Social Circles of the North and the Social Circles of the capital Albion are invariably connected by invisible threads.

The nobles of the capital who had returned from the North having experienced remarkable flavours would never have simply sat still.

'In the North, they eat meat that melts in the mouth, apparently,'

'The banquets there are on an entirely different level, they say.'

To the trend-sensitive and vanity-driven nobles of the capital Albion, the wave of Fine Dining emanating from the North must have become the object of an irresistible curiosity.

It was hardly strange that the capital's nobles, having enjoyed fine food during their time in the North, should find themselves thinking: 'Why don't we try our hand at it too?'

"It seems they have judged Y&P Trading Company to be the centre of Fine Dining in the capital as well."

Penelope said it with studied composure. Yet Jurgen did not miss the momentary flicker deep in her eyes.

"What would you have us do?"

"We go, of course. We can't afford to miss an opportunity like this."

"There is no need to push yourself too hard. Clarisse is in the capital right now, is she not?"

Indeed.

Unlike the previous trip to the royal capital, Clarisse Rosemore was presently residing in Albion. The succession negotiations for the Rosemore Count Family had been dragging on with maddening delays.

"If we go to the capital, there is quite a high likelihood — almost a certainty — that you will cross paths with her. It may not be avoidable."

At Jurgen's words, the very tips of Penelope's fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.

Clarisse. The vast shadow that had weighed upon Penelope her entire life.

Even now, in the midst of all her success, the wall that was her elder sister still felt as high as ever — that much was the truth.

But the silence did not last long.

"It's fine. The old me would have run away…… but not now."

Penelope straightened her spine and met Jurgen's gaze. In place of anxiety, a firm and unwavering resolve was written there.

The achievements she had forged with her own two hands had made Penelope into a fully-fledged noble in her own right.

"I'm not going as the Second Daughter of Rosemore who cowers under her elder sister's eye. I'm going as the Representative of Y&P Trading Company, and I'm going with my head held high. What is there to shrink from?"

Jurgen smiled, warm with satisfaction at the person she had become.

"You put me at ease. Then all I need to do is trust our Representative and follow her lead."

"Hmm, what sort of thing is that? I'm the one who trusts you."

And so the trip to the royal capital was decided. Between the two of them, as they looked at one another, there flowed a warmth so gentle and yet so strangely charged it might have melted the winter wind itself.

"……"

'Ahh, I want something like that too.'

Watching the two of them, dripping with sweetness even in this moment, Serena thought to herself.

Hisssss!

Releasing a great billowing plume of white steam, the enormous iron horse ground to a halt.

It was Albion Central Station — the heart of the Kingdom.

"Phew……"

The very first thing to meet them as they stepped off the train was a wave of heat washing over the skin.

Unlike the North, where fresh new shoots had only just begun to push through, Albion was already deep into spring. The thick coats they had worn on the journey felt almost comically cumbersome.

"Ugh…… It's so warm……"

Serena fanned herself with her hand and looked around. She had not accompanied them for the Royal Culinary Competition, so this was a genuine outing to the capital after quite a long while.

"The North really is the best, isn't it. Right, Brigitte?"

"Is it? I rather like the hustle and bustle of the capital! The buildings are so enormously tall!"

"No. Listen carefully and take note. Every single person in the capital is two-faced and calculating."

"Really?"

"Truly."

Was it the unpleasant memories from her time at the Royal University? Serena was busily working to instill her prejudices into the innocent Brigitte.

The party pressed through the crowd and emerged into the square in front of Albion Central Station.

The scene that spread out before them was dazzling and, at the same time, so chaotic as to make one's head swim.

Stone buildings that rose at least three storeys taller than anything in the North. The gaps between them packed densely with shops and food stalls. The shouts of hawkers and the rumble of carriage wheels formed a towering wall of noise.

"Oh."

It was a scene Jurgen had seen to the point of weariness as Hanbin Ainsworth. Yet there were differences now that caught the eye.

[Direct from the capital factory! That sharp, refreshing kick! The choice of the nobility — Y&P Cola!]

For instance — a vivid standing signboard the moment they stepped into the square.

"Oh? Teacher! Look at that! That's Cola over there too!"

Brigitte pointed in amazement. And it was not merely signboards.

In the hands of the people passing through the station square, and on the stalls of every prime-positioned street vendor, the familiar dark bottles were being held and sold. At the tables of open-air cafés, Cola sat in the place of wine more often than not.

The fruits of having released the Syrup Recipe and the Bottling Licence to target the capital were unfolding right before their eyes.

"At this rate, the Culinary Revolution is already halfway won, isn't it? The North started with Cola too."

"There is no need to read it unfavourably."

It was just as Jurgen and Penelope were walking the streets of the royal capital with a quietly gratified feeling that —

"Step right up! Form a line! The very dish they say the heroes of the North eat! A taste that will knock even the Queen off her feet! Chicken for sale!"

A booming hawker's cry from somewhere nearby.

"……They're selling chicken?"

"Has CCC opened a branch in Albion as well?"

Serena tilted her head quizzically.

"No, the only one here is for Royal Household supply. We haven't been able to build the distribution network yet."

"It really does seem like we've made it big! Even the people of the capital are copying us!"

"Let's go and see for ourselves."

The party's footsteps were drawn there as if under a spell.

"Come one, come all — freshly fried Chicken, right here!"

The front of the shop was an absolute sea of people. Citizens making their way home from work, travellers with expressions full of curiosity. Even young nobles accompanied by servants had money in hand, all queuing up.

And yet.

"……"

"……"

"That is…… chicken?"

The expressions of the Y&P party, having confirmed the real thing up close, twisted in a peculiar fashion.

"Come on now — fried to order! Crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside!"

The condition of the chicken the vendor was fishing out of the pot with an enormous ladle…… was very far from good.

The batter that ought to have been gleaming gold had soaked up far too much oil and turned a muddy dark colour, and the surface that should have looked crisp appeared to be soggy with moisture instead.

"My goodness…… that's supposed to be chicken?"

Brigitte whispered in a voice full of disbelief. Her instincts as a cook were recoiling in rejection.

"It smells more of flour than of chicken."

"Look at the colour of that oil. That hasn't been changed in at least a week. It's practically waste oil."

Well — there was nothing particularly surprising about it, in truth. The fried food that the average street stall sold in Britannia was about that standard.

The North was the anomaly.

"Selling that…… and calling it chicken."

Penelope felt an irrational surge of indignation.

It was not simply the problem of looking unappetising. The very idea of selling that sort of shoddy food on the same level as CCC's Chicken was beyond her comprehension, and produced a vague and unpleasant feeling.

"And why is the price like that? It's twice what our shop charges."

On top of everything, the premium pricing of the capital had been applied. It was almost enough to make one feel sorry for the long line of people waiting in front.

"Shall we try some?"

"Is there really any need to eat that?"

Even in the face of Penelope's horrified protests, Jurgen duly joined the queue and bought the Chicken. A paper bag saturated with grease. From the very tips of the fingers holding it, an unpleasant stickiness was immediately apparent.

"The batter is thick enough, at least."

He took a piece out and turned it this way and that.

One bite first.

There was no bright, satisfying crunch. Instead, a heavy greasiness, dry and flat chicken meat, and the taste of some unidentifiable and insipid spice filled his mouth entirely.

"Well?"

"……"

As expected, the taste was wretched. Not even a proper attempt had been made, the gamey smell of the chicken was wholly unchecked, and the batter had separated from the skin and floated away from it.

The feeling of having been thoroughly acquainted with a bountiful culinary life of late, only to be hurled back into the culinary ecosystem of Britannia once more.

"……Miss Brigitte."

"Yes, Teacher?"

"I find myself newly appreciating just how extraordinary the food you make truly is."

"You flatter me!"

Jurgen smiled with a bitter note and held out the remaining piece to Penelope.

"Would you care to try some?"

Penelope recoiled and waved him away in horror.

"No, absolutely not! I'll pass!"

"Even so — now that we've come all this way, one really ought to conduct a proper market survey."

"Uuugh……"

In the end, Penelope too took one bite and threw the rest away.

"Things are going smoothly."

"I beg your pardon? How can you say that? It tastes terrible."

Brigitte, who had eaten the chicken after Penelope, asked with a pained expression. It appeared her culinary pride as a cook was in no way capable of accepting it.

"This is not chicken!"

Serena, who made a ritual of ending each day with chicken, was simmering with indignation as though she could accept it equally little.

And yet, when one thought about it coolly — this was not a situation that could be read only in a negative light.

What demanded attention right now was not this dreadful chicken, but the long queue stretching out in front of the shop.

That itself.

"Did Britannia not originally lack any interest in Fine Dining whatsoever?"

"That…… is true."

There is a saying that indifference is more fearsome than hatred. It is a statement that means any culture which receives no attention at all will simply fade quietly into irrelevance, with no development of any kind.

And yet the people of Britannia were showing interest even in this dreadful food.

They grumbled that it tasted awful, and yet the queue itself stretched long and unbroken.

What did that signify?

People were hungry.

Not simply hungry for food.

They were thirsting for a new taste, a new experience, the very culture of Fine Dining itself. Hungry enough that even a counterfeit would do, to fill that thirst — so much so that they were willingly opening their purses for it.

The only thing absent was the real thing to satisfy that desire.

Truly, the Culinary Revolution was drawing within a hair's breadth of its completion.