Chapter 7
“To Enoch, whose heart is as soft as pudding.
Don’t cry, just tell me slowly… I was shocked to see such a long letter. So the reason you wrote me a three-page letter was simply because a crow said your food tasted bad, right?
The fact that you spent three whole pages just to say that shows how upset you were. Hey, can I be honest? Promise you won’t sulk or cry if I say this?
Do you know you’re really cute right now? Today, after yet another sleepless night, I woke up with my head pounding like I’d been hit with a hammer. Then I ate that dog-food-like rations and went on an air raid to obliterate the enemy base. Think about it! After dragging my tired body back, I find a letter from a man crying his eyes out just because someone said his ratatouille wasn’t tasty.
I’m sorry, but I laughed so hard reading your letter because you were just so adorable! I mean, I’m someone who drops massive bombs on enemy bases as a daily routine, and you want me to get angry on behalf of your ratatouille’s honor? And you’re seriously upset about it!
Well, I do think it’s a shame you heard that from the crow. You must have done your best, but got a bad review. Maybe you used too many spices? I’ve had plenty of ratatouille and it rarely tastes like candles. (Are you sure you’re good at cooking?)
As you know, I’ve never actually tasted your cooking! How can anyone say for sure who’s right or wrong? At the very least, it’s probably better than the brick-like rations we get… but cooking should be judged after tasting. I’m staying neutral.
But don’t feel too bad. I really do think you’re cute. Cute men can’t cook well and it’s fine. Really. Keep sending me these adorable letters!
— H. A”
“To Miss Helen, who doesn’t understand my hurt feelings.
That’s so mean! You know I was upset, yet you refuse to take my side? What happened to me was not cute at all! Just thinking about the insult I got from that crow makes me want to hide under a blanket, and all you do is call me cute!
And I absolutely am not the kind of person who cooks food that tastes like candles. If I were, why would the picky-eating crow keep coming to my house for meals? He must have just been being difficult. Or maybe he didn’t like the menu.
To prove that the crow was wrong, I invited the greatest chef from the far western lands. Not a wizard or witch. Not even human! But a highly renowned chef who can make gourmet dishes with ease.
You might be surprised, but the chef is a mouse. One of us children of the night. He’s so meticulous that he even wears his own chef’s uniform. Hygiene is very important to him.
Anyway, I begged him to prove my cooking was fine, and he finally agreed to come tomorrow! I’m confident in my cooking, but I can’t help being nervous. Hold my hand!
I will flatten that crow’s beak for sure!
On a night with all the windows shut tight,
Enoch Greer”
“To Enoch, who now even introduces me to mice.
A mouse is the greatest chef? And he cooks? He must be the kind of mouse so clean that his fur smells like shampoo.
And he even wears a uniform? Damn, that’s unbearably cute. What’s his name? Sounds like it’d be something like Mister Peanut or Shamenberry Pickle.
The image of that tiny body moving around to cook is so cute I want to see it. If you get a camera, make sure it can record video!
A mouse chef… mice sure have diverse talents. I feel bad about all the mice we beat up at the base.
— H. A”
“To Miss Helen, who has gotten it all wrong.
The chef’s name is not Mister Peanut or Shamenberry Pickle! Mice have proper names, you know!
His name is Johann Sebastian Grubach. Sure, size-wise he may be called cute, but Helen, never underestimate mice—especially Chef Grubach.
I ended up meeting him… and my heart was left completely in tatters.
Let me tell you one thing: In your world, you might beat up mice, but here, mice can beat you to a pulp.
I’m serious.
Help me, Helen.
<This letter contains a distress signal.>
On a night when I learned 500 new insults from a mouse chef,
Enoch Greer”
“To Enoch, whose situation I am now dying to know.
What happened, a mouse swarm attack? You didn’t get bitten, did you?
Clearly something happened after meeting that mouse chef, and I’m disappointed in you, Enoch. Losing to a mouse? You’re a big man! How could you let a mouse beat you?
But wait… that Grubach or Grub-root or whatever you called him—if he can cook, he must be able to use a kitchen knife, right? So the fight must have been pretty wild. Just how strong is this mouse, swinging knives around? Are you sure it’s even a mouse?
A mouse that can use tools… that’s terrifying. Upset him and he might really lodge a frying pan in your skull.
But hey, you’re a wizard! A wizard! Someone who can use magic! Even if it’s a homicidal mouse that can juggle knives, you should have the upper hand. Couldn’t you just use telekinesis to fling him away? Or freeze him solid?
If you really lost to Grub-root the mouse, you’re a pathetic wizard. It’s common sense—magic should be stronger than a mouse. Now I get it—you froze up at the sight of a mouse!
You’re a princess raised in a flower garden. I’m calling you Princess from now on. I bet you can’t eat bread unless the crust is cut off.
Hey, Princess, so what happened to the mouse? Don’t tell me you gave him your house.
— H. A”
“To Miss Helen, who is completely serious about teasing me.
You’ve got it all wrong! His name is Grubach, not Grub-root. And while yes, he can use a kitchen knife, he does not juggle with it! And no, he’s never lodged a frying pan in my head!
You think he attacked me physically, but that’s not true. Of course, if he got really mad, he could probably throw knives like darts… but that didn’t happen.
I invited him to get revenge on the crow, and asked him to judge my ratatouille. He gladly agreed.
Up to that point, everything was peaceful. Truly.
Helen, what I didn’t tell you is that Chef Grubach is a different kind of sharp-tongued critic. If the crow is a mean-spirited one, Grubach is… like a goblin.
When he tasted my ratatouille, he said (I’ll mute the swears, I can’t write them in a letter to you; you can imagine the censored parts):
‘–, this tastes so — I could –. Use it for a cucumber face pack, you –.’
Can you imagine the shock I felt? And it didn’t end there.
‘What the — do you call this?’
‘Ra… ratatouille.’
‘Right, you –! This is — ratatouille! It should be mild yet vibrant, like chamber music and a symphony combined. But yours is like an orchestra made entirely of percussion. And all the players are monkeys! –, can you picture it? Tell me, Enoch—how would you feel listening to a hundred monkeys pounding drums and cymbals?’
I tried to answer quickly out of fear.
‘Not very good, I think.’
But that only made him angrier.
‘–, not very good? Aren’t you polite! Anyone would want to leave immediately because it’s torture! What’s your — problem that you’d turn a beautiful home-cooked dish into this mess?’
Never in my life have I been so scared and confused. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I still have my wizard’s pride! One doesn’t cry over ratatouille!
But I realized something—I should have just cried my eyes out right then.
Spending the night with a chef from hell,
Enoch Greer”
