[English Edition Only] Bonus Episode — The Taste You Crave Even in Another World

Even after coming to another world, I still find myself remembering that taste. It was the taste of those beef bowls you’d find all over Japan—usually crammed next to train stations, always cheap, fast, and weirdly addictive. My brain wasn't looking for complexity; it was screaming for something more rational: a hit of that greasy, salt-laden, junk-food pleasure.

Once the idea took hold, I moved immediately. The key to this wasn't some high-end Wagyu. I needed cheap, thinly sliced beef with a good balance of lean meat and fat. That’s what gets you closest to "that taste," and it becomes surprisingly tender when simmered.

"Mrrp. (Starting something again, are we? I assume there’s a portion for me?)"

I completely ignored Tama as she rubbed against my legs. Sorry, cat, but I’ve got no time for you right now. This is a private operation.

I reached into the back of the upper kitchen cabinet. My prize was there: "Dashida," a Korean beef stock powder. This, combined with white wine and a secret dash of kelp tea, was the optimal solution for a perfect recreation.

First, I sliced two onions into wedges. I kept them a bit thick; I’m particular about keeping some of the texture. I poured 500 milliliters of water into a pot and added light soy sauce, sugar, white wine, the magic Dashida powder, and the kelp tea. Cheap cooking wine was fine—in fact, it was the rational choice for achieving that specific sharp finish.

"Alright, let's start with the onions."

Once the broth reached a boil, I tossed in the onions, covered the pot, and let them simmer over medium-low heat for five minutes. When the onions turned slightly translucent, I added 500 grams of beef. The trick is to separate the slices one by one so they don't clump together. If you’re sloppy here, you end up with a meat-mass that prevents the flavor from soaking in efficiently.

"Meow. (...Oh. That actually smells surprisingly good. The aroma of melting beef fat isn't bad at all.)"

I simmered it for about twenty minutes on medium heat, carefully skimming off the foam as the broth gradually infused into the meat. But I wasn't done yet. My rationalism demanded a "cooling" phase. I killed the heat and, once it reached room temperature, I put the whole thing in the fridge. Letting it sit for three or four hours allows the flavor to penetrate deep into the fibers as the temperature drops, making the meat incredibly tender. This "waiting time" is the shortest route to maximizing deliciousness.

A few hours later, I put the pot back on the stove. As it heated up, the trapped aromas expanded all at once, overwriting the air in the room. Underneath the sweet and salty soy sauce was the powerful beefy depth of the Dashida, balanced by the fruity acidity of the white wine. Inside the pot, amber-colored onions and rippled slices of beef shimmered with a golden glaze.

"Time to eat..."

I scooped fresh white rice into a bowl and piled the piping-hot meat on top until I couldn't see the grains. To finish, I took the concentrated essence of flavor from the bottom of the pot—the sauce—and swirled it over the top. Every grain of rice began to glisten like a jewel, coated in hot beef fat.

I grabbed a cluster of meat with my chopsticks and shoved a large mouthful in.

...This was it. The moment I bit down, the meat fibers unraveled, releasing a flood of trapped savory broth. It was hard to believe this was the cheap meat I’d bought on sale; the texture was practically sensual. The Dashida amplified the natural, wild savoriness of the beef, while the white wine’s sharpness kept everything in perfect balance. Right behind that, the thick-cut onions offered a crisp snap followed by a melting sweetness.

I worked my chopsticks like a man possessed. The rice, stained amber by the sauce, slid down my throat while still radiating heat. I spent the first bowl enjoying the meat. For the second, I went "extra-sauce" style, slurping it down like a savory porridge. By the time I was plating my third serving, the mountain of meat had vanished as if it were an illusion.

"Mrow! Mrrrrp! (Hey! Are you planning on eating it all?! Give me some, you glutton!)"

It’s too salty for you, Tama. Besides, this is my sanctuary. I’ll give you a nice treat later, so just let me have this.

In the end, I ran out of toppings. But I still had the sauce. I poured a generous amount of the leftover broth over a final bowl of rice and shoveled it in.

"...Is it possible the rice with the sauce is actually the main event?"

Even without the meat, this broth—infused with the absolute limit of beef essence—was enough to make me eat forever. Before I knew it, the pot that should have held four servings was empty. I’d polished off the entire thing, including the massive amount of rice I’d cooked, all by myself.

"Note to self: I need to make eight servings next time."

As I stared at my empty bowl, I began installing a "mass production plan" into my brain for the next craving.

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