The golden rays of the afternoon sun streamed through the windows of Noura's Kitchen, casting warm, dappled light over wooden tables and bubbling pots. The scent of spices hung thick in the air—turmeric, lemongrass, coriander—all blending into a delicious symphony of aroma that had, by now, become the unmistakable signature of her eatery.
It had been several weeks since the eatery first opened. What began as a modest stall had blossomed into a bustling cornerstone of Elderwood. Children came for sweet rice cakes, adventurers craved her fiery sambal, and merchants stopped by on their long travels to sip on hot herbal tea infused with karilea. But there was one patron who stood out from all the rest—a man who appeared at the same time every day and always ordered the same thing.
Noura first noticed him during a rainy afternoon. Unlike the others who rushed in with wet cloaks and muddy boots, this old man had entered quietly, dry and composed, his presence barely stirring the bell above the door. He wore simple, well-worn clothes, and his eyes—though wrinkled with age—held a peculiar sharpness, like someone who had seen too much and spoken too little.
Every day since, he came at precisely the same hour, sat at the same table in the far corner, and ordered either her chicken stew or nasi goreng. He said little, merely nodding politely when served. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, and left exactly when the sun dipped behind the western tree line.
Noura's curiosity grew.
She had asked the villagers about him, but none seemed to know his name. Some assumed he was a traveling sage or a wandering bard who'd lost his way. Others simply shrugged and said, "He's quiet and pays with silver. That's enough."
But for Noura, it wasn't enough. Not when her food clearly stirred something in him.
One day, as Mika dashed between tables delivering plates of martabak manis and Lira juggled drink orders with a grin, Noura approached the old man's table.
"Good afternoon," she said gently. "I hope you don't mind if I join you."
The man looked up, his expression unreadable, then motioned to the seat across from him.
"I've noticed you always order the same dishes," Noura began. "You seem to enjoy them."
"I do," the man replied, his voice low and calm. "They taste like… something I lost."
Noura tilted her head. "Like a memory?"
He nodded. "Exactly. A memory. Or perhaps a dream I thought I had forgotten."
"May I ask your name?"
The man smiled faintly. "Names are... complicated. But you may call me Wanderer."
Noura raised an eyebrow. "That's quite a title."
"I've earned it." He chuckled softly, the lines on his face folding like worn pages of a book. "I have walked far and long, across mountains and oceans, through cities built of gold and ruins bathed in moonlight."
His words felt rehearsed, almost poetic, yet they sent a shiver down Noura's spine.
"And yet, it is this place, this little eatery in a quiet village, that reminds me of something important. Something… dear."
Noura leaned in. "What exactly do you remember?"
Wanderer's gaze drifted toward the window, where the sun was dipping low.
"The warmth of hearth and home," he said after a long pause. "The scent of a kitchen filled with laughter. The texture of rice, soft and familiar. The rich, savory sweetness of semur."
He closed his eyes briefly. "Your food brings that back to me."
Later that evening, as the last patrons filed out and Mika stacked the chairs, Noura stood at her stove, thinking. Something about Wanderer's presence tugged at her. He wasn't just a customer—there was a story buried beneath the quiet nods and cryptic phrases.
"I want to cook something for him," she said aloud.
Lira glanced over. "Something special?"
"Yes. Something... personal."
She pulled out ingredients she had saved—fresh ginsara roots, local garlic, and tender cuts of poultry. Inspired by Korean samgyetang and fused with Elderwood's flora, she brewed a chicken soup rich with earthy sweetness and an herbal depth that could warm the soul.
Recipe: Ginsara Samgyetang (Elderwood's Herbal Chicken Soup)
"A healing bowl of warmth, inspired by Korean samgyetang but infused with the magical touch of Ginsara root."
Ingredients:
1 whole young free-range chicken (cleaned)
1 medium Ginsara root (thinly sliced)
5 garlic cloves (crushed)
1 small onion (diced)
1 handful glutinous rice (soaked for 30 minutes)
5 dried jujubes (optional, for natural sweetness)
2 karilea leaves (substitute for Korean ginseng leaves)
5 whole black peppercorns
1 tsp salt
1 liter chicken broth (or water)
2 green onions (sliced diagonally, for garnish)
Stuffing Paste (For Chicken Cavity):
1 tsp grated ginger
1 tsp wild honey
1 tsp sesame oil
½ tsp white pepper
Instructions:
Prepare the Stuffing:
Mix soaked glutinous rice, crushed garlic, diced onion, jujubes, and sliced Ginsara root.In a separate bowl, combine ginger, honey, sesame oil, and white pepper into a paste. Rub this inside the chicken cavity.Stuff the rice mixture into the chicken and tie the legs with kitchen twine to secure.
Cook the Soup:Place the chicken in a large pot with breast side up. Add karilea leaves, peppercorns, and salt.Pour broth (or water) until the chicken is nearly submerged.Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low. Cover and simmer for 1 hour until the chicken is tender and the rice stuffing is cooked.
Serve:Carefully transfer the whole chicken to a deep serving bowl. Ladle the fragrant broth over it.Garnish with sliced green onions.
Elderwood's Twist:
Ginsara Root: Adds earthy warmth and restorative properties (like Korean ginseng but with a slightly woody aftertaste).
Karilea Leaves: Infuse a subtle curry-like aroma, replacing traditional ginseng leaves.
Pro Tip: For extra magic, let the soup sit overnight—the Ginsara's flavors deepen like a potion!
***
The next day, when Wanderer arrived, she served the steaming bowl with a soft smile. "For you. A little experiment."
He inhaled the aroma slowly, and something in his face shifted.
He took a spoonful. Chewed. Swallowed.
Then... silence. A long, breathless moment.
His eyes glistened.
"This..." he whispered, voice cracking. "This is almost like home."
Noura sat across from him, watching.
Wanderer looked at her. "There was a dish, long ago. My grandmother made it. She grew herbs in pots beside the fire. When I was sick, she cooked me a broth that healed more than just my body."
He paused.
"That was... a hundred years ago."
From the counter, Mika dropped a fork.
"A hundred?!" he squeaked.
Wanderer laughed, a soft wheeze like wind through trees. "Time is a river, young one. And some of us float differently along its current."
"Are you a mage?" Lira asked, half-joking, half-serious.
Wanderer didn't answer directly. "I've crossed borders where magic meets memory. Tasted spices that sing and sauces that whisper. But only here, now, does the flavor of something truly real return to me."
He came again the next day. And the day after. And each time, Noura would try something new. A fried rice using karilea leaves and tamarind glaze. A coconut broth with floating slices of acairis. Always experimenting, always watching his reactions.
One evening, after the crowd thinned and the stars began their nightly glow, Wanderer stood to leave.
Instead of paying with his usual silver, he pulled out a single gold coin.
It was old—older than any Noura had ever seen. Etched with markings in a language she didn't recognize, it shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
He placed it gently on the counter.
"Should you ever open a shop beyond these lands," he said, eyes locked on hers, "remember this: flavor is a key. It unlocks memory. Emotion. Even... time."
"Who are you really?" Noura asked, breath caught in her throat.
Wanderer smiled.
"A hungry man," he said simply. "Grateful for a meal that reminded him of who he once was."
And then he was gone. Into the night.
Weeks passed, but Wanderer didn't return.
His absence left a quiet space in Noura's heart, like the lingering scent of cloves after a pot had been emptied. She kept the coin in a carved wooden box beside her spice rack, a token of something unspoken.
Noura had a lot of question in her mind. Who is he? Is he from another world too? Is he from Korea? Or somewhere else? She asked it in her mind. Never found the answer.
Sometimes, when she stirred her stew or added a dash of nutmeg to her rice, she'd catch a whiff of memory herself.
Not hers.
But his.
Because flavor, she now knew, was not just about food.
It was a bridge.
Across time.
Across stories.
And across worlds.
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