Blood Duck and Sour Plums

The moonlight spilled silver over the surface of the lake, its rippling reflection casting an almost spectral glow.

The nearby trees rustled faintly in the night breeze. It was quiet—peaceful, but cold. And despite the earlier meal, Leonora sat beneath the veranda outside the tavern, her appetite still unfulfilled.

She tapped her fingers on the armrest of her chair and turned to Zane with curiosity gleaming in her aquamarine eyes.

"Zane," she asked, "have you been working on any new dishes lately?"

Zane, who was calmly sipping tea under the same moonlight, gave a soft smile.

"Yes," he said. "Though I doubt it'll suit the tastes of Northern Europeans."

Leonora raised a thin brow, intrigued. "Oh?"

"How about I make you a plate of blood duck?"

She blinked. "Wait… blood duck? You can make blood duck?"

Zane's smile deepened, subtle and confident.

"Of course. Would you like to try some?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation. "Let me see if your version can stir memories of home."

When people think of French cuisine, it's foie gras, fine steak, truffles, maybe escargot.

But hidden within the upper echelons of true French gastronomic history is a legendary, rarely-spoken name—

Canard au Sang.

Blood Duck.

Known for centuries but seen on very few menus. Rare. Expensive. Controversial.

The process of preparing blood duck is… not for the squeamish.

To preserve the blood's integrity, the duck cannot be drained postmortem.

It must be strangled. Slowly. Precisely.

A technique passed down like whispered lore.

In France, special tools exist—guillotines for poultry, blood-preserving presses. Tools for those unafraid to walk the tightrope between art and taboo.

After roasting the duck until half-cooked, the chef slices the breast and legs at the table. The remaining body, organs, and bones are inserted into a duck press, extracting a rich, thick blood essence.

That essence becomes the foundation of a velvety sauce, mixed with cognac, broth, and butter.

Then the duck breast is cooked again, this time coated in its own lifeblood.

Cruel?

Maybe.

But like many old-world dishes, blood duck isn't just food—it's performance. Ritual. Alchemy.

In the dim glow of the tavern kitchen, Zane began his work.

With surgical precision, he removed the liver and gizzard, carved the meat from the blood-rich parts of the duck, and separated the legs and breast.

Each movement was clean, smooth.

Like he'd done this a hundred times before.

Then, from the back shelf, he brought out a polished pressing machine. Modern, efficient—but designed after the classical French duck press. He turned the iron handle methodically, bones and organs compressed beneath the steel plates.

The thick crimson liquid that emerged was pure essence.

Rich in iron, vitamins, protein—often called "liquid meat" in ancient texts.

Zane began preparing his sauce.

Duck blood. Butter. Cognac. Fresh broth. Aromatic herbs. A spoonful of minced duck liver for depth.

The mixture shimmered ruby-red under the light.

Leonora watched, wide-eyed.

"You're not even blinking…"

Zane didn't respond.

In Northern Europe, blood dishes weren't uncommon. Not historically.

In fact, they were essential.

Winters were long. Cold. Unforgiving.

People made use of every part of an animal—blood included. Mixed with flour, potatoes, spices. Fried into pancakes. Formed into sausages. Preserved in clay pots.

Blood dishes weren't just cultural—they were survival.

But even Leonora, raised in that tradition, hadn't expected to see blood duck reborn like this.

To Zane, though—

This wasn't horror. This was beauty. This was like sashimi—an exercise in delicacy, skill, and reverence for life.

He finished plating.

A deep porcelain dish. White as snow. At the center: two tender slices of duck breast glazed in burgundy sauce, resting atop a puree of blackthorn berries and wild garlic oil.

He bowed lightly.

"Please enjoy."

Leonora leaned forward. The aroma hit her first.

Bloody? Yes.

But that scent was quickly masked by an earthy, buttery richness, sharpened with herbs and sweet undertones.

She lifted her knife and sliced gently into the duck breast. The meat was impossibly tender.

She took a bite.

Her pupils widened.

Blood duck may be rare in Northern Europe.

But in Paris, it had become a legend.

Once immortalized at La Tour d'Argent, a restaurant nearly 400 years old, where each blood duck was numbered and ceremoniously presented with a certificate. As of 1996, they'd passed the one-million mark.

That ritual—that reverence—was baked into Zane's dish.

Leonora took another bite.

Then paused.

"Wait. There are two herbs in here I almost didn't recognize…"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Wild garlic… and shepherd's purse?"

Zane gave a knowing smile.

"Both are Chinese herbs, aren't they?"

Leonora nodded, astonished.

"And yet… mixed with lingonberry, beetroot, blackthorn, and white asparagus… the flavor is… incredible."

"It's East meets West," she whispered.

A perfect marriage. Not fusion for fusion's sake, but flavor born of understanding.

Alice, who had just entered from the tavern's back door, blinked.

"Wait, Mom—aren't blood ducks supposed to be Nordic cuisine?"

"Not this one," Leonora replied, closing her eyes in thought.

"Wild garlic removes the sharp edge of the blood."

"Shepherd's purse enhances the fragrance."

"This isn't just Nordic food. This is something beyond."

She opened her eyes again and looked at Zane.

"Are you sure you're not from Northern Europe?"

"Didn't I say?" Zane chuckled, scratching his nose.

"Nordic cuisine isn't hard at all."

They laughed.

But Leonora's heart stirred.

The duck had evoked something buried—dormant for years.

Not just the taste of home.

But the feel of it.

Childhood.

Lab nights with Alice.

Old winters full of books, steam, laughter, and sour plum tea.

She sighed softly.

"It's good," she said finally. "Really good."

Later that night, as mist pooled along the street and moonlight danced across cobblestones—

A new visitor appeared.

"Owner," came a soft, cheerful voice. "Your place has changed quite a bit."

Zane looked up from the bar.

A girl with delicate features, light-blonde hair clipped back with a white pin, and an elegant outfit stepped inside like a breeze.

"Well, if it isn't Mana's assistant—Executor Anne."

She sat down, smoothing her skirt.

"Lady Mana's too busy tonight. But she told me to bring back something warm for her."

Zane smiled.

"Rare guest, indeed."

Anne sipped mint tea and ordered egg fried rice.

But just as she finished, a nearby customer requested a bowl of butter rice.

Zane moved fluidly.

Warm rice, a thick pat of butter, a splash of seafood soy sauce. The fragrance alone had Anne's stomach rumbling.

Then a bowl of soup, meat, vegetables.

The customer left quietly, money on the table.

Anne observed it all.

"Looks like you've grown."

The tavern bustled in a way it hadn't before. Sonoka and Ryoko cooking. Erina cleaning. Alice laughing in the corner with a pink-haired intern.

"I'm impressed," Anne said. "Your place is thriving."

Zane gave her a calm nod.

"It's thanks to everyone's effort."

"Including the three interns staying here—business has been great."

He looked her in the eye.

"Executor, you've been here a while. Hungry?"

Anne smirked.

"Alright. Surprise me."

Zane tapped his chin.

"Sour plum fried rice."

"Perfect."

Sour plum fried rice.

An elegant twist on comfort food.

Zane chopped crisp plums, beat eggs, fried meat and onions. Then the rice—fragrant and slightly cooled, so the chopped plums wouldn't dissolve.

The kitchen filled with aroma.

When he plated it—

The rice glowed.

Literally.

A beam of light burst from the dish like a culinary magic trick.

Anne blinked. Then laughed softly.

"Still glowing, huh?"

She scooped a spoonful.

Egg, rice, green onion, plum.

The tartness hit her tongue, balanced by sweetness, chased by savory warmth.

"Why is the plum flavor so clear?"

Zane explained calmly.

"Too hot, and it dissolves. Too cold, and it dulls."

"So I let the rice cool to about fifty degrees—then mix in the chopped plum."

Anne chewed, amazed.

"You really thought of everything."

Zane turned back to the kitchen without another word.

Anne watched him, something like admiration flickering in her gaze.

This wasn't just food.

It was philosophy.

And tonight, she could taste it.