Emilia already knows what the food will taste like before she even lifts her spoon. She learned it last night, when a maid brought dinner to her room as a courtesy from the Halvine household.
The tray had beautiful silver dishes, neat portions, and bread arranged carefully, everything was done with care and pride. But when Emilia tasted it, there was nothing. No depth. No warmth. She was left with only a coating of fat on her tongue, water that looked like soup, and bread so hard and dry that it scraped the inside of her mouth.
If she were still in Japan, she would have thrown the plate away without a second thought and demanded something else. As a proud chef, she felt offended if she were given that kind of food.
Here, she had swallowed it quietly, telling herself to be polite, telling herself she was a guest. At breakfast, she realizes that politeness has limits, she couldn't hold it in.
