BPCV 13

Chapter 13

“You said you’d definitely make it….”

Alina sighed as she looked at the mountain of potatoes stacked higher than her own height. This was the job Trudy had assigned her today.

Potato peeling.

When she first heard the instructions, she thought it would be an easy task. But facing this overwhelming mass of potatoes, she felt despair creeping in.

She had a bad feeling that she would have to give up her lunch break just to finish peeling all of them.

‘No, that’s not a feeling. That’s a fact.’

With near certainty, Alina knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her promise to meet Richard today.

The Imperial Palace Kitchen wasn’t just responsible for the meals of the royal family—it also fed the knights and everyone else working in the palace.

So every day, they had to prepare at least 200 servings. Even if they woke up at 5 a.m. and prepared ingredients immediately, it was a struggle to finish everything before the evening banquet.

Fortunately, the royal family ate a buffet-style lunch, and everyone else could be fed gradually like the knight order.

That part wasn’t too difficult.

The problem was the formal banquet—the most elaborate meal of the day.

Preparing potatoes for over two hundred people was far too much for one person.

If Richard hadn’t cast a healing spell on her, Alina might have collapsed again.

“Well, it has to be done. Let’s just do it. It’ll go down eventually.”

Muttering as though chanting a spell to herself, Alina began peeling the potatoes.

But even after two hours… three hours… the pile of potatoes needing peeling did not seem to shrink at all.

“How’s it going?”

Just as her back was starting to ache from sitting so long, Marika—today’s onion-duty worker—appeared with eyes red from irritation.

Judging by her face, the onion prep wasn’t a small task, either.

Alina tapped her lower back and asked,

“How do you think it’s going?”

“It looks like you’re not doing well at all. The onions are all done, but these potatoes still have a long way to go.”

Marika frowned at the mountain of potatoes next to Alina.

“Trudy is so awful. Telling you to peel all of this alone? That’s just spite! We had three people doing the onions!”

Alina chuckled at her words.

“Why would Trudy pick on me?”

“Our sous-chef always seems annoyed at something. Who knows what goes on in her mind.”

Rolling up her sleeves, Marika sat down and began peeling potatoes with her.

“Last time, Greta praised you once and Trudy started asking if you two were relatives. But if anyone’s related to you here, it’s me. Isn’t that just baseless jealousy?”

“Baseless, huh….”

Alina set down the potato she was peeling.

“Now that you mention it, maybe we need a fundamental solution.”

“What kind?”

“Marika, have you ever eaten potatoes with the peel?”

Marika looked at her as if she were absurd.

“No? Did anyone in Zenotart ever eat potato peels?”

Marika stopped peeling and rolled her eyes.

Thinking back on her days working in the Zenotart royal palace, she was sure no such dish existed.

“Hm. Yeah, I don’t remember anything like that. Right?”

Marika searched her memory and answered. Alina nodded.

If Marika hadn’t eaten it, it wasn’t part of Zenotart’s royal cuisine.

After all, the main reason Marika had worked in the Zenotart palace had been for the food.

Alina stared at the potatoes.

“Right. In Zenotart, mashed potatoes were the usual. You know, mashed potatoes.”

“Pretty much everywhere, I think. Even King Lanchel never had potato peels. That much I know for sure.”

Marika spoke confidently—she’d tasted the king’s leftovers when she worked in Zenotart.

There, it was customary for the king’s attendants to eat what the king left behind.

Even though they were cold leftovers, compared to the food in Malehark, it was practically art.

But only King Lanchel and his closest aides got the extravagant meals.

When she saw that the king’s children—other than the crown prince—were fed hard, stale bread and sprouted potatoes, she had been shocked.

Everyone in the palace was eating food worse than the king’s leftovers—practically garbage.

In fact, it became such an absurd situation that a maid like Marika ate richer, better meals than the princes and princesses.

More bizarre was that no one seemed to find anything wrong with this twisted system.

Working in the Zenotart palace had shattered Marika’s illusions about the “nation of gastronomy.”

It was glossy only on the surface.

Zenotart’s welfare was awful, too.

Alina, even as a palace maid, was always starving.

With bruises constantly on her body, she wasn’t paid properly and was likely abused.

Marika had taken Alina’s side when she saw how the girl never pitied herself and earnestly tried to learn cooking.

Especially after tasting Alina’s omelet, she’d gained complete trust in her.

Alina’s omelet surpassed even the palace’s head chef.

A smooth, elongated oval with tapered ends.

When cut through the center with a knife, the bright yellow, trembling eggs poured out like a waterfall.

There was no cream in it, yet it melted in the mouth so tenderly.

So when Alina said something strange like “potato peel dish,” Marika still believed in her.

“I’ve never eaten it, but if you made it, even dirt would taste good.”

“Oh, of course I’d wash the dirt thoroughly.”

Alina smiled shyly under her friend’s trusting gaze. Marika giggled, finding her adorable.

“Do whatever you want. Even if a few potatoes disappear from this mountain, no one will know. Greta already said you’re allowed to use ingredients.”

“Then should I try it?”

Encouraged, Alina pulled out three or four potatoes.

Round potatoes with unpeeled skins filled her small white hands.

As she examined them, Alina turned to Marika.

“I’m still just a kitchen assistant. So whatever I make won’t end up on the royal menu, right?”

“Well, of course. At least you need to be a sous-chef to propose dishes.”

Marika winced.

“Ugh, Trudy. It’d be so much better if we could show it to Greta. Too bad today is Nina’s performance at the nursery.”

“It can’t be helped.”

Alina sighed as well.

She wanted to show it to Greta more than to Trudy, but it was impossible to pull Greta away from her three-year-old daughter’s recital.

Greta had barely been able to spend time with Nina ever since Trudy took time off and disappeared.

So Alina chose the second-best option.

“What’s Trudy doing right now?”

“Last I saw, she was lounging in the kitchen eating yogurt. You know, that thick, sour, not-at-all-sweet stuff.”

Being Malehark-born but Zenotart-tongued in taste, Marika grimaced.

“Seriously, whenever Greta’s gone, it’s like the world belongs to her.”

But Alina brightened upon hearing this.

“Perfect. Trudy will like this dish too.”

“You’re not just slacking off because you don’t want to peel potatoes, are you?”

Trudy yawned lazily after being summoned by Alina and Marika.

“Potatoes are meant to be fried. Same with sweet potatoes and pumpkins too.”

Sitting at the table, she gave a short, mocking laugh.

“Anyway, what do Zenotart people know about frying? Calling me over to feed me dirt-covered peels….”

Alina gently placed a white plate before her.

“I scrubbed them thoroughly with a scouring pad, so don’t worry. Please try it.”

Suspicious, Trudy examined the dish.

It looked like a whole boiled potato mashed slightly, with its thin skin crisped up into golden flakes.

It looked almost as if a boiled potato had been lightly coated in batter and crisped. Steam rose through the cracks in the mashed potato.

“What is this? Boiled potatoes?”

“It’s a bit different. I mashed boiled potatoes and baked them in the oven. That makes the skins crisp.”

“Hmph. Nothing special then.”

Unable to resist the softness of fresh-boiled potatoes, Trudy lifted her fork.

“Wait a moment.”

Before the fork reached the potato, Alina drizzled olive oil and salt over it, then added a spoonful of thick, white cream.

Finally, she squeezed lemon over the plate and sprinkled crushed walnuts before offering it again.

“Now it’s ready.”

“What is this?”

“Smash-it potatoes. You boil the potatoes with the skin, mash them, and bake them until golden.”

“Hm.”

Trudy poked the white cream with her fork and tasted it.

A sour, refreshing—and very familiar—flavor.

Recognizing it, Trudy’s eyes widened.

“This is yogurt, isn’t it? You put yogurt instead of sour cream?”

“Sour cream is great, but dish after dish of heavy food can make your stomach tired. Yogurt with low sweetness can replace that.”

Hearing this, Trudy’s eyes grew round. She’d eaten yogurt every day but had never thought of using it this way.

Still, she raised her chin, pretending she already knew.

“I knew that, of course.”

“Please try it with the potato.”

Following Alina’s instructions, Trudy scooped potato with yogurt.

As soon as it entered her mouth, the sour yogurt blended with the otherwise mild potato.

The more she chewed, the more the flavors combined into a soft, mashed texture.

Here and there, the crispy bits of potato skin and the nutty walnuts added delightful crunch.

As she silently emptied the plate, Alina added,

“Sometimes as a side dish, people bake sweet potatoes with a scoop of butter. I adapted that into a potato version. So you can eat the skin too.”

“……”

“Trudy? What do you think?”

“…Well. Not bad.”