Troubles And Buttered Potato

The trick to surviving prison life was braving the cold.

Simply put, the basement of a medieval building, devoid of heating or air conditioning, was bone-chillingly cold.

With a structure that barely allowed sunlight to reach it, the means and environment to warm up were extremely limited.

In short, I really wanted to eat something warm.

This is Shuri, reporting from the prison.

It had already been a week since my imprisonment began. The food was meager, and entertainment was non-existent. I was bored out of my mind.

I had grown a little friendly with the guard, Mr. Garn Lover, recently.

Perhaps because he liked the Sake-Steamed Clams, he increasingly asked me to secretly cook for him.

He seemed to have some worries, occasionally wearing a somber expression.

“Huh? A food shortage?”

When I asked, Mr. Garn nodded.

“Yeah. We won the battle, but a political struggle has broken out inside the castle. Mainly regarding your treatment.”

“Me?”

“The political dispute is split between two major factions. The Domestic Affairs Faction, led by the First Prince, opposes executing you. They don’t want to make an enemy of the Gungrave Mercenary Band, and they’re devising a plan to recruit you since you can cook the Lord’s favorite meals. The Military Affairs Faction, led by the Second Prince, insists you should be executed. Their main reason is, well, your disrespect toward the Lord. Plus, they say throwing down the wine glass gifted by the Second Prince to the First Prince and the Lord for a birthday celebration is unforgivable.”

“How does that connect to a food shortage?”

“Well, it’s a matter of each faction monopolizing food reserves and funds. As a result, wheat and money in the territory concentrated in the factions, leading to a food shortage.”

How ridiculous.

It made me feel like telling them to just kill me instead.

“Don’t look so troubled,”

Mr. Garn said, looking at me.

“Listen, you’re more of a victim here. I wasn’t told the details of why you were captured. However, after eating the food you make, I can tell how much you care for others when you cook. Endure it for now.”

“…Yes. Ah, speaking of which,”

I wanted to ask about the thing that had been bothering me.

“What happened to the Gungrave Mercenary Band…?”

Mr. Garn’s face darkened.

“…I can’t tell you that.”

Taking a potato out of his bag, Mr. Garn began to bite into it.

I wondered if that was a steamed potato.

“I received strict orders from above not to share information about the Gungrave Mercenary Band with you. Don’t ask about it for now.”

“I see.”

I felt a little disheartened.

No, no, I shouldn’t get gloomy. That wasn’t like me.

“By the way, is that a steamed potato?”

“Yeah. Distribution of food has been scarce lately, so this is all I’ve got. Geez, plain steamed potatoes taste awful.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, you know?”

Well, a potato with no flavor would certainly taste bad.

“Do you have any butter?”

“Huh? Butter? Well, I have some.”

“Could you share a bit with me?”

Butter and potatoes.

Then it had to be Buttered Potato!

Preparing a portable stove and a pot, I began cooking.

I poured a cup of water into the pot to bring it to a boil, then put in the potatoes and covered it with a lid once boiling.

It would be best to pressure-cook them if possible, but since there was no pressure cooker, I had to compromise.

Once they became extra fluffy, I took them out and spread butter over them, making them ready to serve.

“Here you go.”

“O-Oh. Strange. Your potato smells many times better than a regular steamed potato.”

“You’ll understand once you try it.”

When Mr. Garn took a bite of the Buttered Potato, a smile spread across his face.

“I see. A little trick like this makes potatoes delicious.”

“If we have oil, I can make even more interesting and delicious dishes. Something that pairs well with alcohol, yet prevents you from drinking too much.”

At those words, Mr. Garn’s face turned to pure shock.

“Drinking too much. The reek of alcohol reaches all the way over here. A constantly yellowish complexion, a sluggish body, and shortness of breath just from going up and down stairs. These are all symptoms caused by drinking too much alcohol. Eventually, you’ll vomit blood or feel numbness in your hands and feet. Quitting drinking cold turkey is impossible. But if you trick your cravings and fill the gap with alternatives so you don’t drink, you can manage somehow. What I just listed are all early symptoms. If you control it now, I promise you’ll live a long life.”

Mr. Garn was likely on the verge of alcoholism.

However, if he quit or cut back on alcohol starting now, there was a chance he could be saved.

I wasn’t a doctor, so I couldn’t guarantee it, though.

“…Who on earth are you?”

“Just a humble cook. I just understand the body through food.”

That was a lie; I had simply seen something like that on a special TV show back on Earth.

However, Mr. Garn, unaware of such things, was thoroughly amazed.

“Got it. So I just need to cut down on drinking, right?”

“Before that, did something painful happen? No, it’s an intrusive question, but escaping into alcohol usually means something very painful happened. Or perhaps you just love alcohol too much. Though, Mr. Garn, you don’t seem like someone who particularly likes it.”

“…It’s just family stuff. A lot is going on. I can’t say any more than that…”

“Yes, that’s fine. It’s only been a week since I met you, Mr. Garn. I completely understand that there are things you can’t talk about.”

“…Sorry about that,”

Mr. Garn said with a forced smile.

He seemed to be carrying some dark burden and looked deeply troubled.