Cooking

"John, I'm back."

"Welcome back."

There was no tearful embrace, no emotional display.

On a shallow level, the two had only known each other for a month or two, not close enough for that kind of thing.

On a deeper level, two grown men just didn't bother with theatrics—their greetings were as plain as could be.

So Old John, standing behind the bar and wiping a glass, didn't even look up. He simply asked, "Just got off the boat?"

"Came back to port this morning. Took care of a few things, then headed here."

Old John knew the crab boat situation well enough to figure out Henry's state with a quick mental calculation. He said offhandedly, "If you need to rest, go to the room. Don't lie around in the bar like a bum. I don't take in that kind."

At the same time, he slid a glass of whiskey toward Henry, completely ignoring any legal drinking age concerns.

"Got it." Henry downed the whiskey in one gulp and headed for the room behind the bar.

He could keep working, but to avoid drawing too much attention, he figured he'd go along with the norm and get some rest now.

Days of nonstop high-intensity work—this was worse than any overtime he'd pulled before crossing over. Even with a Kryptonian's constitution, it felt off.

Winter in the Bering Sea still had sunlight, after all. Henry had been charging up while working, so to speak. For his physique, it wasn't draining at all—he actually got more energy than he did working at the bar.

But energy replenishment wasn't the same as the nutrients his body needed. While his mind was wired, he could push through. The moment he let his guard down, it was like pulling the plug—he was out cold.

He had no idea how long he slept, but he finally woke up because he had to pee. Ever since his body recovered to a certain point, Henry had resumed normal excretion, unlike before when nothing came out.

When he woke up, he didn't care that the heating was weak and the room was chilly. In just a tank top and shorts, he bolted for the bathroom.

When he came out, he noticed the bar was closed for the night. Old John sat up from the sofa against the wall, staring at the guy who'd just been woken by his bladder with a resentful look.

"John, why are you sleeping here?" The words left Henry's mouth before he realized he was asking a stupid question.

Sure enough, Old John's sharp tongue hit right on schedule. He said, "When you first got here, I could drag you around with one finger. I swear, I've been feeding you like you're livestock on growth hormones.

"You're lying on my bed, and I can barely shove you off. You bastard dare ask why I'm not on the bed? Even if you scrubbed your ass clean, I still wouldn't be interested in a man."

"Yeah, yeah. Next time I'll really wash up and let you take a look, see if you're really not interested. Deal?" Henry shot back without missing a beat.

But his main priority now was getting himself some food.

So Henry started rummaging through the fridge. He'd bought some groceries from the store on his way back, and now was the time to cook them up.

Since the old man was awake, Henry wasn't about to just cook for himself. He asked casually, "Want some? I'm starving."

John, now sitting at the bar, shook his head. "Nah, eating this late is bad for an old man's digestion."

Henry shrugged and got to work on his own meal.

Back before he crossed over, he'd lived alone. Besides eating out, he'd occasionally cook for himself—not for nutrition or to save money, but just because he felt like it.

Whenever he came across some bizarre recipe and couldn't find a good restaurant for it, he'd make it himself. Like that German family drama movie he'd seen, with the braised chicken in red wine.

Honestly, he wasn't that moved by the father-daughter bond developing from scratch—he was more hooked by the dish in the film. He'd even started watching it for the title.

But he couldn't find any restaurant serving that dish. If he wanted to eat it, he'd have to make it himself!

Another example: to try the golden fried rice from an anime, he'd even practiced flipping the wok.

Whether that golden fried rice ended up satisfying him or disappointing him, he'd at least gotten a foot in the door with cooking.

In the month or so since Old John took him in, Henry had cooked a few times.

His amateur skills obviously weren't going to magically turn him into a master chef just because he'd crossed the ocean—no glowing fried rice here.

Back home, the trick was drowning everything in spices. Even bland stuff like bear paw or shark fin could be made flavorful.

But spices were still a luxury in Europe and America a hundred years ago. They mostly just used salt and common herbs for seasoning.

For a state whose economy relied on fishing and oil, with agricultural products imported from Canada or shipped all the way from the mainland, Alaska didn't give Henry, a half-baked cook, much room to shine.

Still, the essence of American food culture was heavy oil, heavy salt, and huge portions!

As long as he avoided the food and meat controlled by big agribusiness, he could find quality ingredients from small farms. Though, admittedly, small farms could be a gamble too.

But for Henry, with his superhuman sense of smell, none of that was a big deal.

After some practice, he could now reliably weed out spoiled or near-spoiled ingredients.

By cutting out anything with obvious chemical smells or weird off-notes, he could pick out top-quality materials.

Take the big steak he was pulling out now—just pan-frying it would make it delicious.

With his vision, smell, and the control his super-brain gave him, every cooking session was an optimization process, constantly searching for the best possible result.

If scientists knew he was using a Superman-level brain to study cooking, plenty of them would probably be jealous enough to off themselves.

But Henry didn't care. Everything he had was meant to serve his own enjoyment.

That "no pain, no gain" PUA nonsense? Only fools buy it. In the real world, it's "you suffer, the boss buys a Mercedes."

By the time the steak was done, the pot of macaroni was ready too.

In Alaska, the starch options were basically macaroni or potatoes. There were others, but they were either expensive or terrible. So Henry had gotten used to the local diet.

He brought the food to the table. Old John hadn't gone to sleep; instead, he'd opened a bottle of red wine and was waiting.

California wine—good and affordable.

He poured a glass for himself and Henry, then stared at his wall of glory, reminiscing about his past, muttering under his breath.

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thanks~