Cooking

"John, I'm back."

"Welcome back."

There was no tearful embrace, nor were there any eyes brimming with tears.

On the surface, they had only known each other for a month or two. Their relationship had not reached that point.

On a deeper level, this was simply how two grown men greeted each other—plain and unadorned. There was no way they were going to make a fuss over it.

So Old John stood behind the bar, polishing a glass without even looking up as he asked simply, "Just got off the boat?"

"Got back to port this morning. Took care of a few things, then came back."

Old John knew what crab boats were like. After thinking it over, he understood Henry's condition. Casually, he said, "If you need rest, go to your room. Don't lie around in the bar like some homeless bum. I don't take in that kind of person here."

At the same time, he handed Henry a glass of whiskey, paying absolutely no heed to the legal drinking age.

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

He could have kept working, but to avoid seeming too freakish, he had better go with the flow and get some rest like a good boy.

Several straight days of high-intensity nonstop work were an overtime marathon he had never experienced before his transmigration. Even with a Kryptonian's physique, something felt off.

After all, the Bering Sea still had sunlight in winter. Henry had essentially been charging while he worked. For his body, it had not only cost him little energy, but replenished more energy than working at the bar ever could.

But energy was not the nourishment his body needed. While he was mentally fired up, he could force himself to keep moving. Once he relaxed, though, it was like the power had been cut—he fell completely unconscious.

No one knew how long he slept. In the end, he was awakened because he desperately needed to pee.

When Henry woke up, he ignored the poorly heated room and its low temperature. Wearing nothing but a tank top and loose shorts, he bolted for the bathroom.

When he came back out, he noticed the bar had already closed for the night. Old John sat up from the sofa against the wall and looked at the man who had just been woken by his bladder with a resentful gaze.

"John, why are you sleeping here?" Only after asking did Henry realize he already knew the answer.

Sure enough, Old John's sharp tongue arrived right on schedule. "When you first got here, I could drag you around with one finger. I fucking suspect I've been feeding you goddamn pig feed all this time.

"You were lying in my bed, and even kicking you off took effort. You bastard still had the nerve to ask why I wasn't sleeping in my own bed? Even if you scrubbed your ass clean, I'm still not interested in a man."

"Sure, sure. Next time I'll wash up properly and let you inspect it. Then we'll see if you really aren't interested. Happy?" Henry replied lightly.

But his main task right now was finding something to eat.

So Henry started rummaging through the fridge. He had bought some ingredients from the store when he came back, and now was the perfect time to cook them.

Since the old man was awake, Henry naturally would not make food only for himself. He casually asked, "Want some? I'm starving."

John, seated by the bar, shook his head. "No. Eating in the middle of the night isn't good for an old man's digestion."

Henry neither agreed nor disagreed, and began preparing his own meal.

Before his transmigration, he had lived alone. Besides eating out, he occasionally cooked for himself. Not for nutrition or to save money, but simply because he wanted to eat something.

Whenever he came across an unusual recipe and could not find a good restaurant serving it, he might as well make it himself. For example, after watching a German family drama, Red Wine-Braised Chicken.

Rather than being moved by the father-daughter bond that developed from nothing in the film, he had been tempted by the dish in it. To be honest, he had watched it for the title in the first place.

But he could not find any restaurant that served it. If he wanted to eat it, he might as well cook it himself!

For another example, just to eat the Golden Fried Rice he had seen in an anime, he had specifically practiced tossing a wok.

Whether that bowl of Golden Fried Rice had ultimately satisfied or disappointed him, he had at least gotten his foot in the door when it came to cooking.

During the month or so Old John had taken him in, Henry had cooked a few meals as well.

His little amateur skills obviously had not turned him into a master chef the moment he crossed the ocean, the kind whose fried rice glowed.

At the end of the day, food from his homeland relied on all kinds of spices to build flavor. Even bland things like bear paws and shark fins could be made delicious.

But spices were still luxuries in Europe and America a century or so ago. At most, people used salt and readily available herbs for seasoning.

For a state whose economic pillars were fishing and oil, agricultural and livestock products had to be imported from Canada or transported all the way from the mainland United States. Naturally, Alaska gave a half-baked cook like Henry little room to show off.

Fortunately, the essence of United States food culture was heavy oil, heavy salt, and big portions that filled you up!

As long as he avoided food and meat controlled by major agribusinesses, he could still find ingredients of excellent quality among small-farm products. Of course, small-farm products could also be a gamble.

But none of that was much of a problem for Henry and his super sense of smell.

After distinguishing ingredients for a while, Henry could now easily eliminate anything spoiled or close to spoiling.

After further removing ingredients with an obvious chemical smell or too many unpleasant odors, Henry could pick out materials that were genuinely high quality.

For instance, the large steak he had taken out now would be delicious even with nothing more than a simple pan sear.

Combined with the control granted by his vision, sense of smell, and Super Brain, every meal he made became a process of optimization, constantly searching for the best possible solution.

If those scientists knew he was using a Superman-level Super Brain to study cooking, quite a few of them would probably be jealous enough to kill themselves.

But Henry did not care about that. Everything he had was meant to serve his own enjoyment.

Those PUA slogans about "endure the bitterest hardships to become a man above men" were idiotic nonsense. In the real world, it was more like, "endure the bitterest hardships so your boss can upgrade his Mercedes."

Once the steaks were all done, the pot of macaroni beside them had finished cooking as well.

In a place like Alaska, starch came from either macaroni or potatoes. Other options existed, but they were either expensive or tasted terrible. Henry had more or less adapted to the local food culture.

After bringing the food to the table, Old John did not go back to sleep. Instead, he opened a bottle of red wine and waited.

It was from California—tasty and reasonably priced.

After pouring himself and Henry each a glass, the old man gazed at the wall of honors that belonged to him, reminiscing about his past. At the same time, he murmured softly.