Henry found some butter lettuce, kale, and beefsteak tomatoes, then heated up a wedge of premium Parmesan nearby. Finally, he took out a white bread roll as large as an outstretched hand and cut it horizontally into two halves.
Seeing this lineup, Old Black looked constipated. "No, no, no, no! What are you doing with all that? This isn't what I think it is, is it?"
"Aha, you guessed what I'm making."
"You're insulting these ingredients!" Old Black said unhappily. Still, he made no move to stop him.
Henry smiled. "Look, I've got a meat patty, three kinds of vegetables, cheese, and bread. Anyone who saw this would think it was a balanced meal, right?"
Old Black struggled for a moment, his mouth slightly open as he reluctantly said, "Yes. That's right."
Henry swiftly piled the prepared ingredients together, sandwiched them between the two slices of bread, and made a hamburger.
Holding the burger, Henry smiled. "But why is it that once these ingredients are stacked together, everyone thinks it becomes junk food?"
Old Black wanted to argue, but he could not find a way in. He could only keep agonizing over it, his expression a mess of conflicting emotions.
In fact, he was considering whether this could count as a dish.
For the rich, deliciousness was only the most basic requirement of food. Sometimes, what they ate was the gimmick—the realm of "what I have, others don't; what others have, mine is better."
As long as it was not served too often, this ultra-premium burger would be impeccable in every respect as an interchangeable option or a novelty dish.
Ignoring Old Black, who was still deep in thought, Henry found a white porcelain plate, set his freshly made oversized burger on it, and found a seat in the dining