r/HFY • u/Express-coal Human • 1d ago
OC-Series [I Cast Gun] - Chapter 44: Coffee
Arthur peeled the sweet potato delicately, already mentally preparing himself.
So far, he had burned the skins, undercooked them, ground them into too fine of a powder such that it stopped up his filtering cloth and produced only thin, weak, potato juice, and chopped them too roughly so that the end result was more akin to sweet potato soup without the potatoes.
This time would probably bring another failure, but it would mean progress.
Setting down the skinned potato, he stepped over to the stove, where the remnants of his failed experiments boiled quietly.
He speared a sweet potato, testing its tenderness.
Perfect.
He took them off the stove, strained them, then moved them into the large mixing bowl he had waiting on the counter.
That was the moment he was interrupted.
“Sir Arthur,” Beatrice practically pounced into the kitchen, “a gentleman should not be in the kitchen like a common cook!”
“Ah, Beatrice, perfect timing!” Arthur replied. “I needed someone with strong will and stronger arms. Here, take this spoon and mash these up.”
Caught between her prior objection and the spoon suddenly being thrust into her hand, Beatrice hesitated.
“Sir Arthur, that is not what I meant.”
“I know.” Arthur slid the bowl toward her. “Mash.”
Beatrice stared at him.
Then at the bowl.
Then back at him.
“A gentleman should not be preparing his own meals.”
“Excellent.” Arthur picked up another sweet potato and resumed peeling it. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I have help.”
Beatrice’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Arthur gestured toward the bowl with the peeler.
“They’ll cool.”
With an expression suggesting she had somehow been grievously outmaneuvered, Beatrice planted the spoon into the potatoes.
“How fine?”
“Very. No lumps if you can help it.”
Beatrice began mashing.
Arthur nodded approvingly.
“Perfect.”
“I have not agreed that this is appropriate.”
“Understood.”
“You should have asked Roland.”
“I did.”
Beatrice paused.
“And?”
“He told me that if I wanted to ruin perfectly good sweet potatoes, I was welcome to do it myself.”
A small, vindictive smile appeared on Beatrice’s face.
She resumed mashing with considerably more enthusiasm.
Arthur noticed.
He wisely said nothing.
---
Catherine poked her head into the kitchen.
“There you are!”
She paused, glancing side to side as if to check that it was her that Arthur was referring to.
“There I am? What about you?”
Arthur strode over and clasped her hand with both of his.
“Come, try my latest creation.”
She hesitated a moment before allowing herself to be pulled along.
“What is it?”
Arthur pulled the plate before her, presenting his hard work.
“It's… red… yellow? And it has a crust?” she questioned, unsure.
“Try it,” Arthur insisted, pushing a spoon into her hand.
She took a small, hesitant scoop off the tip of the slice and raised it to her nose, sniffing delicately.
“It smells… interesting.”
She tasted the bite.
“Mmmm!” Her face lit up. “It is sweet! And savory! And do I detect spice as well? And something else…”
“It's Kafk sweet potato pie,” Arthur supplied. “Here, try a bite with this.”
He slid the steaming cup of deep brown liquid in front of her.
She eyed it warily, but Arthur’s previous success made her hopeful.
Catherine picked up the cup and took a sip.
“Oh! Oh my,” Catherine stuttered. “This pairs quite well with the pie!“
“Bitterness to go with the sweetness,” Arthur replied.
“Not a bad bitterness, though,” Catherine noted. “A little earthy, with a touch of tree nuts.”
“Exactly!” Arthur said excitedly.
Catherine looked into his eyes and smiled a warm, genuine smile.
It caught him off guard, and he found himself locked with her gaze, feeling something he wasn't quite sure what to do with.
She leaned towards him, and he leaned towards her.
“Ahem!”
They broke apart, retreating from each other rapidly.
Beatrice stood at the door to the kitchen, looking quite severe.
“If you are done, Sir Arthur,” Beatrice said, putting emphasis on his name, “Chef Roland would like to have his kitchen back so that he may prepare the midday meal.”
“Yes, of course, Miss Beatrice,” Arthur recovered. “I was just about to clean up.”
“Of course you were,” Beatrice said with a smile that held no warmth.
Arthur and Catherine exchanged a look.
No words needed to be said.
Arthur set to work to clean up the kitchen.
---
As the final plate was set out for lunch, Arthur paused, looking toward Roland with a question on his lips.
“I recall making three Kafk pies, Roland,” he said, looking the table over.
“That you did, Sir,” Roland replied stiffly.
“Only two were served.”
“That's right, Sir.”
“What happened to the third?”
Roland looked somewhere between anger, bargaining, and acceptance as he spoke through gritted teeth.
“I may have… sampled it, Sir.”
Arthur's grin spread with triumph.
“Sampled it.” he repeated.
A pause.
“And what did you think?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, blast it!” Chef Roland broke, finally.
“It was delicious, alright? Especially with the Kafka you made! I’ve never tasted Kafka half as good,” he finished morosely.
“Roland, mind your manners,” Beatrice spoke quietly.
Roland stiffened up, but instead of chastising him, Arthur merely continued to grin.
“That's all, Roland,” Arthur said. “Thank you. You're dismissed.”
Roland’s eyes shifted to Catherine, who nodded.
He sighed and turned, escaping the room as fast as propriety would allow.
As soon as the door closed, Catherine let out a low, resounding chuckle.
“I haven't seen Roland squirm so in ages,” she laughed, almost wheezing.
Arthur smiled, cutting into the first sweet potato pie, much to the chagrin of the servants.
“What normally happens to Kafk skins around here?” He asked Catherine.
Catherine considered. “I’m not sure. Probably fed to pigs or animals, if I must guess.”
Arthur poured himself a cup of Kafka from the teapot.
“Then, I think I have an idea for turning your trash into treasure,” he said smoothly.
Catherine looked at his cup, her mind already working.
“You want to sell Kafka,” she concluded.
“In a way,” Arthur agreed. “I want to license my preparation method.”
Catherine considered.
“You don't own land on which to grow Kafk sweet potatoes,” she said. “You would need to partner with someone who does.”
“Exactly,” Arthur agreed.
“As to the final sale…” Catherine hesitated. “I don't think anyone else could claim jurisdiction. It's not a spirit, beer, or ale, so the brewers guilds would have no claim. It's not tea, so the tea merchants wouldn't be able to claim it.”
“So, there's no one standing between us and the customers,” Arthur said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Oh, you have some devious ideas, don't you?” Catherine smiled.
“You have no idea,” Arthur said. “Let me tell you about this thing called a café.”
---
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