They were whispered about in fearful superstition, damned as the root of witchcraft and disease. Unlike noble grains that stretched toward the heavens, basking in the light of the divine, these accursed things burrowed deep into the earth, into the cold, unseen underworld, the realm of the dead. To eat them was to consume the flesh of the grave.
I speak of the potato, the poor man's wretched sustenance. Scorned by the privileged, yet clung to by the desperate, it thrived where all else withered, pushing through barren soil where no golden wheat would dare take root. It was not a feast for kings, nor a prize of war, but the quiet salvation of those abandoned by fate.
Even back on Earth, it was mocked, scorned, spat upon by the gentry and peasants alike. In the salons of 18th-century France, where powdered wigs danced and chandeliers wept golden light, the potato was whispered about like a curse, hog feed for the ignorant, a root of rot, and worse, a rumored bringer of leprosy. To touch it was to tempt fate. To eat it? Madness.
But then, like all great revolutions, it began with one soul against the tide.
Enter Antoine Augustin Parmentier, a man not carved from legend, but from resilience. A pharmacist. An agronomist. A prisoner of war. And a prophet of the underground.
During the cruel shadow of the Seven Years' War, Parmentier was captured by the Prussians. His meals? Potatoes. Day in. Day out. No choice. No seasoning. Just dirt-drenched destiny. To them, it was a form of torture so vile it could kill a man, poison so foul even dogs turned their noses away.
But here's the twist that life saves for the brave: while his countrymen feared the potato would bring death, Parmentier found life. Nourishment. Vitality. A gift buried beneath prejudice.
When the shackles were lifted, he did not return home with bitterness. No, he returned with a mission.
To make this crop the answer to France's food crises.
He served potato feasts to the elite, imagine Benjamin Franklin savoring a golden mash, Antoine Lavoisier pondering its chemistry. He even offered potato flowers to royalty.
But his greatest act?
A field near Paris, planted with potatoes and guarded day and night or so it seemed. His guards had a secret instruction: let the thieves come. Let them steal. Let the rumor spread.
And it worked. Human curiosity did what fear never could, it made the potato a treasure.
What was once the object of disgust became the food of the people. Not through war, but through wit. Not with violence, but vision.
The great doors creaked open with the solemn weight of a cathedral, and in marched the servants, an entourage of shadows and grace, each bearing silver platters like holy offerings to ancient gods. Polished domes gleamed under the golden chandeliers, concealing more than food...they carried mystery.
One by one, the lids were lifted.
Steam rose like whispered secrets from the underworld. The air turned rich with an orchestra of scents, from roasted wild boar dripping in its own history, to glazed pheasant kissed by honey and venison soaked in exotic spices. It was more than a feast. It was a battlefield of flavors, a seduction of the senses.
And then, like a pause in a symphony before the crescendo, came the unknown.
Golden, crisp.
French fries.
Mashed potatoes, soft as lullabies. Fritters that crackled like mischief. Baked potatoes, their skins split open like secrets too long buried.
The nobles froze.
It was as if a ghost had walked into the hall. Not fear but curiosity.
A fun fact about nobles? They despised potatoes with the kind of conviction usually reserved for traitors and taboos. But the truth? The origin of their hatred had long crumbled into dust. The rumor-starters, those self-important culinary snobs, had died centuries ago, their bones now feeding the very soil that grew the damned spuds.
And now? The current generation, glared at the humble tuber with the same blind disdain, despite never having seen one prepared. Cooked. Touched by flame. They hated it, not by reason, but by inheritance. An ancient vendetta passed down like a crown of thorns.
Their eyes darted from the boar to the fritters, from the venison to the fries, as if the mere presence of these things ignited a restless curiosity in them.
Their eyes locked onto Sushila as if they'd seen a spirit claw its way back from the grave. Not a word, not a breath. The air turned to glass, fragile and waiting to shatter. She stood there, elegant, unbothered, glowing like an omen draped in silk. Her voice cut through the silence like a blade through fog, smooth yet sharp.
"Leia. Amelia. Nike. It's been a while," she said, each name soaked in familiarity and venom, like old wine turned bitter.
Their smiles came slow and brittle, masks stretched over trembling nerves. Heads dipped ever so slightly, the way cowards bow to ghosts. But beneath those pleasantries, I saw it, the fear. The dread that truth, long buried under titles and decorum, was finally clawing its way out of the dirt.
The Patriarch hadn't even given the nod to eat yet, but I moved anyway. I reached for the fries and a couple of the golden-roasted potato dishes, scooping generous portions onto my plate and onto Sushila's. The eyes around the table trailed my every move, their judgment hanging like smoke in the air.
Their faces curled into silent disapproval, stiff upper lips, twitching brows, murmurs held just behind clenched teeth. Undisciplined, they thought. Unrefined. A peasant among porcelain. But what they never knew was that: I bought the potatoes. I spent hours by the fire, sweat and oil on my skin, coaxing flavor from the earth's gift. This food? It was mine. Their pride could strangle them in silence, I'd feast on my own terms.
But just as I raised my fork, Sushila's hand gently reached across the table, fingers brushing mine. Her smile was soft, almost maternal, but her eyes held centuries.
"Wait, Arthur," she said, warm yet commanding. "I know you're hungry, but just wait a bit."
And in that moment, time paused. Her voice wasn't just a whisper, it was a spell. The hush that came before a storm. The warning before the reckoning. And something in me, primal and young, obeyed.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, the Patriarch raised his hand, a silent decree and like puppets on golden strings, everyone at the table began to eat. Graceful hands reached for silverware, lips pressed gently against embroidered handkerchiefs between bites, dabbing at invisible sins left behind by the meal.
Zephyra, the ice princess, ignored the decadent dishes sprawled across the long table like slain kings. Her gaze, distant yet deliberate, settled only on the fries. Thin, golden, humble things, yet she plucked them with reverence, as though each one carried the warmth of a forgotten sun.
A strange tension stirred.
Eyes drifted to her with idle curiosity, then narrowed with growing interest. Why would a royal, focus on only that plate, like it's her last supper?
Then one of them reached for a fry. A cautious taste. A pause. And then, ecstasy. Their expressions shifted as if they'd bitten into heaven itself. It was not meat, and yet it defied meat. Soon, forks clashed like blades in a silent war for the remaining pieces, their pride drowned beneath curiosity.
And soon, the table was stripped bare of all that had once been favored. All that remained were the forgotten dishes, the unloved, the untouched, destined for the fire or the trash. The kind of waste that screamed of silent tragedies, while beyond the manor walls, thousands, no, millions, withered in hunger, their stomachs echoing the same emptiness these nobles so carelessly discarded.
Such was the might wielded by the chosen few, the untouchable elite who stood above the rest of the world like gods cloaked in mortal skin.
"This was divine, Grey. I've never tasted anything like it and judging by how my daughter devoured every last bite, I must ask, would it be possible to acquire the recipe?" the Emperor asked, his voice warm, but laced with an imperial curiosity that demanded satisfaction.
A silence followed, elegant yet heavy, like the calm before a thunderstorm.
Without a single word, the Patriarch, Grey van Wolfhard himself, lowered his head in a gesture as old as nobility, and whispered to a servant stationed behind him. A silent nod, and the servant vanished like a ghost on command.
Moments later, the grand doors creaked open and the head chef entered, clothed in white, his hands trembling slightly as he bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the polished floor.
"Rise," came Leia's voice, serene yet sharp, the eldest wife, the Emperor's sister, and a woman whose gaze could slice through pride. "The meal was extraordinary. Truly. Tell us, what ingredients composed such a masterpiece?"
The chef stood slowly, like a man rising to his own execution. He smiled, but only for a heartbeat. Then he turned his eyes toward the table, scanning for the crown jewel of his kitchen's pride.
All the dishes he'd poured his pride into were laid out on the table, barely touched, a few cuts here and there, already deemed unworthy, destined for the trash.
And all the potato dishes?
Devoured.
Emptied.
Wiped clean like rain-soaked ink on parchment.
The color drained from his face like blood leaving a battlefield. His hands began to tremble. And then, with a voice as brittle as autumn leaves, he said:
"I—I...uhm...the meal you speak of, Your Majesty…it wasn't prepared by me. It was made by...by the Fifth Young Master."
Time fractured.
Gasps rang out like shattered glass. Forks froze mid-air. Every eye turned to me, me, the one they had tried to stop from even touching that plate, the one they had mocked and doubted.
I looked back at them, slowly, a quiet storm behind my eyes.
Shock. Embarrassment. Guilt. Wonder.
It was all written on their faces like ink on an open scroll.
And I? I just sat there.
Smiling.
Leia said nothing more, but the Emperor, ever inquisitive, leaned forward with a glint of curiosity in his regal eyes.
"You also cook? The meal was magnificent. What was it, if I may ask?" His voice carried the weight of a ruler yet held the warmth of genuine interest.
I took my time, dabbing the corner of my mouth with a silk handkerchief, feeling the weight of their anticipation. The room was silent, save for the crackling of the hearth, the flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows against the grand walls.
Then, with a slow exhale, I met his gaze and answered.
"Potatoes."