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Chapter 62: Hometown Cooking
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 15:07:12 +0000 UTC
When it came to the chef's question, Henry—ever the outsider—naturally had no answer.
But embracing the philosophy of "Since I’m here, I might as well make myself comfortable," he replied,
“Why worry? As long as people leave with full stomachs, you’ve done your job.
And besides, haven’t you already found the winning formula?”
The two of them glanced together at the freshly restocked donut stand, the salad bar, and the high-end coffee machine.
The diligent working class of America really wasn’t hard to please.
Try serving some molecular gastronomy or clam-and-mushroom consommé, and half the crowd would flip their trays.
Truth was, these folks were wild boars who had no taste for fine bran.
Still, looking at the barebones spread—especially during off-peak hours when it got even more repetitive—the big chef started to feel a twinge of guilt.
“You think I should change things up? What if the guy who hired me sees this and thinks I’m not putting in the effort?
What if this gig is actually some sort of secret test?”
Henry didn’t sugarcoat it.
“Even the finest food, if you lay it out buffet-style in huge trays for everyone to grab at, ends up feeling cheap.
Doesn’t matter if the ingredients are top-shelf—it’ll still taste like plastic.”
The chef rubbed his jaw.
“Then what do you suggest?”
Truth be told, of everyone in the cast and crew, Henry was the only one who could hold a real conversation about food—and wasn't just blowing smoke up the chef's ass.
A real foodie could be spotted a mile away, and Chef could tell Henry wasn’t just parroting Yelp reviews.
That’s why he valued his opinion.
Henry thought aloud,
“Maybe... you could try something from your own hometown.
I mean, all the rich folks have had their fill of French, Italian, and Spanish cuisine, right? Something new could really stand out.”
The chef rolled his eyes.
“Hometown food? You mean you wanna see grilled bananas, banana stew, banana chips, banana salad, banana mash, and banana soup?”
Henry blinked.
“Wait—why is it all bananas?”
“Because bananas are a staple in my homeland—just like rice in Asia or bread in Europe and America.
Want me to tell you more ways to cook bananas? 'Cause now that you mention it, I’m feeling inspired.”
“Oh God, please spare me. The look on your face is making me feel like I’m about to be drowned in bananas.”
The chef grinned.
“Well, if bananas aren’t your thing, how about another traditional dish—roast lion?”
He leaned in, face full of mystery.
Henry’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“No way. You guys roast lions? That’s insane!”
“Of course. It's a classic recipe from my village. We send out three or four hunters to catch one lion—”
“Hold up,” Henry cut him off.
“If it’s such a long-standing tradition, what weapons do you use?”
“Just spears—no guns. Guns ruin the taste.”
“Wait… you’re telling me three or four guys with spears can take down a lion? That’s some real hunter-level skill right there.”
The chef puffed out his chest.
“That’s because once a lion is full, it’s sluggish and less aggressive. That’s when the last man finishes it off and brings it back to the village for roasting.”
Henry’s jaw dropped.
“Wow. That’s just... nuts. This dish isn’t even about taste anymore—it’s practically legendary.”
Then the chef suddenly burst into a huge grin, revealing a brilliant set of pearly whites.
“Hah! Gotcha. Fooled you, didn’t I?”
Henry threw up his hands in surrender.
“Damn, Chef! You really got me. I actually believed you guys went lion-hunting like it was a backyard BBQ.”
They bumped fists in a playful bro moment.
The chef shrugged,
“Well, maybe it’s not all made up. I heard the story from my grandpa. And he said he heard it from his grandpa.
But hey, you know how oral history works—without a written record, who knows how much of it is just old men trying to impress their grandkids with made-up stories?”
“With that pure and dumb look of awe we all had as kids?”
“Exactly! That look! You ever notice how wannabe movie stars also love it when people stare at them like that?
Just like my elders—they couldn’t fool the adults, so they settled for tricking kids.”
“Who knows,” Henry chuckled, brushing the last crumbs off his tray.
He polished off everything he’d grabbed, even draining a big cup of soda.
Because this was a working film set, alcohol wasn’t allowed in the dining area.
Imagine a bunch of drunk actors trying to shoot scenes—producers would have a stroke.
Even if they joined in, they’d still blow up when they saw the budget report.
Suddenly, Henry’s ears perked up.
He swiftly cleared his tray and utensils to the return station and said,
“I think I’d better check on the set. Sounds like they’re about to start filming again.”
“Go on then,” the chef waved him off.
He knew well enough that when filming called, nobody stuck around for chit-chat.
And Henry wasn’t lying. Thanks to his Kryptonian-level super hearing, he could pick up on the assistant director gathering the extras and background actors for another round of scene rehearsal.
On a big production like this, background actors were usually handled by a few stunt teams.
Each team kept a representative on set, ready to round up their people the moment they were needed.
But here was the issue: Henry wasn’t part of any team.
So when those reps called for their groups, they wouldn’t think to include him.
Not that it was personal—nobody had a responsibility to cover for him.
Sure, it sucked a little, but Henry had to rely on himself.
He wasn’t trying to integrate into any little clique either.
Thankfully, being Kryptonian had its perks.
With his super hearing, he could stay in the loop even without formal inclusion.
As long as his movements looked natural—like he was just happening to walk by—and he didn’t delay filming, nobody would care.
Why not let them think it’s just good timing?
