Simple but Special Snack
A few days later.
"Halfway there already."
I'm en route to a remote, mountainous dimension that doesn't even have a dimensional airport yet.
"Not like there'd be any decent ingredients in a backwater like that..."
Distance to destination: 2.54 million light-years. A dimensional airport could get me there in under ten minutes, but as I mentioned, this dimension doesn't have one built yet. No choice but to fall back on good old-fashioned FTL navigation.
Honestly, I want to turn back right now. A place this remote means even if I find good ingredients, logistics become a nightmare. Transport costs and labor to haul them to a hub with an airport, plus the time wasted commuting—it's all got to factor in.
But I've come this far. No backing out now. If anything, it's sparking my competitive spirit. How incredible must these ingredients be to put someone through all this trouble? ...Of course, I'm the one who volunteered, but I need to think that way or I'll lose motivation.
"Andromeda manju here! We've got walnut pastries and whole potatoes too~."
"...Walnut pastries and whole potatoes, huh."
Personally, I'm not big on filling up at rest stops. They're fine for a light bite, but way too many duds. Order udon and the noodles snap every other chew, or get inari sushi and the rice is a gluey mush like porridge—I've been burned too many times.
Most flops happen because they slap standard recipes onto dimensions without tweaking for local quirks, but after eating so many letdowns, I just can't bring myself to order meals there.
Snacks, though? That's a different story. Rest stop snacks taste leagues better than the usual stuff. Placebo or not, they hit different on every level. Especially walnut pastries.
"You see these everywhere now."
Walnut pastries used to be niche among dimensional rest stop treats—few vendors, fewer fans. I love them personally, always grabbing one on trips or business jaunts, but even ten years ago, they'd be sold out or absent half the time, leaving me disappointed.
"The power of culture."
Then a few years back, some interdimensional idol superstar confessed a love for walnut pastries, and boom—sudden walnut pastry fever across every dimension. Videos popped up of former red bean haters flipping to rave about their charms, with trendy recipes like dipping them in coffee or topping with fresh cream sprouting like weeds.
The hype's cooled off since, but thanks to that, they're now a rest stop staple. Which means consistent quality no matter the stop. Some places nail it better, but none are outright bad. Guaranteed baseline deliciousness anywhere you buy.
"Hot ones, fresh off!"
I bite into a walnut pastry. Straight from the steamer, it's scorching. The dough cools quick, but the sugar-soaked red bean holds heat forever. My front teeth ache from the bean's blaze.
Split it in half, and steam billows out, searing my incisors. As the superheated teeth meet cool air, that sharp, piercing chill hits—my tongue jolts in shock, brushing half-cooled bean and getting a burn as sticky sweetness coats it.
I swirl my tongue around my mouth to soothe it. Teeth throbbing, tongue throbbing. But in exchange, that velvety sweetness floods every corner, redolent with pure bean essence.
This is the taste. This is why I can't quit walnut pastries.
But their charm goes deeper. True to the name, each has a whole walnut chunk. Amounts vary by stop, but this one's generous—visible nuggets studding the surface.
I chew the one I just popped in thoroughly. The walnut dodged my first incisor assault, but now those teeth grind it down meticulously. A firm thok as the nutmeat hits my front teeth. Tongue and incisors pry it free from the dough, isolating it for the molars.
Molars descend, pulverizing the piece. Oily, nutty savoriness blooms along my tongue's edges. Sweetness meets nuttiness in perfect harmony. For pocket change per piece, right now it's better than any haute dessert.
"As a kid, I ate 'em weird."
Back then, I'd pluck out all the walnuts first, chomping them in one go, then mash the leftover bean into a massive rice ball. Looking back, no wonder Mom smacked me for playing with food. But time machine or not, I'd do it the same. Kids crave bold flavors!
A handful of walnuts, a lump of bean—that's peak bliss for child me.
Adult me knows moderation's key, though. This size, this heft—perfect. Small enough for one bite, substantial enough to satisfy fully with that dense sweetness.
The value of one walnut pastry rivals a premium dessert...
"...This one's a miss."
Ugh. Skimpy bean, dough overload. Most are machine-made with minor human tweaks, but glitches happen—ratios go haywire sometimes. Bean the size of a nail clipping, dough thick as a finger joint. At least the walnut's intact.
"Lucky me. A unique one."
Doesn't bum me out, though. Thrilling, even—spotting a rare dud amid thousands of clones. Like a four-leaf clover. Not that I'd tolerate a whole batch like this; it'd be false advertising. But the occasional ugly duckling? Charming.
"This dough's plenty sweet on its own."
The pastry dough's sugary to begin with, masked by bean usually. But with this much dough, the flour's sweetness shines brighter than the bean. Fluffy, nutty, perfectly baked. Peanut bread, egg bread, bean buns, fish-shaped waffles... Why are snack doughs always so irresistible?
"Whew. Finished the pack—starting to feel heavy."
Started hot, ended lukewarm. Red bean's weird: less cloying steaming, but cooled, that sweetness turns tiresome fast. Fine for a nibble or two, but bingeing kills the vibe quick.
Hence, devour hot for max quantity. Routine: blistering-hot ones to start, a couple room-temp finishers. A whole pack becomes a mini tasting course.
"What's next..."
Ah, perfect. Right next door: whole potatoes. Fat ones slathered in butter. That roasted potato scent mingling with butter—irresistible. Snap to, and I've got a bowl in hand.
Ha. Driving me mad. The clean, buttery nuttiness wafting up makes my heart race.
One bite. Ow! Scalding! Hotter than the pastry by far. Steam seeps from the cut edges, trapped heat from the massive spud venting out. No wonder.
Teeth ache anew. Like with the pastry, heated enamel shivers in cool air. Unhealthy food, sure—but different from tough chews.
Then the payoff: fluffy yet chewy potato flesh. Butter-rich savoriness hits my tongue tip—reason flies out the window. Hot, but divine. Nutty bliss.
Crunch, and it splits clean. Bite-sized chunks with perfect chew. Salted just right, no extra needed. Butter magic?
"...But still—"
Yes. Appetizer down. Now the real potato show begins.
Salt and sugar shakers by the stall. Spoon it on yourself. Sugar or salt?
Salt, for me. Sugar's good, but salt's the classic for potatoes.
Salted whole potato. Coarse grains melt slightly in the heat, settling on the skin. Tap the bowl to shake off excess.
Bite—and salty punch explodes on the tip! But salt's the sidekick, amplifying butter and potato to perfection. Salty, yes—but beyond it, flavors surge stronger.
This is why we eat whole potatoes.
Can't stop. Burning my mouth? Doesn't matter. Gulp after gulp of molten spud.
Torture? No—dilemma. Order another? God, yes.