Cooking Up a Miracle: Crispy Potato Chips
"Alright, time to get started."
I tied the apron strings tightly around my waist and plunked a hefty lump down on the massive cutting board. Splosh—filling the board was a massive, greasy slab of yellow fat, thick and glistening just from the sight of it.
Where'd I get this? Right after boasting to my retainers that I'd sort out a week's worth of food for them, I grabbed a rope and headed straight to the Snowy Mountains for "work." Learning my lesson from yesterday's hellish ordeal dragging a mammoth barehanded, this time I'd tied the rope securely around myself and hauled back dozens of "horned wild boars" bigger than adult cows, lashed together like a sled team.
When I dumped the magic beasts in the square, Hans came running in a panic. I told him, "You lot handle the meat yourselves. Just scrape off those yellow fat slabs without getting dirt on them."
I could feel their stares—like, why bring trash when you've got precious meat?—but whatever. This was the key to my ultimate dish. Smiling smugly, I brushed my hand over the fat on the board.
But the kitchen staff behind me didn't share my enthusiasm.
"Y-Your Grace…."
The head chef opened his mouth, face pale and trembling. No wonder—the Grand Duke who'd never cared about territory affairs was suddenly apron-clad in the kitchen, petting a grotesque slab of monster fat with a creepy grin. To them, I must've looked like a madman prepping black magic.
"Th-that thing… it's inedible as is… tastes awful…. D-did our breakfast offend you so much you're going to boil us in the pot instead…? Eek!"
"Cut the nonsense and light the fire."
I sliced through the chef's babble and pointed to the pre-washed iron cauldron.
"Y-yes, sir! Right away!"
The head chef scrambled over and flicked his fingers at the hearth. Whoosh! Flames erupted from thin air, roaring to heat the pot.
Oh, magic. Handy.
I swallowed a quick mental admiration and dumped chunks of sliced boar fat into the cauldron without hesitation. Sizzle! It started melting with a racket.
So what was I making? Fry oil. What, fries are the ultimate dish? …Well, yeah. In my past life, my entire cooking resume was boiling instant ramen in a shoebox apartment. They say anything tastes good deep-fried—even shoes. With my limited skills, this was my best shot.
Gazing dreamily into the pot, that's when it hit.
"…Huh?"
As the fat melted into clear oil, an ominous smell crept up. Nutty? Hell no. It was blood, musky beast stench, and sour rot mixed into a vile assault no food should emit.
Wait, does oil normally smell this bad?
I scrunched my nose and peered in. Maybe it just smelled off but tasted fine? I dipped a finger into the boiling oil and popped it in my mouth.
You think I'm nuts? This body's near immune to physics—boiling oil wouldn't faze it.
And the taste…
"Urk!"
I spat it out reflexively.
"Y-Your Grace?!"
The horrified chef's shout didn't register. Rotten beast reek and fishy tang hit my tongue root; my stomach lurched.
Damn it. Need spices?
I pondered, then shook my head. No spice could mask this. Plus, spices were pricier than gold here—I wasn't wasting them on garbage.
Fail.
Tsking, I hoisted the cauldron by its handles and tilted it toward the kitchen drain. Glug glug glug! The foul beast oil vanished down the hole.
"Gasp…!"
A choking sound from behind. The chef and maids stared, ashen-faced at the draining oil, eyes screaming, "Even if it tastes bad, it's better than starving! Wasting that precious stuff?!"
Eat potatoes then. No matter what I do, they won't touch them. Stubborn bunch.
I slammed the empty pot back on the hearth and turned.
"Light the fire again."
First, kill this damn musk. The chef stepped up, but I grabbed his hand before he could summon flames.
"Wait. No roaring blaze—smallest, gentlest flame."
"Pardon? Ah… yes, sir."
Crackle—a much tamer fire warmed the pot. I eyed the mountain of boar fat left on the board.
Why'd it smell so bad?
I didn't know lard recipes. But as a Korean, I'd absorbed basics from holidays and TV: meat musk comes from blood.
Inspecting the fat, sure enough—red veins and gunk clung between yellow layers. I'd thrown that into scorching iron.
No wonder it burned black and stank.
Ugh, idiot chef brain.
Slapping myself mentally, I dragged over a big basin.
"You, fetch a ton of cold water."
I dumped the remaining fat into the water the maids rushed over with and scrubbed like laundry, squeezing hard. Clear water turned murky red fast.
"Y-Your Grace…! That's menial work for us…!"
"Quiet. Watch."
My grip wrung it out; I dumped the filth, refilled, repeated three-four times. The grotesque slabs emerged pale and clean.
Good, culprits gone. Now melt slow to avoid scorching.
I wrung out moisture and added to the gently heating pot. No sizzle frenzy—just pleasant gurgle.
Stirring steadily over low heat forever, the rot faded. I dipped a finger in the bubbling oil.
"Mm…."
No vomit taste. But faint musky thickness lingered at nutty edges.
Still not enough.
These dirt-flavored potato scraps? With mediocre oil? No way it'd wow. For ultimate carb party, oil had to be perfect.
I hoisted the pot again and shoved it at the peeking chef.
"Not great. Use it in your food."
"…Pardon? N-no…."
He stared blankly, pot in hand. Ignoring him, I snapped at a maid.
"New pot."
While it heated, I pondered the remaining fat.
Need to filter those tiny impurities for zero smell. How?
A flash: pre-possession TV cooking shows, straining broth with cheesecloth-wrapped herbs.
Aha.
"Clean, tight-weave cloth. Now."
On the wide cloth a maid fetched, I piled washed fat chunks and tied corners into a massive bundle.
"Gentle fire again."
As the new pot warmed softly, I plopped the "fat pouch" in the center. Sss—heat seeped through, melting innards slowly.
I pressed with a ladle, praying. Please work. I'm trying so hard here.
If even this TV cheat failed? Then we're hunting every Snowy Mountains beast to soup, or raiding the South with knights.
Staring holes through the pot, I prayed viciously. Pray with me, Snowy Mountains beasts! South nobles! Lend me power!
Did my desperate rage reach heaven? Clear melted oil beaded through cloth weave, dripping pure to the pot bottom. Gunk stayed trapped.
And finally…
"…Oh."
A gasp escaped me at the scent. No trace of thickness. Just pure, heavy, insanely nutty beast fat aroma filling the kitchen.
"I-is this really from monster fat…? But all that oil—what for…?"
I nodded at the corner potato pile.
"Grab those rotting potatoes."
Maids washed the dirt clods in cold water, dried meticulously with cloth—no drops left. Even I knew water in hot oil explodes.
"Your Grace, what with the potatoes…?"
"Watch."
I cut off the chef's fuss, piled spuds on the board, and sliced paper-thin with wrist snaps—like flipping them off.
Pale slices mounded on a plate. I dangled one over the golden-hot oil.
Sizzle!
The kitchen rang. Yes, that sound. Primal white noise awakening my instincts.
The chef gawked. "Ooh… not boiling water, but oil for whole ingredients…? Such a wondrous method…!"
I stifled a laugh. They didn't even know deep-frying? So primitive. Can't live here as a knowledgeable, refined modern guy.
Arrogant inwardly, I flipped slices. When edges browned to uniform gold, I scooped them out perfectly timed.
Drained on a rack, sprinkled with coarse salt. Universal snack perfection: homemade potato chips.
Still steaming, I popped one in.
Crunch!
"…!"
Crispy snap, salty assault. Shockingly good—better than any isekai grub.
(Though if my modern sibling brought this quality, I'd smack 'em.)
Potato taste still trash objectively. This was "oil flavor" dish. Frying thinned out the dirt, and purified monster oil's nutty bliss + salt = umami bomb.
Oil carried, salt yanked the reins. Addictively junky.
Crunch crunch.
My munching drew the chef's throat bob. Gulp—loud in the quiet kitchen.
I glanced, dangled a golden chip under his nose.
"Want a taste?"
Aroma broke him. "J-just one…."
Trembling, he took it like Snow White biting poison apple, eyes shut.
Crunch!
His eyes flew open. "O-oh?!"
Grotesque yell. "Th-this taste…!"
Forgetting fear, he clutched his cheeks in rapture.
His freakout lured maids and servants; they snatched chips, crunching.
Crunch! Crinkle! Snap!
Cheers erupted. "Kyaa! Amazing!"
"Impossible! So nutty and crisp!"
"Can't stop, Your Grace! No dirt taste at all!"
Manga-level reactions. Cool exterior, but inside: double thumbs up, victory yell.
Yesss! This reaction! That's what I wanted!
Ramen-boiler me, now isekai super chef getting "Amazing! So cool!" High as hell.
Straight-faced, I asked the chef, "How is it?"
"Incredible, Your Grace! A miracle taste! Turning worthless potatoes into fantasy…!"
Enthralled, hands clasped, he raved.
I nodded leisurely. "Good. You saw every step?"
"Yes? Er, yes! Blood removal, straining, cloth filter over low heat—all of it!"
Like a proud pup.
I smiled warmly, drew the cleaver.
"Perfect. Now make it."
"…Pardon? Make what?"
Blinking at my kindness.
Merciful whisper: "Enough oil to fry tens of thousands of servings. Feed the whole territory."
"…Yes?"
His dumb echo froze the warm kitchen air solid.