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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: The Worn-Out Male Lead Chose the Wrong Opponent
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“She even told the officers that she prepared it herself. Once she gets embarrassed, she won't try to act superior and interfere again.”
After the tutor Hayden left his advice, the servants pondered as they stared at the tomato sauce.
“But ruining the dish entirely...”
“The princess said she'd take responsibility anyway, didn't she? If she's using us to gain recognition, she should be prepared to bear the consequences.”
One of the servants picked up the salt shaker and sprinkled it liberally into the finished sauce.
Too much would make it obvious they were sabotaging it on purpose, so messing up the seasoning just a bit would suffice.
Right on time for the dish's completion, Cynthia entered the kitchen.
“May I have a taste?”
The servants, who hadn't expected her to actually come check, panicked for a moment. But then they silently sneered, imagining her flustered face.
'Let her get burned once.'
The chef Zad, oblivious to the servants' scheme, confidently offered her a plate of ratatouille with a smug expression.
“Please, have a bite. I'm probably the best ratatouille chef in the world.”
Cynthia took a bite and made an enigmatic expression.
The servants, who had been eagerly awaiting her reaction, froze as she suddenly broke into a radiant smile.
“Wow, so this is what authentic tastes like. The vegetables are cooked to perfection, and the clean sweetness brings the ingredients together in perfect harmony, creating that umami depth.”
'Delicious? And it's sweet, not salty?'
Her glowing praise left the servants exchanging bewildered glances.
The chef, who had tasted it alongside her, was equally stunned.
“It didn't taste like this earlier... But it does balance the tomato's acidity nicely—much better, actually...”
“Didn't you add more salt? Salt brings out the sweetness in sweet ingredients. I can feel that distinctive clean sweetness.”
The servants all turned to stare at the salt shaker in unison.
Having never properly learned to cook, they had no idea that salt could enhance sweetness. And since they didn't know how much would ruin the sauce, they had inadvertently made it even better.
At that moment, Cynthia turned to the servants who had helped with the cooking, putting on a deliberately serious face.
“I saw you all looking dissatisfied earlier, so I came to check because I thought you might sabotage it. I had no idea you were people who take cooking so seriously... I'm ashamed of my own prejudice. I'm truly sorry. You're all wonderful chefs.”
Her apology turned the face of the servant who had dumped in the salt bright red.
Cynthia smiled innocently.
“The food at the residence is always so delicious. I wanted to use this chance to get to know you all and say thank you to everyone who works so hard behind the scenes. Please take good care of the rest.”
As everyone stared at her in a daze, she turned to leave, waving at Zad.
“Sorry for calling you a Media chef earlier! I was too harsh!”
After Cynthia left, one servant who refused to acknowledge her kindness grumbled.
“What an act. Just watch—she'll pretend she made the dish herself to steal the credit.”
She had to be a bad person. Otherwise, they would be.
Masera del Vicente spotted officers emerging from the residence as he returned from a brief outing.
The colonel and lieutenant colonel, who hadn't noticed him, began gossiping freely.
“Hah, giving treats to those lowly officers? Pathetic. They pretended to be thrilled, but I bet they were sweating bullets.”
“Captain Chertha's wife handed out luxury watches engraved with their names. Truly incomparable. With a wife like that, the captain's promotion is as good as done.”
With the war over, battlefield merits no longer sufficed for promotions, so military politics had heated up intensely.
As a result, a wife's role was crucial.
She had to be an excellent supporter and strategist, often leading the charge in expanding her husband's connections for his advancement.
“Can a country princess who's spent her life hiding in the boonies really play the proper wife?”
“The brigadier general is a talent even Media's queen has her eye on. I just don't get why he'd marry some fallen royal.”
“Maybe he'll use her up and divorce her. He pretended otherwise, but his disgust was plain as day.”
The colonel laughed mockingly as he tossed the macaron box into the street.
Masera watched them go, then pulled out his notebook and jotted something down.
Back at the residence, he handed it to his aide, Diego.
“Exclude these two from every invitation list.”
“What happened, sir?”
Diego eyed the macaron box in his hand.
He'd already received one from Cynthia earlier—had he extorted another from a junior officer?
Masera stared fixedly at the macaron box in his own hand and said just one word.
“Rude.”
This went beyond merely skipping an invitation.
Masera was a war hero, after all.
Being excluded from his invites would spread as word that they'd caused trouble and been blacklisted. In short, their promotions were dead in the water.
By evening, the officers gathered in the banquet hall.
Captain Declan, who harbored hostility toward Cynthia, was there as well.
Most officers had little interest in the banquet Cynthia had prepared—they were here to discuss the wasteland development project.
Upon seeing ratatouille served, Captain Declan let out a hollow chuckle.
'Serving Francia peasant food to flaunt egalitarian ideals. How trite and outdated.'
It was a tactic several officers' wives had already used.
It might have earned praise at first, but with everyone copying it, the gesture had lost all meaning long ago. In fact, it could even come off as insulting to officers from commoner backgrounds.
The uncomfortable looks on a few commoner officers' faces proved it.
Captain Declan seized the opportunity.
“Quite the plebeian choice. Princess, is there a reason for serving ratatouille at a banquet?”
He figured she'd trot out the tired tale of Francia commoners suffering under royal tyranny—something any officer who'd attended a few banquets could recite by heart.
She was incompetent royalty herself, after all. Was she planning self-deprecating humor?
“But what's the standard for 'peasant food,' anyway? Everyone keeps saying the same thing. To me, it's just delicious food.”
Cynthia posed a question utterly unlike what he'd expected.
Seeing Captain Declan at a loss for words, she continued.
“To answer first: it's from a story I love. A rat with incredible cooking talent manipulates a human to make food...”
“A rat? Planning to spread plagues or something?”
Another officer made a faintly disgusted face.
'Come to think of it, that does sound weird.'
She cleared her throat awkwardly and gave a rough summary of the movie's plot.
The officers listened intently to Cynthia's tale. There was something captivating about her storytelling.
“So that little rat becomes a great chef?”
One officer, fully immersed and even rooting for the protagonist rat, asked.
“Of course. The theme is 'anyone can cook.' At first, it's just a repulsive rat, but as the story goes on, it starts feeling cute and like a brilliant chef, right?”
“Makes sense. Even this dish looks special now.”
Irked by the unexpected mood, Captain Declan gripped his fork tightly with a displeased expression.
“I understand the story and symbolism behind the food. Regardless of type, if it tastes good, it's great cuisine.”
Meaning it was all worthless if the taste fell short.
Tastes varied by person, so evaluations were inevitably subjective. He demonstratively shoveled a mouthful of ratatouille into his mouth.
“This is... the taste...”
Honestly, it was delicious. Unable to find fault, he trailed off and put on a grave expression.
“Delicious.”
At that moment, Masera, who had been sitting quietly as if unnoticed, spoke up.
The other officers, who had been gauging the mood, quickly chimed in with agreement and praise.
“You must have worked hard preparing this, Princess.”
Masera flashed Cynthia his signature polished social smile.
'Princess... now?'
Cynthia's shoulders hunched up tight at the word “Princess.”
A faint smile tugged at Masera's lips as he observed her near-mortified expression.
'Observation confirmed: she squirms every time she's called Princess.'
He had found a new way to tease Cynthia.
