My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 220: Watching Jenny Teach

Watching someone else cook (who wasn’t a Guild instructor) was a fascinating process. Jenny had a natural talent for breaking down complex processes--and made it look effortless.

Today, she was attempting to teach the people of Savoria how soda was made.

She explained carbonation not as magic or mystery, but as simple chemistry—CO2 dissolving into liquid under pressure, creating that distinctive fizz when released. She showed them the equipment piece by piece, explaining what each component did and why it mattered.

"This is the pressure regulator," Jenny said, holding up a brass valve. "It controls how much CO2 enters the liquid. Too little, and your drink is flat. Too much, and it’s over-carbonated—foamy, wasteful, unpleasant to drink. You want the middle ground."

She demonstrated the process: filling the carbonation chamber, sealing it, applying pressure, waiting the appropriate time, releasing pressure carefully to avoid foam-over.

"Now you try," Jenny said, stepping back.

Arrow approached the equipment with careful reverence, following each step methodically. Her carbonated water came out perfectly—bubbly but not explosive, clear and crisp.

Finn went next with characteristic enthusiasm, but rushed the pressure release and got foam everywhere. He laughed it off—"Learning experience!"—and tried again with more patience. His second attempt was better.

Hilde observed both attempts before doing her own, and executed it flawlessly on the first try. "It’s not complicated," she said. "Just attention to detail."

"Exactly," Jenny confirmed. "This isn’t difficult. It’s just particular. Follow the process, and it works. Skip steps or rush, and you get inconsistency."

They practiced for another hour, each trainee making carbonated water multiple times until the process became automatic. Then Jenny introduced flavorings—simple syrups in various flavors, proper ratios, mixing techniques.

"The key," Jenny explained, "is consistent measurements. If you eyeball it, some drinks will be too sweet, some too weak. But if you measure—" She demonstrated with marked containers. "—every drink tastes the same. That’s how you build customer trust."

By noon, all three trainees could produce consistently carbonated, properly flavored beverages. They broke for lunch—simple food from the Guild cafeteria—and reconvened at one bell.

"Afternoon is crisp theory and demonstration," Jenny said. "Marron’s going to walk you through the technique, and then you’ll practice. Tomorrow morning is more practice for both products, and tomorrow afternoon is final assessment and contract signing."

She gestured to Marron, who felt her stomach tighten with nervousness.

Small steps, she reminded herself. Break it down. You know this.

"Okay," Marron said, moving to the demonstration station where she’d pre-arranged rootknots, a cutting board, knives, and the portable fryer. "Rootknot crisps are simple but particular. Three key factors determine quality: slice thickness, oil temperature, and seasoning timing."

She picked up a rootknot. "First, slice thickness. You want paper-thin—thin enough to be slightly translucent, thick enough to maintain structure. Too thick and they don’t crisp properly. Too thin and they burn before cooking through."

Marron picked up a regular knife—not the Precision Blade, which was wrapped and stored in her bag. She’d decided not to use the Legendary Tool for demonstration. It would make her cuts look effortless in a way that would be impossible for students to replicate.

She demonstrated proper grip, proper angle, proper motion. "Small, consistent strokes. Don’t saw—that creates uneven thickness. Guide the knife smoothly, let the sharpness do the work."

She cut several slices, arranging them on the board. They weren’t perfectly uniform—her hand-cut technique showed slight variation—but they were consistently thin and properly shaped.

"See the thickness?" Marron held up a slice to the light. "Barely translucent. That’s what you’re aiming for."

Three heads nodded, studying the slice carefully.

"Next, oil temperature." Marron moved to the fryer, where oil was heating in the copper pot. "You need 175 to 180 degrees. Hotter and they burn. Cooler and they absorb too much oil, become greasy. Consistent temperature is everything."

She demonstrated with a test slice—dropped it in the oil and watched the immediate sizzle, the way it curled and turned golden in exactly two minutes.

"When they look like this—" She pulled out the perfectly golden crisp. "—they’re done. You drain them immediately, season while they’re hot so the seasoning sticks."

She tossed the crisp in salt and vinegar mixture, let it cool briefly, then tried it. Perfect crunch, proper flavor distribution, no greasiness.

"Now you try," Marron said, stepping back.

Arrow went first, approaching the rootknot with a chef’s knife and extreme care. Her slices were immaculate—even more consistent than Marron’s demonstration cuts. Years of precise bread-making had given her excellent knife skills.

"Beautiful slicing," Marron said honestly. "Now fry them."

Arrow’s crisps came out well—maybe slightly over-fried, but only by seconds. The color was a shade darker than ideal.

"Pull them ten seconds earlier next time," Marron suggested. "Watch for the color shift from yellow-gold to deeper gold. That’s your signal."

Arrow nodded, making notes.

Finn went next, and his slicing was... enthusiastic. The slices varied wildly in thickness—some paper-thin, some nearly a quarter-inch thick.

"Consistency," Marron said gently. "See how these thick ones are still soft in the middle while the thin ones are perfect? You need uniform thickness so they all cook at the same rate."

"Right, right," Finn said, trying again with more attention. His second batch was better but still showed variation.

"Practice," Marron advised. "Slicing consistently takes repetition. But you’re getting the idea."

Hilde’s slicing was competent—not as perfect as Arrow’s, but consistent and adequate. Her frying was flawless—she pulled the crisps at exactly the right moment, achieving ideal color and texture.

"You’ve fried before," Marron observed.

"Fried fish for my family’s restaurant when I was young," Hilde confirmed. "Temperature control is the same regardless of what you’re cooking." 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

They practiced for the rest of the afternoon—slicing, frying, adjusting, learning. By four bells, everyone could produce acceptable crisps, though quality varied. Arrow’s were nearly professional. Hilde’s were solid and consistent. Finn’s were improving but still showed his inexperience.

"Tomorrow morning we’ll practice both products again," Jenny said as they cleaned up. "Get you faster, more confident. Tomorrow afternoon is assessment—you make both products, we evaluate quality, and if you pass, we sign franchise contracts."

"What if we don’t pass?" Finn asked, looking worried.

"Then you practice more and try again," Jenny said. "We’re not trying to fail you. We want you to succeed. But we also need to maintain standards. If your products don’t meet our quality baseline, we can’t have you representing our franchise."

"That’s fair," Hilde said. Arrow nodded agreement. Finn looked determined.

They left around four-thirty, taking ingredient samples and notes to practice at home if they wanted. Marron and Jenny stayed to clean the practice kitchen, returning equipment to proper storage, wiping down surfaces.

"That went well," Jenny said once they were alone. "Arrow’s going to be excellent. Hilde will be solid—consistent quality, professional approach. Finn..." She paused. "Finn might need another day of practice."

"He’s enthusiastic," Marron said. "That counts for something."

"It does," Jenny agreed. "But enthusiasm without consistency creates problems. We’ll see how he does tomorrow."

Marron finished wiping the last cutting board, then paused. "Jenny? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How did you teach precision without using the Precision Blade?" Marron gestured at her bag where the knife was stored. "Because I kept feeling it during demonstration. It wanted me to show them the right way, the perfectly efficient way. But I couldn’t. That would have been impossible for them to replicate."

"You did exactly right," Jenny said. "Teaching isn’t about demonstrating perfection. It’s about showing achievable competence. You used a regular knife, you showed them normal technique with normal variation. That’s what they needed to see."

"But what if I’m teaching them inferior methods?" Marron asked. "The Blade knows better cuts, better angles, better efficiency. Am I doing them a disservice by not showing that?"

Jenny stopped cleaning and looked at her directly. "Marron. If you’d used the Legendary Blade for demonstration, you would have shown them something impossible to replicate without magic. They would have tried, failed, and felt inadequate. By teaching them normal technique that produces good results, you gave them something achievable. That’s good teaching."

"But—"

"The Blade can teach you advanced precision," Jenny interrupted. "You’re partnered with it, you’re learning its lessons. But these franchisees don’t have Legendary Tools. They need to learn normal methods that work for normal people. There’s nothing wrong with that."

Marron absorbed that, felt something ease in her chest. "So I’m not... withholding important knowledge?"

"You’re teaching appropriate knowledge," Jenny corrected. "There’s a difference. Advanced techniques come later, after fundamentals are solid. You can’t skip steps."

That made sense. Marron had been so focused on learning everything the Blade could teach that she’d forgotten beginners needed basics, not advanced mastery.

"Okay," Marron said. "Tomorrow I’ll focus on fundamentals again. Make sure they have solid foundation rather than trying to show them optimal technique."

"Perfect," Jenny said. She finished the last of the cleanup. "Now let’s go home. We’ve got another full day tomorrow, and I need to review the assessment rubrics."

They left the Guild together, walking through Lumeria’s early evening streets. The city was transitioning to its night economy—restaurants opening for dinner service, taverns filling with after-work crowds, street lamps being lit by city workers with their long poles.

"Can I ask you something?" Marron said as they walked.

"Sure."

"How many Earth people do you think actually succeeded here? Out of the nearly six million who got rebirth cards?"

Jenny was quiet for a moment. "I don’t know," she said finally. "Some probably died early—wrong place, wrong time, wrong choices. Some probably went back to survival mode, stopped trying to build anything. But some..." She gestured around them at the city. "Some are making it work. Running businesses, building lives, figuring out how to be okay in this world."

"Like us," Marron said.

"Like us," Jenny agreed. "We got lucky. Right place, right skills, right timing. But we also chose to try. That matters."

They parted ways at the mid-district plaza—Jenny heading to her apartment, Marron toward hers. As Marron walked the final blocks home, she thought about teaching, about fundamentals versus advanced technique, about the responsibility of having knowledge others didn’t.

The Precision Blade was teaching her efficiency, economy of motion, optimal cutting technique. But she couldn’t teach those lessons to others yet—she was still learning them herself. What she could teach was good, solid, achievable technique that would serve franchisees well.

Maybe that was its own kind of precision—understanding exactly what each student needed and providing that, no more, no less.

Precision is purpose, not perfection.

She was beginning to understand what that meant.