Morning at the Marine Headquarters cafeteria, usually a lively symphony of clanging Potts and sizzling pans, was instead filled with an atmosphere thick enough to cut with a knife.
Sanji stood before the stove, holding a half-cooked steak between his fingers, his expression dark enough to drip ink.
The edges of the cast-iron skillet in front of him were glowing red, yet the steak's doneness was awkwardly stuck between medium rare and medium.
It wasn't that his skill had failed him, the problem was the pan itself. Its heat conduction was uneven, and it was two millimeters thinner than the ones he used back at Baratie. He couldn't control the temperature precisely, no matter how he tried.
"I told you, steak should be cooked fresh, each piece with its own controlled flame! This kind of mass-cooking method is an insult to good beef!"
Sanji slammed the pan down on the stove, his voice carrying the wounded pride of a true chef.
Across from him, the cafeteria's head chef, a burly man with a scarred face named Maren, gripped a long-handled ladle and gave Sanji a disdainful look.
"The headquarters kitchen feeds thousands every day! We don't have time for your fancy nonsense. As long as it's cooked, it's fine. Marines eat to fill their stomachs, not to chase flavor!"
As he spoke, Maren reached for a large tub of frozen beef, ready to dump it into the boiling soup pot beside him.
It was meant to be "Hearty Stewed Beef", tough chunks of meat boiled with potatoes and carrots, seasoned with little more than a handful of salt.
Sanji moved fast, grabbing Maren's wrist before he could pour it in. "Frozen meat needs to thaw for two hours in warm water to drain the blood first! If you cook it frozen, the texture turns rubbery!"
"And the potatoes go in last! Otherwise, they'll turn to mush! That's basic cooking knowledge!"
"Knowledge? I've been the head chef here for decades! You think I need a lecture from you?"
Maren jerked his hand free, the pot nearly tipping over, splattering broth that narrowly missed Sanji's pristine white uniform.
"You're just some outsider who came here with Renzo, don't act like you run my kitchen!"
Their shouting had drawn a crowd of kitchen staff and early-rising marines. Some whispered, some backed away nervously, the tension was palpable.
Potts, Renzo's orderly, pushed through the crowd, sweating profusely.
He knew Sanji's temper well… and Maren's stubborn pride. If this blew up, Sanji would definitely be the one to suffer, but there was no stopping either of them. In desperation, he pulled out a Den Den Mushi and called Renzo.
At that moment, Renzo, newly promoted to Rear Admiral, was slumped in his office, staring helplessly at a mountain of paperwork.
Even though Kizaru had promised to handle most of it, there were still some "must-be-signed-in-person" documents. The dense words made his eyelids droop with every line.
Just as he was about to nap on his desk, the Den Den Mushi started buzzing.
"Commodore- I mean, Rear Admiral! Sanji and the cafeteria chef are fighting! Please come quickly!"
Potts' voice was half a sob, with Sanji's furious shouting audible in the background.
Renzo woke up instantly.
If Sanji got mad and stopped cooking, that meant he'd have to eat Maren's "Hearty Stewed Beef." That slop was even worse than Potts' old fish soup.
He sprang to his feet, grabbed his coat, and stormed out, paperwork be damned.
When he reached the cafeteria, he saw Sanji gripping Maren's wrist, both men glaring at each other nose-to-nose. The soup pot was overturned, beef was scattered all over the floor.
Renzo frowned and released a faint wave of his Domain of Absolute Sloth.
The chatter in the room quieted instantly. Soldiers froze mid-step, the tension melting away into uneasy silence.
"What's going on here?"
Renzo stepped between them, his tone calm but carrying a weight that made even Maren's knees tense.
Sanji let go of the man's arm and pointed at the mess on the floor, the frozen beef, the cheap pan. "He's using frozen meat for stew, and this worthless pan for steak! I tried reasoning with him, but he got rough!"
Maren stiffened his neck. "Rear Admiral Renzo, sir, this is an internal kitchen matter! Outsiders shouldn't interfere!"
"He's not an outsider."
Renzo shot him a cold glance. "He's my personal chef. If he can't cook, I can't eat. If I can't eat, I have no strength for missions. And if I have no strength, the next time pirates attack, are you going to handle it?"
The twisted logic stunned Maren into silence.
Even the onlooking marines struggled to hold back laughter.
Everyone knew Rear Admiral Renzo's infamous "No food = No energy" philosophy; it was his way of publicly defending Sanji.
Renzo didn't bother arguing further. He turned and left, heading straight for Sengoku's office.
All he could think about was getting Sanji a proper kitchen. Arguing with fools was too much trouble.
Sengoku had just finished reading battle reports from the New World when Renzo walked in, still looking half-asleep, and said bluntly:
"Give Sanji authorization for a private kitchen."
"What now?" Sengoku groaned, rubbing his temples. Just seeing Renzo gave him a headache these days. "You just got promoted, can you not create problems for me for at least one week?"
"It's not me causing problems," Renzo said seriously. "The cafeteria's kitchen is unusable. Sanji can't cook there, so I'll have to eat canteen stew. If I can't eat well, I'll lose strength, and if I lose strength, I can't do missions. Unless…"
He paused dramatically. "...you want me to fall asleep on the front lines next time pirates attack."
Sengoku froze, remembering all too well the last time Renzo nearly got reassigned to the New World. He sighed deeply.
'This brat would actually fall asleep mid-battle.'
"Fine," Sengoku said at last, rummaging through his drawer. "There's an unused storage building on the west side of the compound. It's big enough. Have the engineering corps renovate it. Costs come from the logistics budget. But listen, don't bother me over trivial stuff again!"
Renzo snatched the layout map and left without even saying thank you, leaving Sengoku staring at the door, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
By that afternoon, the engineering team arrived at the warehouse with tools in hand.
Sanji personally oversaw the entire project, clutching a sheet filled with meticulous drawings.
He ordered, "Separate the grilling and frying areas by two meters," "Install Sky Island refrigerators, temperature fluctuation must be under one degree," and even specified the exact centimeter placement for the ventilation fans.
The workers grumbled about how picky he was, but seeing the "Approved by Rear Admiral Renzo" stamp on the request, they obeyed without question.
Potts helped too, hauling ingredients, cleaning, even asking if he could "learn to cook under Sanji."
He'd long wanted to shake off his "black cuisine" reputation. Sanji needed an assistant, so he agreed readily.
Three days later, the kitchen was complete.
Polished steel countertops, precision refrigeration units, South Sea cast-iron pans, and even an open spice rack exactly as Sanji requested, the place gleamed.
Sanji's eyes lit up. He immediately set out to restock supplies, South blue butter, Sky Island spices, and began crafting new dishes.
Seared Wagyu with Hot Spring Moss Sauce, Creamy Mushroom Soup, and Renzo's favorite Molten Chocolate Cake.
From that day forward, Renzo's quality of life skyrocketed.
Every day, he'd drop by the kitchen right on time, sampling each dish as Sanji cooked.
Sometimes he'd offer a comment like, "Add more cheese," or "Cut back on sugar." Sanji would grumble about how picky he was, but he always adjusted.
Potts became an unexpectedly capable sous-chef, chopping vegetables, prepping ingredients, even making simple sandwiches for Renzo. No one dared call him a bad cook anymore.
He also helped file paperwork, sorting reports Kizaru wrote, which spared Renzo countless hours of "bothersome" effort.
That evening, Renzo lounged by the kitchen window, eating a strawberry daifuku Sanji had just made. Watching Sanji busy at the stove and Potts carefully slicing vegetables beside him, he thought, for once, that maybe "trouble" wasn't so bad after all.
At least he didn't have to eat cafeteria stew anymore.
Just as he was about to take another bite, the kitchen door slid open.
Kizaru strolled in, lazily fanning himself. "Yo~ smells amazing. Sanji, what are you cooking this time?"
He grinned at Renzo. "Rear Admiral Renzo, you're so unfair, a kitchen this nice, and you didn't invite me?"
Sanji didn't even look back. "If you want to eat, make yourself useful. Pass me the flour, and take Renzo's paperwork with you. Don't let him sleep in here; it distracts me while I'm cooking."
Kizaru chuckled, picked up the stack of documents, and winked at Renzo, the bond between the two lazy officers growing stronger by the day.
Renzo ignored them both and kept eating his mochi.
Sometimes, life really was best when you did just enough.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu