Bellyache
A/N: And… it's time for MOAR food pron! This story stars Huey Laforet, who, lest we forget, is French. The thoughts he has about his past life in France are entirely my own spin on things, so please don't be afraid to correct me if I got some details wrong (or if I mischaracterize Huey….) Once again, I OWN NOTHING!
Huey sat at the window of his little cell, observing the darkening sky, when out of the corner of his eye he became aware of a person standing on the other side of the bars. He turned his head to see a weary-looking man, bearing a tray containing a small piece of chicken, a bowl of grayish soup, and a small glass of water. Huey sighed as he dragged his feet over to the door to receive the tray, and did not look the man in the eyes.
The food was terrible. The best dishes Huey had eaten since arriving at this dungeon had been tasteless; the worst, completely disgusting. This chicken was dry, and his soup had some inedible vegetable skins floating in it. Huey walked over to the window and dumped all the food outside, watching the seagulls pounce on it. It didn't matter, anyway; it wasn't like he was going to starve.
Huey closed his eyes, trying to think back to the food he had eaten growing up in what was now Haute-Normandy. The delicious meals his mother used to make- sometimes, anyway. Even the small meals consisting only of bread were preferable to the things he was fed now. He shivered a little as a gust of wind blew through the windows. The cold weather up here always reminded him of winter, and he began craving his mother's rich, meaty Pot-au-feu, or those soups full of slabs of spongy bread, for the millionth time since he had arrived.
In good years, he had eaten well on his family farm. In bad years, on the other hand, there was never enough. Hunger and disease ran rampant, in such a large family. Huey had had ten siblings, all older. His father would become more impatient than usual in the winter; though he was always stern, and ruled his family with an iron fist. His mother, on the other hand, was sweet and loving; she had been Huey's best friend throughout his childhood. But after all this time, Huey barely remembered the close relationship they had once had. Every member of his family, save for himself, was long dead, of course, from perfectly natural, mundane deaths. He remembered them without emotion.
But oh, for a taste of delicious tarte-aux-pommes, made fresh in the autumn. He hadn't had an apple in years.
He had visited France with Chane once, a couple of years after the War to End All Wars was over. Not that he had wanted to take her on this pilgrimage, but he couldn't leave her to her own devices. Experiments needed to be monitored closely, after all. She fell in love with the food, as well, but with such energy it became quite tiresome. She, it seemed, could not be content with the foods he had grown up with, oh, no- she had to try everything- ratatouille from Provence, made with tomatoes, a completely unfamiliar vegetable; steak tartare, a dish of raw meat and olive oil; coq au vin, which positively cloyed Huey's palate from the rich wine flavors; and the crêpes, oh, the crêpes! Like any little girl, Chane jumped at the chance to put as many things on these seemingly unassuming little Britannian pancakes as she possibly could. She ate crêpe au chocolat, crêpe au jambon, crêpe aux fromage, crêpe aux fraises, and, just for good measure, crêpe Suzette, just to show how utterly refined she was! For years after that trip, she worshiped pancakes and chocolate the way he worshiped the immortality elixir that had given him this life. How silly his fears now seemed, that he would lose his most trusted experiment, the one who gave up her voice to protect him, to a roll of dough with chocolate paste inside.
Yet now Huey was positively ravenous for one of those very dough rolls, stuffed with ham, cheese, strawberries, chocolate, or indeed orange liqueur.
A loud cawing noise jolted Huey out of his reverie. A seagull was perched on Huey's window, honking and squeaking for its next meal. "Ah, por l'amour de… There's no more food here for you!" Huey sighed. The seagull stayed perched up there for a few more minutes before flying away. What could he expect? Now he was the seagulls' best source of food. If he could just have one little ham-and-cheese crêpe… he would strangle any birds who dared come near it, is what he'd do!
It was a shame immortals could still feel hunger.
A/N: Just for a crash course in French food terminology (in case I didn't provide enough context clues):
Pot au feu- a stew made of various meats (French: "Pot (or jar?) of fire")
Tarte aux pommes- apple tart
Ratatouille- a vegetable stew made with eggplant and tomato (French: "stirred stew"), originally from Provence
Coq au vin- a chicken dish with wine (French: "rooster with wine"), originally from Bourgogne
Crêpe- a thin pancake, originally from Brittany; now considered a French national food
Jambon- French word for ham
Fromage- French word for cheese
Fraises- French word for strawberries
Crêpe Suzette- a luxurious sweet crêpe made with orange liquor flambé
Like I've been saying before, constructive criticism is appreciated!