My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 211: Soup Lady Sells Crisps

"Never," Marron said, arranging her equipment. "Just got distracted by trying to keep everyone else’s carts from being shut down."

"And we appreciate it," Arrow said softly, setting up her bread cart nearby. The owl-kin’s feathers looked healthier than they had during the decree crisis—less stressed, more settled. "But it’s good to see you back. What are you selling today?"

"Something new," Marron said. She pulled out her first batch of pre-packaged rootknot crisps—salt and vinegar, smokesalt herb, and spicy pepper varieties. Each bag was sealed with a hand-tied ribbon, labeled with simple tags she’d made yesterday. "Rootknot crisps. Three copper for small bags, five for large."

"Like Kiva’s crisps?" Marcus asked, immediately interested.

"Inspired by them," Marron admitted. "But my own recipes. I spent two days testing seasoning variations."

"Let me try," Marcus said. "Professional opinion."

Marron handed him a small bag of the salt and vinegar variety. Marcus opened it, tried one crisp, then another, then a third.

"These are really good," he said. "Maybe better than Kiva’s, actually. The vinegar balance is perfect—tangy but not overwhelming. And the crunch is excellent. How are you getting them this thin?"

"Careful slicing," Marron said. Actually it was the copper pot maintaining perfect frying temperature and her growing understanding of precision even without the knife, but "careful slicing" was easier to explain. "And good quality oil."

"I’ll take two large bags," Marcus said immediately. "One for me, one for my daughter. She loves salt and vinegar anything."

First sale of the day, and she hadn’t even fully finished setting up. That was promising.

By the time the market opened for regular business, Marron had her cart arranged efficiently. The portable fryer was set up but not yet heated—she’d learned from yesterday’s apartment experiments that fresh-fried crisps were good but pre-packaged was more practical for high-volume sales. She had three dozen bags of pre-made crisps displayed, organized by flavor. And she had raw rootknots ready for custom orders if anyone wanted to watch their crisps being made fresh.

Her first real customer was a young woman with two children, both of whom were eyeing the crisp bags with interest.

"What’s the difference between the flavors?" the woman asked.

"Salt and vinegar is classic—tangy, salty, addictive," Marron explained. "Smokesalt herb is more sophisticated—rosemary, thyme, sage, with a smoky undertone. And spicy pepper is for people who like heat—it’s got a kick but it’s not overwhelming."

"Can we try?" one of the children asked.

"Sure." Marron opened sample bags of each variety, let the kids and their mother try.

The children immediately gravitated toward salt and vinegar. The mother tried the smokesalt herb and her eyes widened. "Oh, that’s lovely. More complex than I expected from street vendor crisps."

"I’m a Guild-certified chef," Marron said, tapping her pin. "Street vendor doesn’t mean low quality."

"Clearly not." The woman bought four bags—two salt and vinegar for the kids, two smokesalt herb for herself. Fifteen copper, just like that.

The morning continued in a steady stream of customers. Some were familiar faces from the decree crisis, coming to support her return to cart work. Others were regular market-goers curious about the new crisp vendor. A few were people who’d heard about her Guild certification and wanted to try what a "fancy chef" made for street food.

Marron worked efficiently, making change, explaining flavors, occasionally frying fresh batches when someone requested it. The copper pot made the process almost foolproof—perfect temperature, consistent results, no burning or undercooking.

By noon, she’d sold thirty bags of crisps and made ninety copper. After ingredient costs (about twenty copper for the rootknots and oil), that was seventy copper profit in one morning.

Not bad at all.

"You’re doing well," Millie observed, appearing at the cart with two drinks from Jenny’s stall. She handed one to Marron—something fizzy and orange. "Jenny sent this. Said you needed refreshment after your first morning back."

"Tell her thank you." Marron drank gratefully. The carbonation was still novel and delightful, the orange flavor bright and sweet. "How’s her franchise planning going?"

"She’s terrifying when she’s focused," Millie said with admiration. "She’s got spreadsheets. Diagrams. Cost projections. She’s been talking to other vendors about partnerships, scouting locations for expansion. I think she’s going to actually pull this off."

"Earth people are efficient when motivated," Marron said. "We had to learn scrappiness to survive there. Brings it with us here."

"Speaking of efficiency—" Millie nodded at the nearly-empty display of crisp bags. "You’re almost sold out. Are you making more?"

"I have another two dozen bags in reserve," Marron said. "Packaged yesterday. But I’m thinking about doing a fresh batch too, let people watch the process. Sometimes the theater of food preparation increases sales."

"Smart," Millie approved. "Want me to help manage the crowd if it gets busy?"

"I’m not paying you—"

"I don’t need payment," Millie interrupted. "Consider it friend support. Plus I’m curious about your frying technique. I might want to add crisps to my moon cake offerings eventually. Diversification is good business."

"In that case, yes." Marron pulled out her reserve bags, started restocking the display. "I’ll do a fresh frying batch around one bell, when the lunch crowd is heaviest. You can handle sales while I cook."

They worked together companionably, and Marron found herself relaxing in a way she hadn’t in weeks. This was familiar. Comfortable. Just being a street vendor selling good food to people who wanted it. No Legendary Tools, no collectors, no high-stakes drama. Just commerce and craft and the satisfaction of doing her job well.

The lunch crowd arrived right on schedule—workers on break, shoppers taking a pause, people looking for quick snacks. Marron heated her fryer (copper pot, obviously), started slicing fresh rootknots, demonstrating her technique.

"Watch how thin these slices are," she explained to the gathering crowd. "That’s the key to perfect crisps—paper-thin, even thickness, consistent frying temperature." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

She dropped a batch into the oil. They sizzled immediately, curling at the edges, turning golden-brown within seconds. The smell was incredible—fresh-fried potatoes, basically, a scent that was universally appealing.

"How long does it take?" someone asked.

"About three minutes from raw to crispy," Marron said, monitoring the color. "Temperature control is everything. Too hot and they burn. Too cool and they’re greasy."

She pulled out the first batch at exactly the right moment, drained them, tossed them in salt and vinegar seasoning while they were still hot. Then she packaged them in front of everyone, sealed the bag, handed it to the customer who’d asked the question.

"These are still warm," the customer said, delighted. "Fresh made."