The little sergeant bobbed his head in quick acknowledgment, the smile never wavering.
“I’ve always heard that the Filipinos were some of the best cooks and some of the fiercest fighters on Old Earth.”
That earned the commander a modest shrug, though the smile broadened slightly.
“Then perhaps you can tell me why the food in the mess isn’t better. “
Phule had planned the phrasing of that question very carefully. According to his record, Sergeant Escrima had attacked people who criticized his cooking on three separate occasions, hospitalizing two of them. It was therefore important to be sure to say only that the food could be better, not that it was bad.
Even with the added precaution, the cook’s dark eyes glittered for a moment. Then the look passed and he gave another of his shrugs.
“Mmmm … I am given a menu by the Legion. They say … they tell me I should cook what it says. And the meat they give me … is, how you say, stiff … tough. I tell the supply sergeant, I say to him, ‘How can I cook with this meat? Look at it! Here, you show me!’ but he just shrug and say, ‘That’s all the Legion budget can afford. Do the best you can.’ So I do the best I can with the meat he gives me … and the Legion menu … but …”
The sergeant let his oration die off with a more exaggerated shrug and a meaningful jerk of his head at Phule.
“I see. Well, forget about the budget … and the menu. I want the company to eat well, and we don’t pay them enough for them to eat out all the time. While I’m commander and you’re the cook, I want this to be the best-fed company in the Legion. “