The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1182 (Ch.1181) Strange Meal Name

The other person didn't give change when Theodore threw out the penny.

This infuriated Dave.

"Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I'm going to get the police to arrest him tomorrow! This guy is really outrageous..."

“At least he's funny, every joke is funny.” Roland patted Dave on the shoulder and led him into the pub: “Don’t you like someone more witty?”

Theodore and Rupert both noticed the same word on the fat merchant's face:
If you weren't from the courtroom...

“Even though he’s a fool, there are advantages to being a fool—I have a feeling this trip will be very interesting… Mr. Thackeray,” Rupert said quietly.

"We need to fill our stomachs first."

As they stepped into the tavern, the noisy conversation suddenly fell silent.

But very quickly, before anyone could react, another uproar erupted.

It was as if they had never been there.

—It seemed no one took these outsiders seriously. The old bartender, who was fiddling with a rag behind the counter, raised his eyelids, pointed to an empty seat, grabbed the rag, passed it through the openwork wooden frame, and tossed it behind him.

Not a moment.

A young boy wearing a rag came out from behind.

"Please sit down! Please... yawn..." He yawned, so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open.

Wearing a greasy gray apron and smelling strongly of cooking oil, he was probably both the waiter and the chef.

Theodore took out a handkerchief and wiped the bench for Rupert.

He had intended to do these things for Roland first, but unfortunately Harida shattered his hopes—the personal maid did not allow anyone to serve the master before her.

"What would you like, guests?"

The boy asked weakly.

Rupert glanced at his oily apron and couldn't fathom where the other man could possibly pull out the menu.

“We have ‘fast,’ ‘good,’ ‘almost sweet,’ and ‘tongue out’—”

The white-haired lady finally managed to find a gap in the barrage of questions and whispered, "Excuse me, I don't think I saw a 'menu'?"

The boy rubbed his eyes, one hand on his hip, the other on the greasy wooden table: "I don't have that, miss."

“I meant…the…order…food…” Rupert felt his smile was about to crumble, and he opened his hands as if reading a book: “The book covered in names, bound with paper—”

The boy yawned again.

"I know."

He scratched the back of his head with a sheepish look on his face, making a cracking sound and releasing a cloud of dust.

Rupert subtly clenched her nails—her upbringing taught her not to show overt disgust, or to do anything more or more indecent to avoid the dust…

But the pungent smell of sweat was really unpleasant.

She felt mud splattered on her face.

“I know, miss, I know. There’s no menu here… just tell me what you want to eat.”

great.

But what do you have?

Theodore, starting to feel comfortable in the place, picked up where Rupert left off: "Meat, soup, some whiskey. I don't think that's too much to ask?"

The boy grinned: "If it's about 'difficulty,' then I shouldn't be making you light a fire so late... Let me see, one, two, three..." He counted the number of people at the table, then turned to the bar and shouted: "Four 'tongue sticking out,' one 'well done,' one 'fast done,' and four long-eared 'glug'..."

The old bartender behind the counter pulled out a charcoal pencil from under the counter and drew a few patterns in the notebook.

In short, it is definitely not text.

After the child left, the group began to whisper and discuss what exactly meant by "done well" and "done quickly." "I've never heard such a strange name before."

“Because that’s not a name at all.” Two men playing chess at a nearby table chimed in with a laugh—both were around forty years old, but their energy was no less than that of young people, and their thick, curly, shiny brown hair reminded Rupert of his brother’s favorite 'Firefighter'.

She just has a bad temper; every time I wear perfume, I keep my distance from her.

“Little John made it up himself, but his appearance is top-notch,” one of the men, who was clearly in control of the game, said, “I heard you guys order ‘tongue sticking out’?”

“Yes, sir.” Roland leaned on the table and turned to them—when his elbow touched the grease on the table, Rupert could no longer bear it and simply looked up to communicate with the beams in the ceiling.

"What's the problem with that?"

“No problem, of course there won’t be any problem—it’s just that out-of-towners aren’t used to it…most of them aren’t,” the man who had gained the upper hand pointed to his companion, who was deep in thought in front of the chessboard, “Even locals rarely drink large cups…”

Roland was even more curious: "Is it hard to drink?"

“It’s not that it’s bad…” The gentleman who had the upper hand was a little embarrassed. He didn’t know how to describe it, so he just patted his chest and told Roland, “A strong man like me, a tough guy, can only drink two glasses at most.”

Without hesitation, Roland replied, "Then I can definitely drink three cups."

Rupert: ...

He silently raised his hand and rubbed his temples.

Theodore stretched out his leg and gently touched Roland's boots under the table.

Roland: ?
"You want to participate too?"

“We’re not having any competitions, Collins,” Rupert took a deep breath—she didn’t want the locals to realize she had a shameless fool among them so soon after arriving—“we’re just discussing—thank you.”

The boy brought over an oval wooden plate.

There was a fish inside.

He died with his eyes wide open, and must have died of suffocation—if that mouth were brought back to London's red-light district, most women would be ashamed of themselves.

"...What is this?" Rupert asked cautiously, afraid that the fish would hate him.

"Fish? You've never even seen a fish before?" the boy asked, scratching his head—which made everyone lose their appetite. "'Fast' is what 'fast' means."

It is indeed fast.

Rupert even suspected that he hadn't 'done' the step at all, so he simply picked out a scapegoat who had taken the blame for a politician, strangled it with a rope, and threw it into a pot of boiling water for a quick dip—it didn't seem to taste good at all.

"I think it should be called 'bitter tongue' instead."

The girl said, not without sarcasm.

This was also the first time she had shown another side of her 'pet'—she simply couldn't resist.

Is there not a single normal person here? Everything here is so strange.

Oh, the waves...

One Roland Collins is enough.

"'Bitter Tongue'?" The boy was slightly taken aback. "We don't have enough ingredients. We'll have to wait until tomorrow... afternoon to eat 'Bitter Tongue'."

Really?
Roland laughed so hard he almost fell over.

Rupert glared at him, then turned to the boy: "Oh, so you have to spend the whole morning preparing for 'Bitter Tongue'?"

The boy shook his head honestly: "We don't open until the afternoon, miss."

A hand was raised high.

"I'll definitely come tomorrow afternoon! Now! I need to book 'Miss Suffering' right now!"

Rupert didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

(End of this chapter)