Smeagol, is working behind the counter of a small, rustic restaurant that exclusively serves potatoes. The dimly lit interior is filled with the earthy smell of cooking spuds, and a large, hand- painted sign hanging above him reads "PO- TAY- TOES" in bold, uneven letters. Smeagol stands behind a wooden counter, his bony fingers carefully arranging a display of various potato dishes—baked, mashed, boiled, and fried. His large, bulging eyes glimmer with a strange mix of pride and obsession as he handles the potatoes, each one seemingly as precious to him as the One Ring. He’s wearing a ragged, grease- stained apron over his tattered clothes, giving him a comical yet unsettling appearance. Behind him, shelves are lined with sacks of potatoes and pots filled with boiling water, steam rising in the dim light. The entire scene has a slightly surreal and humorous feel, with Smeagol’s intense, fixated expression contrasting with the humble, mundane setting of a potato- only restaurant