Chapter 9 #2
“Is there a reason you’re not wearing a shirt, Jildarin?” Spotting a row of hooks with chef’s coats and aprons dangling from them, Rylana pointed, offering to grab clothes for him. “After our conversation last night, I assume you’re not hoping to attract women.”
With a whisk dripping an egg mixture in hand, Jildarin looked blankly over at her.
“I thought not.” Rylana held up an apron in offering.
“When the bacon spatters in its pan, it flings droplets of grease that leave unappealing stains on my garments,” he said.
“Yeah, but that’s better than hot grease spattering your chest. That has to hurt.”
“Heat rarely fazes a dragon.”
“Let the chef cook topless if he wants,” Sylin murmured, waving to an empty stool, “and simply appreciate the show.”
Jildarin was nice to look at without his shirt on—in all states, really—but Rylana was surprised Sylin would remark on it.
She’d been devotedly single all the years that Rylana had known her, only indulging occasionally in one-night flings—or esylanta, as the elves called them—with partners that had been enemies as often as allies.
Rylana had never pried. Even though Sylin had opened up more to her than most of the mercenaries, she had always been close-lipped on personal topics and spent more time alone than with others.
“I didn’t know you enjoyed looking at men with grease-spattered chests,” was all Rylana said.
“The grease is irrelevant. The chest is nicely symmetrical, muscular, and not overly hairy.”
“So, you’re in love.”
“I’m not the one who spent the night in a storeroom with him.”
“Separated by crates. Many crates.”
Jildarin had returned to whisking eggs and appeared oblivious to the conversation.
He grabbed a pinch of a ground green herb to add to his concoction, then picked up a dish of chopped meat—or maybe some of the eels.
As he focused on his work, Rylana decided he didn’t just seem oblivious to everything else but likely was, so she allowed herself, per Sylin’s suggestion, to admire the fine view.
But not for long. Gniknik entered carrying a tray, the swinging door almost bumping Rylana in the rump, and she skittered to the corner table with Sylin.
“Chef Jildarin, we’ve got six customers this morning,” the gnome said with excitement. “That’s a record for the opening hour. For all hours. And only two requested the special soup.”
“The soup is not served for breakfast,” Jildarin growled.
“Oh, I told them. And they decided not to leave. They said the aromas wafting out of the kitchen smelled too good not to try. They’d like some of your eggs and the bacon flight.”
“The bacon flies?” Sylin murmured.
“I think that means there’s a variety of types,” Rylana said, having vague memories of her father hosting wine tastings at the castle and the visiting vintners using that term for a selection of their offerings.
“Crusting or rubbing bacon with different enhancements is one of my specialties.” Jildarin sounded a touch smug. “Today, there is maple-bourbon bacon, spicy chili bacon, blueberry-glazed bacon, and one of my newest creations, bacon encrusted with spruce tips.”
Rylana blinked. “Spruce? As in… the tree?”
“The needles,” Jildarin said, “have an excellent flavor with hints of bright citrus and pine.”
Rylana made a face. As a mercenary, she’d eaten a lot of dubious fare, but the cook had never fed the troops tree branches.
“They’re a common foraging staple in temperate forests,” Sylin said.
Of course, leave it to an elf not to bat an eye at the thought of eating pine needles. Spruce needles.
“They’re good for you too,” Sylin said. “They boost the immune system.”
“Improving health is always my goal when eating bacon.”
When Zalani came in, also carrying an empty tray, Jildarin removed pans of bacon from a warming oven so his servers could make up plates.
“I’ve also created four varieties of soufflé to test my baking skills, which are much improved since I’ve focused on them.” Jildarin withdrew circular pans of baked egg dishes, the tops puffed over the sides and a beautiful golden brown.
Despite the conversation about spruce tips, Rylana's mouth hadn’t stopped watering, and she couldn’t wait to try the food, but she made herself let the servers go first. They were, after all, attending actual paying customers, and, as the bookkeeper, she approved of that.
“That is a blended herb soufflé,” Jildarin said, pointing, “that one is cauliflower and goat cheese, that one features spinach, and that one,” he said, beaming with pride, “is a new recipe made with eels.”
“Eels?” Zalani had been in the process of loading plates onto her tray but paused.
“Fresh eels,” Rylana murmured. “Fresh glowing eels.”
Jildarin nodded at her but lamented, “The baking process destroyed the glow, unfortunately. I suspected that would be the case since I’ve also had that experience grilling and roasting fish from that lake.”
“It’s all right,” Rylana said. “Humans don’t want their food to glow blue. Trust me.”
“You are certain?” Jildarin asked. “I’ve heard the gnomish chefs here often employ what they call magical and molecular gastronomy to create dishes with unique textures, flavors, and colors.”
“That is true,” Gniknik said, hopping onto a stool so he could reach the plates that Zalani had prepared, then sweeping them onto his tray and heading back toward the dining room, “but they rarely glow in the dark.”
“Hm.” Jildarin's contemplative expression suggested he thought that making food glow sounded like a challenge rather than something to be avoided.
After the servers departed, Sylin laid five copper coins on the counter, grabbed a plate and filled it with bacon and soufflé, not hesitating to try the more interesting dishes. In fact, she took extra pieces of the spruce-tip-encrusted bacon.
“Maybe you should target elven customers, Jildarin,” Rylana suggested as she filled a plate for herself. “They’re adventurous eaters.”
“The spruce-tipped bacon is excellent.” Sylin saluted her with a piece. “It’s clear the needles were recently harvested, young and fresh with the spring. You don’t want old spruce needles. They get tough and resinous.”
“I do loathe resinous food.” Rylana popped a piece of the maple-bourbon bacon in her mouth. It was excellent—and didn’t taste at all of a forest.
The door opened, and Gniknik hopped in, waving his empty tray. “Chef, a food critic is here.”
Jildarin lowered his whisk and faced the gnome.
“From the Lumi Lake Chronicles,” Gniknik said.
“I’ve heard of him. Each week, he does an article featuring a different diner or tavern in town.
He said he wants a tasting menu and that he’ll write up what he thinks about the food.
If he likes it, the diner could get a lot of new people coming to try it.
Even if he writes scathing things, it could bring in extra business. ”
“Never has such a person come to this diner. What is the protocol? Do I go out and speak with him?” Jildarin curled a lip, as if interacting with a food critic would be beneath him.
Rylana hadn’t seen him go out and schmooze the guests and ask how they were enjoying the meal either. Maybe he wanted people to experience his artistry, not him.
“Put on a shirt or at least an apron if you go out to speak with him,” Rylana said, believing a degree of professionalism would be in order.
“As his bookkeeper, are you allowed to make sartorial suggestions?” Sylin murmured.
“Someone has to.”
“I can ask if he wants to meet you, Chef,” Gniknik said, “but I don’t think you need to go out there. That might be considered an attempt to influence what he writes, and food critics notoriously resist bribes, coercion, and hands around their throats.”
“I will remain here then. You may prepare tasting dishes for him.”
“Yes, Chef.”
The gnome hurried to the counter, hopping onto the stool again, and grabbed fresh plates as a yawning Rolf walked in, his white hair sticking out in all directions. He grabbed bacon from pans, then headed to where dishes had piled up in the sink.
“Er, Chef?” Gniknik asked. “Shall I stick with the more normal recipes or also give him the eel soufflé and the spruce-tree bacon?”
“They are spruce tips,” Jildarin said, “And you will share all of my excellent creations with this critic. Let him judge the full panoply of my offerings and write of them in this newspaper.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“It’s all good.” Sylin had moved on from the bacon to sampling the egg dishes. She placed her fork in her mouth, only slowly withdrawing it, then chewing thoroughly to savor the bite.
“I think so, too,” Rylana said, “though my palate isn’t the most refined after years of eating Cook’s food.”
“My palate is excellent. I keep it honed by tasting and assessing coffees from around the world.”
“Hence your ability to tell a good spruce tip from a resinous one.”
“Precisely.”
Rylana started to say more but was diverted when Jildarin walked to the kitchen’s exit, donned a white coat, and peered over the top of the swinging door. He shifted and craned his neck.
“Are you trying to see the critic to tell whether he’s enjoying the food?” Rylana asked.
“His enjoyment is of no more consequence than that of any other patron.”
“Of course. You can’t see him from there, can you?”
“He must have seated himself in one of the booths to the side.”
“Want me to go out and spy on him?”
“Certainly not.”
Rylana popped a piece of maple-bourbon bacon into her mouth, then stood. “I’ll go out and help clear dishes then. Next to his table.”
Jildarin pursed his lips in apparent disapproval, but he also stepped aside to let her exit. “See if he wants a beverage. There is cow and goat milk, apple juice, and water.”
“You need to make coffee.”
“I do not care for flavored water, and there is a shop that specializes in it across the street. My serving it would be redundant.”
Sylin lowered her fork and mouthed, “Flavored water,” with a horrified expression.
“People like coffee,” Rylana said, “and you don’t want customers to leave to get a drink elsewhere, right? If you serve it here, you can charge a profitable amount, and folks will linger and chat amiably.”
“I don’t want people to linger.” Jildarin made a shooing motion. “Go clear the plates next to the critic’s table.”
“But you don’t want me to spy?”
“Certainly not.”
“Right. I’ll let you know if I hear good things.” Rylana smiled as he shooed her out the door again.
But her smile dropped as soon as she reached the dining room, looked around, and found the booth where a bespectacled man sat across from another man, a notebook and pencil on the table beside numerous plates with different menu items between them.
The critic was somewhat familiar—someone from the west side of the lake who’d been a kid about the time Rylana had, she thought.
But the man across from him was very familiar, and she groaned as his gaze swung toward her. Vernest Vormalt.