Beers and Beards

Book 2: Chapter 24: Who Hates Chapter Title Spoilers?

"JOEJAM SEEMS TO BE FOCUSING ON HIS DESSERT, AND WHAT A TREAT! I HOPE HE ADDS THAT TO THE MENU, BECAUSE IT LOOKS DELICIOUS!!"

The announcer’s voice was a constant annoyance in the back of Bran’s perception, not that he paid it much heed. He had more important things to do, like ensuring his cream puffs didn’t collapse, and not cutting a finger off as he worked faster than he ever had before. It would’ve been nice if the sound wards had extended to the cooking section.

One hour was nothing compared to making a meal for the dinner rush, but in the pub he had Lemontwist to help and most of the food was half-prepared already. Plus, many of their meals were deep fried and that didn’t exactly take a master chef. It almost felt like cheating sometimes, or an insult to the recipe to simply throw it in boiling oil for a few minutes. Either way, he had confidence that he could complete his cooking in the short time he had available.

Of course, he'd still activated his new [Loved By Craft], just in case.

Bran whisked the erdroot flour and salt in with the simmering butter and water. His high dexterity, an impressive 26, allowed his hand to whizz about in a blur. Pete had once remarked that it looked almost like a ‘hand mixer’, which was obvious - it was his hands. Bran was proud of his dex, as it demonstrated his many centuries of dedicated hard work both as an axe-thrower and as a chef.

With a few spins, the mixture formed into a solid ball, and he transferred it to a mixing bowl where he promptly beat several eggs into it. Hopefully he would beat the competition just as handily.

Ugh. Pete was rubbing off on him.

“AND IT LOOKS LIKE KEBAB CUISINE IS OUT OF PENALTY TIME! SHE'S USING HER FIRE MAGIC TO GRILL UP SOME OF THAT MEAT SHE TOOK OFF OF THE THIRSTY GOAT!!!”

Three pots boiled merrily on Bran's stove, one filled with elm twigs, the second with dungeon greens, and the third with peeled erdroots. Bran was doing the cream puffs first; they took the longest to bake in the oven and were fine to serve cold. They’d need around twenty to thirty minutes to bake, the mushrooms would take twenty, and finally the fishcakes would need another thirty.

A bead of sweat rolled down Bran’s forehead. According to his pocket watch, he had… forty minutes left. There wasn’t enough time, and worse, the competition was about to enter the next phase.

"ITS TIME TO START THE INTERFERENCE STAGE! CHEFS MAY NOW LEAVE THEIR COOKING AREAS! THE COMPETITION IS GOING TO HEAT UP!!"

Most of the chefs were too busy with their preparations to take the time to mess with each other. That would change as their prep completed, but Bran expected that none of the chefs who’d made it this far would be idiotic enough to -

“AND HOUSE OF MEATS HAS MOVED OUT OF HIS COOKING STATION AND IS HEADING INTO THE ARENA. WHERE WILL HE GO FIRST?”

Bran looked up to see the disheveled gnome, face still bruised, angrily stalking in his direction. The gnome’s apron was in disarray, and a mess of vegetables sat upon his counter in a sad wilted mess. A soup pot boiled on the stove, and there wasn’t any meat to be seen. He was carrying a pot full of scummy gunk in one hand, and a knife in the other. His purple eyes promised murder and vengeance and other bloody verbs.

Bran blinked, then his moustache bristled and his hand wrapped around a cleaver.

This punk dared to think of interrupting a fellow chef in their craft?? Who cared if some stupid rules allowed it? No true [Artisan] or any other Titled craftsman should dream of doing so. The fake market was one thing; a chef’s kitchen was their domain and their craft their life. To besmirch either was a crime worthy of swift and terrible punishment.

Oh certainly, customers did it all the time, but it was practically expected of them. But there were limits, of course.

If a customer stepped into the kitchen, all bets were off. The kitchen staff worked in hot, cramped, dangerous conditions. A single misstep could mean horrible burns or missing digits, and food needed to come out fast and hot and perfect every single time. There was no room for error, no chance of rest, and not enough time. In such an environment, even the calmest of dwarves would be stressed and on edge. And it was all the customer's fault.

So a customer angrily walking into that environment was met with gleeful super-violence.

Nobody ever intruded on dwarven blacksmiths like that, but they had axes and swords and other various instruments of death.

Everyone tended to forget: chefs did too.

The gnome made it three steps before twenty various bladed kitchen implements, a pillar of fire, and a stream of water met him in a symphony of agony. He went down without a scream and lay in the sand, scorched and twitching.

Bran snorted in appreciation and every single one of the chefs glared around the arena in unison as though to say, “Any other morons?”

Nobody stepped forward, and the chefs resumed their labour.

“*COUGH* WELL, IT APPEARS HOUSE OF MEATS WILL BE UNABLE TO COMPLETE HIS DISH. WILL ANYONE ELSE BE AIMING TO DISTRACT THE COMPETITION? WHO WILL MAKE THE NEXT MOVE!”

The chefs ignored him, though The Rusty Battleaxe gave a rude gesture to the announcer’s stand.

Bran’s hands rapidly formed the dough into sixteen long cream-puff shells, enough for one per judge, and double just in case. Then he opened the oven and pushed the pan of puffs inside. This step had the highest chance of failure, and he thanked the Gods for [Loved By Craft]. If the oven was unevenly hot, or he opened it too soon, or the crowd was too loud, the creampuffs would fail and he would be left with no dessert. Hopefully, with two luck boosting Abilities, he would be fine.

—

Thirty minutes passed as the chefs worked in frenzied silence, broken only by the occasional muttered oath.

The announcer tried to fire up the crowd several times, but by this point every gnome and dwarf (and Kirk) were watching with silent attention. Dwarves and gnomes both had a cultural appreciation for good craft, and it was on full display here. A few members of the audience stood to get drinks or use the washroom, and the occasional noisy drunk got tossed out a window, but otherwise the entire arena was deathly silent.

At one point some costumed attendants made an appearance as ‘drunken customers’ and attempted to interfere with the chefs. They were met with concentrated fury. The organisers stopped sending more after the second group spontaneously combusted and were thrown screaming and flaming into the stands by The Rusty Battleaxe.

Knives moved with rapid efficiency, ladles spun in exacting circles, and pans were flipped without a speck falling out.

Bran wiped the sweat that streamed from his brow. Eight perfect cream-puffs sat upon prepared plates, and a ninth had made its way down his gullet for energy. Each was filled with a generous amount of sweet whipped cream mixed with elm infusion. The other cream-puffs had failed, and he thanked his lucky stars for [Loved by Craft] and [Artisan Luck].

In the oven, the Mushrooms Aaron were beginning to brown as the shredded goat cheese on top formed a crispy layer under the broiler. In front of him, sixteen perfectly circular patties of trout sat on the counter. Each was breaded with a fine layer of egg and breadcrumbs, their surfaces a sticky white-brown mess that would soon become a crispy gold.

They needed thirty minutes in the oven, and he only had ten.

Bran sighed, and made a prayer to Barck. He had one choice remaining: he could try to fry the cakes. Normally they would be fried, but they needed to be chilled first, otherwise there was a high chance they’d fall apart. However, frying only took eight minutes, so he had to risk it.

He had to trust in his skill, his [Artisan Luck], and [Loved by Craft].

Bran took a deep breath and glanced over at Opal, who was sitting primly, every inch the proper dwarven noble. Her expression was stern as her gaze bore into him. He smiled, then took one more look at the Thirsty Goat’s section. Johnsson had a beer mug on his head, Richter’s poster had fallen to the floor, Aqua had some stranger in a headlock, and Pete was wrestling with Penelope. Moony and Markus seemed to have fallen asleep and John had left a while ago - possibly for drinks. Only Annie and Balin were still resolutely holding a sign up: a poorly painted “Go Bran, Go” hung there for all the world to see.

Bran turned to his heated frying pan, and went.

The first fish cake fell apart almost immediately, and Bran hissed. The next one he slid off of his spatula with greater care, and it sizzled on the pan. The second and third fell onto the frying pan in perfect shape, but the fourth and fifth similarly fell apart. Bran gritted his teeth and increased his concentration to the limit, delicately placing the next four patties down with exacting motions. His hands never wavered, though another patty fell apart, and then he was done. Twelve patties sizzled on the stove, and Bran breathed a sigh of relief. As they cooked, the breading would help keep them together, and he was out of danger until the time came to flip them over.

In the meantime, Bran began mixing diced pickles, mayonnaise, lemon juice, tarragon, and dill for the tartar sauce. He split the resulting creamy off-yellow sauce into two mix pots and filled one with more lemon juice, and tipped a bottle of beer into the other.

The crowd stirred at that, and a few murmurs broke out. Bran was fairly certain that he was still one of the only chefs that was cooking with beer, and it was a great way to stand out for little cost.

A sizzling from behind caught Bran’s attention and he moved back to the frying pans. With deliberate caution he levered a spatula under the first patty and flipped it. It turned lazily in the air and splatted back into the oil - intact. Bran blinked then moved on to the next patty, similarly flipping it, then onto the next. He did so ten more times, until all the patties were flipped.

Two patties fell apart as they landed back in the frying pan, leaving him with ten fish cakes remaining for eight judges. Bran almost cried with relief, then sucked the tears back into their traitorous ducts, what kind of chef cried over food!?

The announcer spoke again after his long silence, his voice practically a whisper even through his Ability. “There are five minutes remaining. Only The Thirsty Goat, Kebab Cuisine, and Cookie Crumbles are still cooking. House of Meats has woken up, and the [Healer] says he’ll make a full recovery. Chefs, you should finish your plating.”

Bran yanked the mushrooms out of the oven and breathed in the scent of cooked crab and bubbling cheese. The mushrooms were twice the size of a gold piece, and he placed two on each dinner plate, then ladled the steaming dungeon greens beside them. He took a moment to artfully arrange some carrot strings for added colour, then daubed a spoonful of tartar sauce in the corner with a deft flick of his wrist.

Then he added a sizzling fish cake topped with a sprig of parsley to each plate in turn.

One fish.

Two fish.

Three fish.

The fourth fell apart as his spatula touched it, and he groaned. He picked up another and it held.

Five fish.

The sixth broke in half as it landed on the plate, and Bran clenched his teeth as he swept it away. The replacement was fine, but there were no more spares.

Seven fish.

With steady fingers, Bran scooped up the final fish cake. He neatly laid it down on the last plate, then stepped back to admire his work, just as the announcer raised his voice again.

“And that’s time! Chef’s, please stand back from your kitchens, and allow the attendants to come collect your food!”

Bran’s knees grew weak and he almost collapsed. In the stands, the crowd erupted with cheers and clapping.

—

I grabbed Aqua and pulled her into a hug. Beside us, Johnson and Richter were screaming and clinging to each other. Markus and Moony both awoke with a start and clapped in confusion.

Bran had finished! The first hurdle was done, but now came the hard part, the judging! We all retook our seats and waited to see what was planned.

It was… anticlimactic.

I was expecting something where the judges would speak their thoughts on each dish, then take a small bite. There would be a nerve wracking moment as they chewed followed by them describing in too much detail how moist and aftertoney it was. A gnomish judge would float into the air on a current of delicious pleasure and a dwarf would spew fire from the heat of a roast.

But, with eight judges times twenty four contestants… that was impractical.

Instead, the attendants rolled in one meal at a time and set the plates in front of the judges. They took one or two bites, wrote down notes, then waved for the next meal. In the meantime the chefs were all brought back below the arena, leaving the sands empty.

This seemed to be the time for people to hit the can or the keg. I took the chance to pass some goat snacks off to Penelope.

*meeeeh* [Translated from Prima Donna Goat] “These treats are as sweet as Bran’s victory will be.”

Damn straight.

It looked like Bran’s food had turned out perfectly, and I admit that I’d sweated when he’d gone straight to frying the fish cakes - the MAD-dwarf! I couldn't believe they hadn’t all crumbled to dust, and I bowed to the master.

“Do you think he’ll win?” Aqua asked.

“It’ll be tight,” I admitted. “And it’ll come down to whether or not his choice to stand out pays off.”

“Who do ya think is tha best competition?” Richter asked.

“Hmmm… Most of the meals were grilled, fried, broiled, sauteed, or steamed goat or chicken with vegetables or erdroot of some kind. Mostly safe, traditional meals, but I don’t think that’ll cut it fer a competition like this. Fer standouts, Kebab Cuisine had some kinda falafel and goat stir-fry thing that looked really good, that dwarf with the pompadour beard made a noodle dish with some dungeon ingredients I didn’t recognize, and tha Hungry Duckling made a rather delicious looking bacon-wrapped chicken thing. Overall though, Bran’s was the most original by far.”

“Urgh, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.” Johnsson said, licking his lips.

Balin whooped. “So Bran’s got a chance!?”

I nodded. “I think he’ll definitely stand out, and the Mushroom’s Aaron should push him over the top.”

“But what about the dessert?” Aqua asked, wringing her hands in her beard.

“The desserts had a lot more variety. I saw everything from cakes to pies to cookies to dessert coffees. Bran’s baking is good but I’m not sure it’ll stand out as much. Joejam blew him out of the water there, but he only made grilled cheese for his main.” If only I’d been able to make chocolate for Bran. I shook my head, I missed chocolate almost more than my wife these days.

I was pulled from my thoughts as the chefs marched back out to the front of the announcer’s stand. The crowd sat to attention and some screamed the names of the contestants.

“AND THE RESULTS ARE IN! IT WAS AN INCREDIBLE CONTEST WITH SKILL AND INGENUITY ON FULL DISPLAY. THE CITY OF MINNOVA THANKS OUR VALIANT CHEFS FOR THEIR EFFORTS! NOW, WITHOUT ANY FURTHER ADO, IN THIRD PLACE… WITH SEARED GOAT ON A BED OF FALAFEL, KEBAB CUISINE!!!”

The crowd cheered the suave looking gnomess. She raised her hand to wave, and sketched her wand around to fire some blasts of fire into the air, but was clearly disappointed. She received her trophy with good grace.

“IN SECOND PLACE… BASED ON THE JUDGE’S COMMENTS, IT LOOKS LIKE THE PLAN TO CORNER THE SPICE MARKET PAID OFF...”

We all bit our fingernails. Please don’t be Bran, please don’t be Bran…

“FOR HER BACON WRAPPED CHICKEN WITH CRISPY CABBAGE AND LEMON TARTS, THE HUNGRY DUCKLING!”

The dwarfess that Bran had briefly allied with jumped and squealed for joy. She ran up and kissed the attendant that handed her the trophy. A grumble of dwarves in the crowd began playing bagpipes and she waved at them; they were all wearing duck hats.

“FINALLY. IN FIRST PLACE!!!”

There was a rustling sound as the entire arena moved to the edge of their seats.

“WHO COULD HAVE EVER EXPECTED IT? WITH A COME FROM BEHIND VICTORY, FOR HIS INCREDIBLE MUSHROOM AND FISH DISH -“

We didn’t hear the rest as we rose in wild cheering abandon. Across the Arena, Opal had slumped back in her chair with tears in her eyes, and her father was up on the rail hooting and hollering. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. Behind me, John was ranting something about “We're rich!”

Down in the sand, Bran Hurler, Champion Chef of Minnova, raised his fists to the Pinnacle and roared.