Tag: The Cook For Any Price

WHEN YOU’RE ROUSTED FROM A warm bed around midnight, it had better be worthwhile.

What in the Nine Hells is that racket? Prosatio Silban thought, rolling out of his sleeping berth and onto his galleywagon’s ornate braided rug. Is something on fire? A rampage of animals? Natural disaster? What? and more so, why?

The loud and rhythmic rapping at his door was then punctuated by slurred cries of “Hey! Cook! Wake up! I’m hungry!” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Ravenous Inebriate”

ALTHOUGH THE UULIANS COMMONLY CREMATE their deceased, it is also common for the bereaved survivors – at least, those with means – to erect quaint stone monuments in favored locations. Rare is the park, garden, or waterside lacking at least one discreet marker listing a decedent’s name, death date, and tender qualities, thus:

Melora Hyart
13 Jackal, Year of the Panting Cat
Beloved Friend, Wise Mentor, and Devoted Daughter-in-Law

On occasion, the memorial might also mention an achievement of some sort – Honest Launderer, perhaps, or Accomplished Throat-Musician, or Taxidermist Supreme.

And sometimes, the “achievement” was a favorite recipe. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Grave Matter”

IT ALL BEGAN WHEN Prosatio Silban leapt forward.

“Look out!” he bellowed, grabbing the careless man’s belt and yanking him back from the edge of the algae-slick dock.

“Blessed All-Mother!” the man exclaimed, straightening. “You saved me life!”

Prosatio Silban smiled. “Not really. All I did was –”

“All you did was save me life!” the man finished, taking his rescuer’s hand and shaking it with deep feeling. “As sure as my name is Gremo Elyp, I’ll never forget it!” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Comedic Situation”

EVEN WHEN HOSPITALITY PROFFESSIONALS ARE “off the clock,” their discourse – like that of the other trades – can’t help but revolve around their livelihoods.

“How’s this for a topic?” asked Piriforma Syndro, head chef at epicurean Pormaris’ renowned Diamond Star. She stood at the crowded rear bar in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, that much-beloved late-night asylum for the city’s food-service folk. “What makes for the perfect dining room?”

Her question provoked appreciative laughter and variations of “ah-HA!” and “Now that is a topic!” from those gathered nearby.

“I believe I have the rightest answer,” put in Prosatio Silban, raising his glass of blue duliac. “My tables-and-chairs are always, as the saying goes, ‘in the fresh’ – and all depends on wherever my galleywagon is parked. What could be better than taking a meal surrounded by the open air, and the comedic drama of passing humanity?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Plain Truth”

IT IS A LONG-SAID saying, and with good reason: “Workers are only as good as their tools.”

Prosatio Silban lifted down yet another old pot from the galleywagon’s ceiling-mounted rack, placed it among its fellows in an empty durian-crate, dropped his weary arms, and sighed.

I never thought I’d have to sell any of these implements in order to provide for myself, he thought. Fortunately, I can make do with what’s left.

It had been an unusually long economic drought. First his dray-beast had taken ill, then his galleywagon broke a leaf-spring, and the price of blue rice had almost doubled. Finally, it seemed that the only way to earn his keep was to turn used cookware into coin, thence into low-cost ingredients from which to fashion meals that would, he hoped, bring in more coin.

I have to start again somewhere, he thought with a grim grimace. And I hope Cadro Borsh gives me a decent-enough price. What else can I do? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Secondhand Saga”

TRYING TO HOLD A CANDLE to someone else is the quickest way to extinguish your own flickering flame.

“And then the High Sacreant herself complimented me on yet another job well done,” Egotio Nys said, lifting his expensive drink and smiling benevolently. “‘It’s what I’m here for, Eminence,’ I told her. You all know how hard she is to please.”

The speaker was holding court at the back bar in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, surrounded by an admiring throng of well-wishers, which is to say, everyone in the tavern.

Well, not quite everyone. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Perfect Colleague”

ARTISTRY IN ONE ARENA DOES not always guarantee artistry in another.

“My proposal is a simple one,” the young man said. “Grant your endorsement, in a few choice words, of my latest cookbook, New Tastes of Pormaris. It is a simple matter of between three to five hundred words. Should take you less than a day, if even that long. What say you?”

Prosatio Silban’s mind raced for the softest possible protest. Belio Pharval was the eldest son of a professional acquaintance from Pelvhi’s Chopping-House. A nice enough fellow in his own right, but his request was a bit far afield for the cook-errant – whose heart thumped as he weighed the situation.

What do I know about writing? he thought. For that matter, what do I know of this lad? True, his mother credits him with verbal skill and cooking talent; he can turn a fair phrase or flavorsome dish at need. But how far goes my social obligation to his mother? And how many others might come seeking the same favor? I cannot. I must not. I shall not. How can I?

“Of course I will,” he heard himself reply. “By when, did you say?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Blank Tyranny”

IF SOMETHING COMES FROM NOTHING, is it worth the price?

Prosatio Silban sighed, and not for the first time that day. How did I come to this? he asked himself. I used to be more thrifty with my pantry and accounts. Perhaps fame has made me overconfident? What am I to do about it before the marketplace officials discover my vagrant status and eject me?

He sighed yet again and, as was his usual habit when he didn’t know what else to do, decided to take a walk.

The ambience of epicurean Pormaris’ busy South Market enveloped him like a familiar garment. Today, however, he took no joy from the noisy mélange of indefatigable hawkers, haggling merchants, and excitable bargain-seekers. In fact, as he trudged along, he could concentrate on little else than his dire prospects.

A wiser me would not have frittered away his livelihood based on hopeful expectancy, Prosatio Silban thought. There’s just no way out of this that I can – oof! Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Free Lunch”

IT BEGAN, AS SO MANY good tales do, at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House. But it didn’t end there.

That bustling asylum for epicurean Pormaris’ vast and varied army of hospitality workers was especially busy for a night in the stormy Season of Huddling. The sounds of lively conversation accented by clinking glasses and tableware were audible even before Prosatio Silban opened the stucco tavern’s brass-hinged oaken door. A rush of warm, smoky air enveloped him as he entered, as did a dozen loud helloes from familiar voices.

“Good evening, everyone!” he called, shaking rainwater off his clothes and making his way to the crowded long bar at the capacious room’s rear. He took the lone vacant seat and lifted one hand toward the tavern’s namesake, who – as usual – was conducting a handful of discrete and discreet conversations. She courteously disengaged herself and sauntered over to the beefy cook, a meaningful expression on her half-wizened face. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and The Public Discourse“

WE ALL HAVE THOSE DAYS when everything goes wrong – but not always do we have someone looking over our shoulder while it does.

Prosatio Silban stifled an exasperated sigh. Mustn’t show my impatience, either with her or my circumstances, he thought. After all, it’s my long-practiced livelihood being decided here.

“Why did you turn off that stove-burner?” Nira Llirb asked, arching a disapproving eyebrow. “The beans are still cooking. And what’s this in the blue-rice pot?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Avid Inspector”