Tag: The Cook For Any Price

WHAT DOES ONE DO WHEN a beloved tool breaks down in mid-use?

With a series of staccato clunks, Prosatio Silban’s rosewood grinding-pot ground to a loud halt. He shook it, slapped it, frowned at it, then set it on his preparation-counter and removed the lid.

Inside was a tangle of partly pulverized kobi-nuts and twisted metal. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Saved Labor”

SOME PEOPLE WILL GO TO any lengths for a good story.

Prosatio Silban fetched down his scrapbook form the shelf in his sleeping berth, opened it to the middle, and whistled. Fourteen lovingly steamed and pasted labels, he thought with a grin. I can’t wait for the fifteenth!

He was referring to one of the Uulian Commonwell’s most endearing products and enduring mysteries. Plithel’s Finest was acknowledged by gastronomes far and wide as the pinnacle of the brewer’s art. Despite a quartet of imported hops, some hailing from across the Rimless Sea, the ale’s signature pucker was well-balanced by a soft fruitiness; the fragrance whispered of sun-splashed spring flowers, sugar-lemon, and deepleaf pine; and it delivered a mellow yet unmistakable kick. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Sequential Narrative”

“WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE TOAST?” asked the friendly inebriate supporting himself on the bar at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House.

“I have several,” replied Prosatio Silban with some delicacy, given the circumstance. “There is stone-rye with blackberry preserves, or sourdough with yak-butter, or …”

“No, no!” the man protested through tipple-thickened lips. “I mean, what is your favorite pledge to drink to?” Continue reading “Salute (A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche)”

ONE OF THE BEST WAYS to learn what you know is to teach it to someone else – and sometimes, to yourself.

Prosatio Silban swore under his breath and pondered what to do next. His latest intern convinced him that some people shouldn’t come near a kitchen, much less work in one.

That was the case with Vello Pirior, who had distinguished himself by spilling expensive ingredients, dropping fragile or injurious equipment, and almost burning down the cook-errant’s cozy galleywagon – comfortable for a party of one, but uninhabitable depending on the personality and habits of a second party.

The Cook For Any Price had gotten into this professional predicament through a good-faith request by his old friend and colleague, Crasso, the current Ranking Culinarian at Pormaris’ Archive of Gastronomic Artifice. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Ambitious Intern”

IN EVERY PROFESSIONAL’S LIFE, THERE comes a point where they must choose between correctness and accommodation.

Prosatio Silban heaved a deep sigh, one of many such that morning. The primary concern of every cook is to make the customers happy, he thought. But what if they’re, well … wrong? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the First Principle”

“SO ANSWER ME THIS QUESTION: what exactly is a ‘good death?’”

That compelling query hung in the smoky air inside Pelvhi’s Chopping-House while the conversationalists – Prosatio Silban; Primea Ultar, private chef to a wealthy Pormaris wine-merchant; the famed waiter Agra Ochan; and Pelvhi herself – pondered its answer in brow-creased silence. The hour was late, but the spacious tavern was filled with roistering hospitality-workers, each shouting to be heard above the din of everyone else’s raised voices. The clink of glasses and tableware sounded a bright counterpoint to the genial hullabaloo.

At last, Pelvhi spoke. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Good Death”

“I’VE BEEN MEANING TO ASK you – what exactly is the Pure City of the Uulian afterlife?”

The question was posed to Prosatio Silban one day by an old friend hailing from the distant Pastori-lands. As the query was both genuine and innocent, the cook-errant took his respectful time before replying. Continue reading “Next (A Prosatio Silban Amuse Bouche)”

AS THE TALL MAN TOTTERED toward Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon, which that afternoon was set up in the market at the sprawling village of Longshadow, the Cook For Any Price was about to stow his tables-and-chairs. After one look at the approaching figure, however, he thought better of it and fixed on his face his most professional smile.

“With what may I please you?” he asked.

“You may take me with you when you go,” came the quavering reply.

Prosatio Silban raised one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Success Victim”

IN THE WRONG HANDS, EVEN a small dose of thwarted authority could grow into a voracious lust for revenge.

Our tale begins one night at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, where everyone who was anyone in the Pormaris hospitality-world repaired after-hours for commiseration and shop-talk. The Cook For Any Price was at the smoky room’s long rear bar, sipping from his second glass of white duliac and chatting with the tavern’s namesake, when one of his favorite grilled-meat-on-a-skewer vendors strolled up, shaking her head and sighing.

“I never thought I would have lived to see such treacherous days,” she said. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Speedy Feasts”

(Story idea, with thanks, by Ann Clark.)

SOME TROUBLES ARE ONLY small – if not in importance, then at least of stature.

Whistling a tuneless melody, Prosatio Silban bustled about inside his galleywagon in anticipation of a healthy Pormaris breakfast-crowd. He propped open the lid of his coldbox, marveling (not for the first time) at the magikal waist-high contrivance’s larger internal dimensions as he ticked off the usual inventory.

Fidget-hen eggs. Cow’s milk. Butter. Uncured pig-lizard belly, he thought, placing each item on the preparation-counter behind him. And now, for the potatoes, onions, bread and other meal products.

He closed the lid, opened his pantry doors, and gasped. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Integrated Pests”

SOME SECRETS ARE NOT MEANT to be shared – at least, not without consequences.

Prosatio Silban closed his eyes and inhaled the clean salt air of cosmopolitan Soharis-on-the-Rimless-Sea. I never tire of this city, he thought. Its ridiculously fresh seafood, its sharp-witted people, the music of its ceaseless custom – such a magnificent whole!

He opened his eyes and exhaled through a smile. His galleywagon was parked in Portside Market’s Wayfarers’ Quarter, between a fatberry-oil seller and a painter of decorative silks. Not far away was the city’s famous fish bazaar, that day’s prolific and splendorous catch displayed on sheets of magiked glacier-ice; an itinerant fortune-teller seated at a folding table was holding passersby spellbound with her verbose prognostications; hawkers assailed browsing shoppers with promises of mood- and life-changing merchandise. And best of all, he had just reaped the profitable benefit of hungry lunch patrons. Truly, it seemed the Flickering Gods were smiling upon him. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Recipe Thief”