Those Who Know, Chuckle.
Works In Progress. The “typing” part of Writing — and the most challenging.
ANOTHER YEAR TRAVELED, PROSATIO SILBAN thought. And what has it gotten me except older? and perhaps, may it please the All-Mother, wiser?
The cook-errant consulted the small mirror hanging outside his galleywagon’s black-curtained sleeping berth. One artificial eyebrow was neatly applied; the other half-dangled like a drunken caterpillar. He frowned and shook his head. I’m out of resin-gum, of course. Do I have anything to substitute? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Public Subterfuge”
“CONVINCE ME,” SAID THE outlander, “why I or anyone should believe in the Flickering Gods.”
“That is something I cannot do,” Prosatio Silban said, setting before her a bowl of rich vegetable soup. “I myself do not believe in them, either.” Continue reading “Exercise (A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche)”
IT WAS A DAY LIKE many another at Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon, now parked in South Market’s Itinerants’ Quarter: hectic, rushed, and profitable. The beefy cook was scurrying up and down the portable kitchen/domicile’s three wooden steps – up to prepare orders, down to serve them – but for the most part, he enjoyed such moments’ manic velocity.
Busy shifts go by fast, he thought, a smile on his face and four lunches balanced on his outstretched arms. To a point, anyway. I’m glad it’s abating soon – I can’t wait to get off my aching feet!
No sooner had he formed that thought when a buzz-saw voice cut through his customers’ animated rumble: “And here, gentlemen and ladies, we have, by all accounts and with absolutely no doubt, the Commonwell’s finest cook, The Cook For Any Price – Prosatio Silban!” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Tourist Attraction”
– Definition: (French) n. person with whom or at whose expense one dines
– Used in a sentence: My father is a well-known and gracious amphitryon.
– Why: Aside from its capitalized Greek origin (Amphitryon was, according to Sophocles, a king of Thebes and companion to Heracles), famed 18th-century gastronome J.A. Brillat-Savarin is wholly enamored of its use in his seminal Physiology of Taste wherein it is synonymous with “host.” (If you’re going to steal, steal from the greats. Especially if they stole it first.)
WHAT IDOL CAN BEAR CLOSE scrutiny without losing its magik over the spellbound?
Prosatio Silban sliced into his finger, swore silently, laid down his knife, and reached for the roll of self-sticking bandages tucked into his knives-bindle. Here it comes, he thought.
“Master Prosatio!” barked his client. “How many times must I remind you? You are here to work, not spectate!”
“My most sincere apologies,” the cook-errant murmured, not meeting her eyes. “You are correct. It shan’t happen again.”
His accidental wound was just one of numerous small errors leading to pointed reprimands in Prosatio Silban’s direction. To be sure, and also kind, it was not one of his usual engagements – a small gathering of some of epicurean Pormaris’ most noted creatives. And when such an assembly included the cook’s favorite author in all the Uulian Commonwell, the wide-famed and much beloved Barbatus the Elder, what else could one expect? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Artistic Temperament”
“HAS ANYONE EVER SENT BACK a meal that you’ve prepared?” the tentative young man asked Prosatio Silban.
“Twice,” was the cook-errant’s reply. “It is not an experience I relished, or wish to repeat.”
“How did it come about?” Continue reading “Grace (A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche)”
WHAT WOULD LIFE BE WITHOUT the occasional unsolvable riddle?
In epicurean Pormaris’ far-famed restaurant district squats a prominent monument. It is an oblong, boxy affair, wrought of lavender marble, with carved ivory pillars framing each corner and a tasteful capstone covered in gold leaf. The street-facing side bears a simple brass plaque: “To the Unknown Gourmand.”
That is the first mystery.
Once yearly, but according to no otherwise-fixed schedule, an anonymous party deposits beneath the plaque a menu from a different local dining establishment.
And that is the second. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Cryptic Cenotaph”
WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO become unforgotten?
“As for me,” Prosatio Silban said, raising his glass of white duliac to the Pelvhi’s Chopping-House customers crowded around him, “the most memorable person I ever met was a man who went by the alias of ‘Lucky.’ Let me tell you about our first encounter …”
* * *
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the limping, ragged man, and bowed deeply. “I don’t suppose you would, but I must ask anyway: Can you help out with a meal a fellow Uulian who’s down on his luck?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Merry Misfortunate”
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”
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