Chapter 20: Beefs and Breads Part 1 (Patreon)

Bran Hurler awoke like any other day in Minnova. He reached out for a dwarfess that wasn't there, groaned, then pulled himself out of his single cot in his tenement room. He sighed and went to do his morning ablutions. Not all dwarves bothered with getting cleaned up every day, given their poor sense of smell, but he always considered cleanliness to be important in a chef. Plus, Opal always said she liked it when his black bristle moustache shone.

He dressed carefully in the clean set of crisp white clothes that Pete had given him a few months back. The back was embroidered with a ridiculous picture of Penelope giving a dwarf-like smile. Pete had meant it to be endearing, but every Dwarf knew what it really meant when a goat smiled like that - they were wondering how tasty your beard was.

He carefully adjusted his hair-net and placed the ridiculous hat on his head to complete the outfit. Well, almost complete, there were still a few pieces of brown leather armor to attach. He smiled to himself as he strapped everything on. Truly, meeting Pete had set him on the right path in life. Cooking in the mine had been fun, but now he was truly a chef, not just a camp cook.

Once he was ready to go, he grabbed a small basket and stepped out into the busy streets of Minnova. In an underground world with no true day or night, there were always some people running to and fro no matter the time of day. Even though it was still early, Bran was forced to immediately sidestep a southerner pulling a cart, and apologize to a gnome that he tripped over in the process.

He waited until the cart cleared the alley, then took a deep breath and walked over to knock on his neighbour’s door.

An elderly gnomess opened it, her beady eyes white with cataracts. Once you were old, healing magic just didn’t cut it anymore - it was never meant to prevent old age.

“Is that you, Bran my dear?” She asked in a quivery voice. At her side a cat sauntered in from the street, and another two exited.

“It is, Gemgem.” Bran smiled and opened his basket, pulling out a set of muffins. Amongst everything he’d learned from Pete, muffins were still among his favourite. Tiny cakes! For breakfast! “I’ve got your breakfast.”

Opal had approved.

So did Gemgem, who smacked her lips and held out her hand. Bran deposited a muffin in it and the two of them shared some small talk before he was forced to wish her a good day.

The process repeated itself at nearly two dozen other doors. Bran was greeted at every turn with a happy smile and the occasional childish laughter. Those that scowled and told him to “get lost”? Well, he didn’t bother with their doors anymore.

All told though, Minnova was a fairly happy city, and the joyful ‘good mornings’ well outnumbered the grumpy ‘get stuffed’s.

When he was all done, Bran deposited the basket back in his room and then steeled his nerve. His morning baking delivery was a ritual at this point, but it also served another purpose today. Each time he passed over a muffin, he received just a bit of self-satisfaction, that awareness that people loved his food. He also received a bit of a boost to his [Artisan Luck], which said that he could ‘make his own luck through hard work and dedication’. He still wasn’t really sure it was doing anything, but wasn’t that the nature of luck?

And he needed that luck, because today was not like any other day in Minnova. Today was do or die. Today would decide if Artisan Hurler was worthy of the illustrious Doctor he so adored. Opal’s Clan was as wealthy and powerful as a dwarven clan could get, and many nobles had come from their ranks. In comparison, he was some upstart from a poor family with a criminal record and barely a penny to his name. He needed some way to prove himself, and what better way than to prove himself the best chef in Minnova? Dwarves respected competence above all else, and Bran was sure of it - he could win this.

What was it Pete had said last night? “Imagine you’re the main character of your own story.” Right. Today, HE - Bran Hurler - was the main character!

—

I swiped my paintbrush in a lazy arc, tracing an awkward pencil line. I daubed a space where the paint hadn’t quite applied evenly, then wiped my brow.

“This one is pretty much done, Aqua!”

“Great, put it over there to dry, then get started on the next one!

I wasn’t feeling very main-charactery today. But that was okay, because I honestly needed a bit of a break from a crazy week. I was well on the way to burnout, and when you were busiest was when you most needed to take some time off. At least that was what I told myself as I put the finishing touches on the enormous sign we were painting.

“I still can’t believe nobody told me about this.” I grumbled.

“I did!” Aqua cajoled. “You were just so busy running around that I don’t think it registered.”

“How did I miss it!? My perception is yuge!”

“Perception doesn’t help when you’re distracted.” She retorted.

“Annie, did you know about this?”

Annie smiled sweetly. “Of course, why did you think I wanted Balin back today?”

I grinned. “Because - “

“Don’t answer that.” She snapped. “Your brushwork is terrible, who taught you how to paint?”

“Not all dwarves are as gifted with their hands as Balin.” I countered.

Richter snorted, Johnsson yucked, and Penelope baah’d.

“Hey, are we bringin’ Penelope?” I asked. “She should really cheer for Bran too, he’s her second favourite person ever since he started bribing her with kitchen scraps.”

“Who’s her favourite?” Johnsson asked. I simply gave him a waggle of the eyebrows.

“I don’t see why not,” Annie said, straightening her back with a *pop*.

“Great! Do you want to go cheer on Bran, Penelope? Want to tell him how much you love him?”

“Meeeeeeh!” [Translated from Prima Donna Goat] “I shall stand as his inspiration!”

Yeah, you go girl.

“So, now that I’m apparently paying attention, how is this going to work?” I asked.

“Dere’s two parts to da contest,” Richter began. ”First is a dinner item, the second a dessert.”

“Sounds easy enough. Especially compared to the Beer Brawl!”

Johnsson shook his head. “All the chef’s have access to their knives and cleavers…”

I was aghast. “No!”

“Yep. ‘A chef should always be prepared for someone to burst into the kitchen and complain about the food’,” Annie intoned. “They also need to collect their own supplies from a section of the arena made out to look like the Grand Market. ‘A chef should always be willing to fight for the best food at the lowest cost’.”

“Are those quotes from the rules??”

Everyone nodded. Wow, they really did all know! Well, I guess I had been a bit too hyper-focused on my beer quests and whatnot recently. To be fair, I had magic waiting on one end and my soul at the other. Also, Titled individuals were expected to be a bit weird about their work, it was practically necessary to get noticed by one of the Gods in the first place. Which likely explained why nobody was actually upset about my momentary lapse.

Zirce stuck her head into the pub from the brew-room. “Sixteen minutes!!”

“Arrrghhh!!” Aqua hissed. “We aren’t going to get all these signs done in time.”

“Who’s holding down the fort?” I asked Annie as I put on the finishing touch - some kind of sequins on the edges of the placard.

“Zirce and Emma. Moony, Markus and Balin are already at the arena holding down seats.”

“Anyone else?”

“Most of the pro-drinking crowd will be there to cheer Bran on. Honestly, I expect it to be packed. Nearly everyone knows someone who’ll be competing. They even had to have a preliminary since there were so many applicants.”

“How did Bran do in the prelims?”

Annie finished with her current placard and placed it to the side. “We don’t know, just that he moved to the next round. It just involved a judge coming to eat some food at the pub, it wasn’t anything big.”

“Ahh! What am I doing!? We forgot the clothes!” Aqua hopped up and ran back to the brew-room. She came out a moment later carrying a box full of thirsty goat branded padded shirts. “Everyone put one on!”

Everyone immediately began pulling at their clothes and removing bits of armour. I’d learned over the past two years that dwarves were not really nudity averse, but dressing down in public was considered… unsafe rather than naughty - never sure when a monster or drunk will take a swing at you. It wasn’t polite to stare though.

In a few minutes we were all kitted up and most of the posters were ready. Annie led the way, and we all filed towards the heart of the city, joining several other streams of people filing towards the casino. Penelope followed after, capering about on a leash carried by Johnsson, who’d lost the game of Rock, Pick, Dwarf.

—

Bran confidently sharpened some of his knives in the waiting area beneath the Arena. They were being kept down here while the false market was prepared up above. There were over a dozen chefs down here, each of them preparing their own sets of tools. While the mood was one of excitement, all of the chefs that remained after the prelims were consummate professionals; they were likely all Titled, maybe even Specialized. He recognized a few of them, but most were strangers.

He gave a serious nod to one he recognized, Joejam, and the gnomish cafe owner gave an acknowledging nod back. He was busy adjusting his armour and adjusting some ladles hanging from a bandolier at his waist. His salt and pepper goatee was trimmed neatly to match his neatly shaved head, and he wore an apron that said ‘Joejam’s’.

In fact, many of the chefs wore similar attire, emblazoned with the name of their restaurants. That was new, and Bran smiled to himself at the realization that it was likely all Pete’s fault. The Feud with the city, coupled with all the business he’d brought to the pub following the Barck Beer Brawl had clearly not gone unnoticed by the city’s businessmen.

He spotted a few names he recognized. There was a surly looking dwarf covered in scars with a black horseshoe beard wearing an apron for the Rusty Battleaxe, a squinty eyed gnome with no facial hair at all wore a newsboy cap emblazoned with House of Meats, and a dwarfess with a red braided beard in a leather gambeson that he recognized as the high and mighty chef of The Fickle Fig.

In the back of the room a dwarf in copper plate armour with the words Caprid Cuisine was in the middle of a heated argument with a south Erdian gnomess. She wore a dark red toga with the words Curried Cuisine emblazoned on the back, and he marked her as a serious threat. Her food had been some of the best he’d tried during his ‘market research’ with Pete a few months back.

The rest were unknown to him, but what he did know was that this was going to be a rough and tumble victory. He had a whole plethora of recipes that he’d been working on with and without Pete, and he was positive that nobody else had started using his secret beer sauces yet. Between his beer infused mains and plethora of sweet desserts, he was sure to wow any judge be they dwarf or gnome.

A gnome in a black suit descended into the waiting area and proclaimed in a loud voice, “Chefs! Please make your upstairs, the contest is about to begin!”

Bran bunched up his sleeves and took a deep breath. Years of working at a mine for malcontents had toughened him up far beyond what any of the local chefs were likely to bring to the table, and he was armed with recipes they’d never dreamed of. This competition was his to lose.

And the hand of a beautiful white bearded lady up above was his to win.