A Simple TaskHe thrust the plate away in disgust. Poached, light, fluffy meringues on vanilla-spiced custard topped off with crispy, delicate caramel shards. Everything came together beautifully. The textures, the flavours, all danced together on his tongue in perfect balance. However . . .
“No originality. No invention. Are you trying to disappoint me?”
The chef’s face changed; hope vanishing to be replaced by pique and disgust. Aravin glanced down at the paper in front of him. Callin. Personal chef to Lord Caranteur.
“But it’s your recipe. It’s perfect,” said the chef, his face reddening in indignation and reminding Aravin of the first time he cooked lobster.
“If I wanted someone to cook my own recipes, I would do it myself,” he said, his voice scathing and dripping with venom. “Now get out of my sight.”
Callin stormed off, his nose thrust into the air like a truffle-hound. Only when the door slammed shut did Aravin return to the plate.
No sense in wasting perfect food.
*
“Send the next one in!”
No evidence remained of the last failed dish. The kitchen was spotless once again and Avarin felt the onset of another headache. For days now he had been looking for someone to take over his kitchen, to prove themselves worthy of training to become his successor. Chefs were lining up from across the realms, amateurs and professionals, all eager to learn from his renowned palate and unmatched repertoire.
Each and every one failed miserably. Only lingering hope and an ever-lengthening queue scuppered any attempt to cancel the contest. Besides, it was almost amusing to watch the brilliant falter under his gaze, those who prided themselves on their eye for detail wilting and crumbling before his legendary steely eye.
A girl shuffled in. Eyes downcast, she looked half-starved, bedraggled and scared. The clothes she wore were a step above a burlap sack and twice as dusty. He wrinkled his nose up in disgust as he caught a whiff of the pig swill that coated what he supposed might once have been shoes. He would have to have a word with Francis for allowing her inside his pristine kitchen. His assistant was supposed to wheedle out the waifs, strays and any others just after a free meal.
“Name.”
“Mallia, sir.”
Her voice just about reached a whisper.
“Why were you let in here? We don’t give away free food.”
Mallia stiffened, her hands clenching into fists. She raised her eyes to meet his and he saw the passion burning amidst the hazel.
“I’m here to compete. Not to take your food,” she said.
Something in her tone set him back thirty years to when he had first set foot inside a castle’s kitchen. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might have something to show him. He doubted she could compete with the other chefs, or that she could excel and succeed where all others had failed, but she might be worth something to someone somewhere. A word with Francis was definitely required.
“You get three eggs. They’re the centrepiece of your dish but you can use anything else I have here,” he said. “Begin.”
He waved his hand expansively, pointing out the vast array of ingredients. Fresh herbs hung in aromatic bunches, loaves of freshly baked bread lay on the counter, jugs of milk, a whole range of vegetables and fruits waited for the budding chef to pluck them from barrels. And that was just the beginning. Cured meat, spices, butter, anything anyone could possibly desire both mundane and exotic.
Paradise surrounded her and yet she did not look about, instead staring straight at him.
“How long do I have?”
“Take as long as you need.”
Her grin lit up the room and his heart quickened. Maybe. Just maybe. His heart died a little as she plucked the three eggs from the table and dashed from the room.
He muttered the cleaning cantrip under his breath. The magic came as easy as breathing. The headache intensified.
“Send the next one in!”
*
Days became weeks became months. Avarin grew more obese, more irritated and more despondent. Chef after chef arrived. An endless parade of lickspittles, incompetents and ingrates. An interminable array of omelettes, soufflés and custards. All delectable, refined and inherently flawed.
“Unoriginal.”
“Tasteless.”
“I’ve sneezed more palatable dishes.”
Perhaps he ought to retire, to hide away his secrets from the world and remain forever an enigma, to remain the greatest chef in all the kingdoms. Did he really have to take on an apprentice at all? Did he need to leave a legacy behind him, leave the world a living example of his expertise? The whole process had become tedious and disheartening and one long sequence of headache after headache. The only result from the whole enterprise was to pamper his ego and shatter those of other chefs.
He pushed open the door to his kitchen to a sight that stopped him in his tracks. Francis had given no indication of anything out of the ordinary and yet he had allowed someone into his kitchen early.
“What are you doing in here?”
He didn’t recognise her until she looked up. Fear was quickly replaced by determination as Mallia met his gaze.
“Cooking. You said I had as long as I needed.”
Her tone defied him to lose his temper. Instead he could only stand and stare, speechless at her audacity. Only as his gaze roamed around the room, only as the scents of cooking reached his nostrils did he begin to realise the extent of what was happening.
Chicken. Sage. Liver. Onions. Bacon. Wild mushrooms. He detected the aromas with ease, his nose and tongue honed over years of practice. What was lacking intrigued him more than what he sensed. No eggs. Confused for a moment, he eased himself out of the room.
“Francis. Were the eggs fertile?”
“I thought it would be an interesting experiment. I wondered how long it would take someone to figure it out,” said his assistant with a smile.
Curiosity satisfied, he returned to the kitchen. He stood and watched as Mallia bustled around, selecting ingredients with meticulous care, her hands assured as she paid close attention to the various elements of her creation. She made mistakes; hands fumbled utensils, the occasional spillage, but nothing disastrous, nothing that interfered with the growing certainty in his mind.
“Ready,” said Mallia, punctuating her presentation of a single plate with a nod of her head.
Aravin cast his critical eye across the porcelain. A little scruffy, the
jus not as smooth as a professional’s, a few burnt edges to crispy shards of chicken skin. Minor details when set against the sheer invention and vision of the piece. Mallia had flattened a chicken breast and stuffed it with a chicken liver and bacon mousse before poaching, a
comfited wing, leeks steamed then flash-fried in butter with sautéed wild mushrooms and garlic, all accompanied by a
jus from reduced chicken stock. Simple, honest food elevated to something spectacular.
“You’ve only given me part of one egg,” he said, unable to resist at least one immediate criticism.
For a moment Mallia’s face crumpled, the mask of confidence and assuredness awry. It only lasted an instant but it gave Avarin satisfaction regardless. Here was someone that recognised criticism and the ease with which her confidence returned showed him she had the ability to take it and analyse it.
“I had to practise,” she said.
He stared, trying to unnerve her, trying to still the beating of his head and the salivation in his mouth. Breaking away first, he picked the dish apart with knife and fork. The meat looked like it needed more resting, the skin might have been crispier, the vegetables cooked a little longer, more and more flaws presented themselves as the tastes exploded and rolled across his tongue.
Until he looked up again, he did not realise he had listed the faults out loud. Mallia’s chin quivered, the hands at her sides bunched into tight, straining fists. Other chefs might have fled, might have not wanted to witness each and every word that came out of his mouth. At times during the long process, he had prided himself on being able to do just that. Now, he felt they first stirrings of guilt but even so, he continued his litany.
“ . . . skin needs a pinch more salt, the
jus could be a little more reduced, the whole is fairly simple. But you’ll learn,” he said, putting her finally out of her misery and ending her ordeal.
It took precious moments for his words to sink in, for the full meaning to permeate her mind. He took great delight in watching the exaltation spread across his apprentice’s face and the tears of joy that rolled down her cheeks.