I wrote this as part of a prompt challenge that had a few constraints on it— namely, the image below and we had to use at least five out of ten of the following words somewhere in the story we wrote: deft, dusk, willowy, hollow, quiver, discordant, dimpled, twang, constellation, iridescent. Per the instructions, I used at least five of them— which five, I couldn’t tell you- but they’re in there!
I think this is set in the same fantasy world I’m slowly picking away at (see The Quest for the Elder Tree and A Dwarf, A Wizard, and a Princess Walk Into A Tavern) but I don’t think it’s got any connection to a larger story. I did enjoy exploring the idea of the main character being a cook though. You see taverns and inns pop up all the time in fantasy, the owners, proprietors or even cooks rarely become more than side characters. (I guess Kvothe from The Kingkiller Chronicles might be an exception to this?)
I hope you all have as much fun reading this as I did writing it, so without further ado, I’m very happy to present, Dragons Love Noodles.
~~~
Once upon a time, the Temple of Lake Maltraxi had meant something. Priests had stood on the altar in the reflecting pool between the two wings of the Temple and prayed to the Dragon. Warriors of every age, creed, size, and gender had come from all over the world to see if they could defeat the Dragon of Maltraxi.
Once upon a time, the world had been very different, but now:
“All right, love, what can I get you?” Torias asked as a sad young woman slipped onto a stool at his counter.
“They say the noodles are good,” she replied in a sad voice.
“Aye love, that they are, best noodles here! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I make the best noodles in all of Maltraxi,” Torias said with a grin. “But what kind do you want? We can throw in some prawn, some steer meat, there’s-” his eyes narrowed, noting the twang in her voice- “Your accent is Vascadoran?”
The young woman nodded.
“You like pesto? I have fresh basil somewhere.” Torias said.
The young woman smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Ahhh, there’s a smile, love!”
As he set to work, Torias could only shake his head in wonderment. He had never set out to run the best noodle shop in all of Maltraxi. But once upon a time, he had been one of the pilgrims to Lake Maltraxi, not much older than the sad young woman at his counter.
He had been fifteen years old and alone in the world. Plague had taken his parents and his brothers and when a traveling Preacher had come by and started talking about the Dragon of Lake Maltraxi he had been entranced.
The Preacher said that when the Dragon did find someone worthy, they would give their treasure to that person. To a fifteen-year-old boy with nothing, that had been all he had needed to hear. He had joined a pilgrimage headed towards Lake Maltraxi. Paid his fees (two bits at the door, he seemed to remember, though he knew the price was higher now) and waited patiently for his turn to walk out to the old altar in the middle of the reflecting pool and wait to see if he could catch a glimpse of the Dragon in the hopes it would find him worthy.
When his turn came, he had earnestly asked the Dragon for a life where he could be the best at something and prosper for all his days. He waited at the rusting altar for far too long and nothing had happened, or so he had thought.
The walk back out of the reflecting pool had been the longest in his life. He had burst into tears on the far shore and someone had taken him back to the noodle stand and fed him some dinner and after that, he had drifted around the Temple. The old lady who ran the noodle stand kept feeding him and eventually, he asked how noodles were made so she showed him. From there, he became her apprentice, and when, some years later, she died, Torias realized that he had never known her name.
So now, Torias ran the noodle stand. It wasn’t the most exciting life, but he enjoyed the work and made a decent living doing it. Fortune and glory, he figured, was for those who wanted it. When they were done questing or going and seeing if the Dragon would favor them out in the reflecting pool, many of ‘em would be hungry and when they needed full bellies, they knew the best place to come was the noodle stand.
Torias glanced over at the boiling pot of noodles and sniffed. “Almost done,” he muttered and set to work with the mortar and pestle finishing off the pesto. Vascadoran pesto was relatively simple: sweet basil, trista nuts, citra juice, and a clove of alho. Torias ground with the pestle for a while and then would stop to check the consistency of the pesto.
He frowned down at the pesto for a moment and then, opening a drawer beside him, fished out a spoon. He gave the sauce a quick mix and nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect.”
After that, it was the work of a few moments. He grabbed a bowl, then tongs to pull the noodles from the pot to place them in the bowl, and then a gentle swirling pattern of the iridescent green pesto to top them. Torias had been doing this for so many years, that he could plate noodles for anyone with his eyes closed and so:
“There you go, love,” Torias said, placing the bowl of steaming noodles in front of the sad young woman. “Hopefully a taste of home will bring a smile to your face.”
“It smells like home,” the sad young woman said. “Thank you, so much. Um,” she fumbled for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Normally, it’d be eight piastres, but you look as if you could use some cheering up today, so I’ll only charge you five, love.”
“Oh, you’re too kind-” she placed her purse on the table, but Torias waved her away.
“Eat first, eat first, love.”
“All right,” she said and picked up the fork and started in on her noodles as a distant cheer went up. Torias walked down the counter to see a Knight who was in Burgovian armor unsheathe his long sword and with the hearty encouragement of his crowd of his friends, started across the reflecting pool.
Torias rolled his eyes. Knights were the worst. Full of bravado, piss, and vinegar they would surely come back from the altar ready for wine, mead, or ale and they’d have to get that over at McGoolie’s in the East Wing. McGoolie was quick to pour drinks but couldn’t cook a lick so that meant eventually, the Knight and his friends would be looking for food.
“I’ll have to check the cellars, see if I have mutton left and that cream,” he muttered. If Vascadorans liked their pesto and tomato-based sauces, Burgovians were from further north and liked hearty, robust, creamy sauces usually with meat. As he wandered back down the counter, he paused a moment as he saw the sad young woman take her final bite of noodles.
“And how were they?”
“Oh, kind sir,” the sad young woman began- who no longer seemed sad at all, she was smiling now, “I cannot thank you enough. You have given me the perfect taste of home.”
“Glad to do it, love,” Torias said. “What brings you all this way anyway?”
“I sought the Dragon’s advice about marriage,” she replied.
“I’m sorry the Dragon wasn’t of more help to you,” Torias replied.
“On the contrary, kind sir,” she said. “I admit that at first, I did not care much for this young man, despite his exemplary pedigree and wealth. He was… plain to look at and not the man I ever imagined myself marrying.”
“And now?” Torias asked.
“Time and distance are funny things,” she replied. “He was kind enough to grant me time to consider his offer. Time enough to take this trip to Maltraxi, to see if the Dragon would give me advice. He was the very soul of courtesy and now I find-” she trailed off with a sigh.
“You miss him?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think I will marry him!”
“Good on you, love,” Torias said.
The young woman dug in her purse and placed eight piastres on the counter and pushed them over to Torias.
“Now, love,” Torias said. “I told you five piastres for the noodles and I meant it.”
“Five are for the noodles,” she said, slipping down off the stool, “And three are for you, kind sir. Your pesto was perfect and I think it was that little taste of home that gave me the answers that I needed.”
“Well, thank you kindly, love. Safe travels to you.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” With a gentle smile, the young woman gave him a nod of farewell and made her way back down towards the entrance to the Temple. Torias watched her go for a moment until another shout made him turn towards the reflecting pool. The Burgovian Knight was standing on the ruined altar, longsword raised, bellowing in defiance. Torias watched as the longsword stopped waving around and the Knight slowly lowered the sword, before turning to face his friends on the shore and letting out a bellow of triumph which was answered in kind.
Torias rolled his eyes. “That reminds me,” he snapped his fingers. “Time to check the cellar.”
The noodle stand jutted out from the Temple itself, and a door behind the counter area (where the customers sat and ate) led to the storerooms where he kept the spices and made his noodles every morning. At the other end of the stand, where Torias cooked and cleaned, there was a door that led down to the cellars.
Torias wrenched the door open with an effort. Cool air came swirling up the stairs that led into the darkness and he started down. At the bottom of the stairs, he reached out to a plate on the wall and touched it slightly and a soft light filled the room. Torias didn’t know how the lightsticks worked and he didn’t much care: all he knew was that it saved him the bother of lighting a torch to make his way to the cellars when he needed to.
He made his way over to the icebox and opened it. He smiled in satisfaction at what he saw. He had plenty of mutton and more than enough cream. He frowned for a moment, trying to remember how many friends he had seen cheering on the Burgovian Knight… “Six? Maybe…” he selected a large leg of mutton, just to be sure, grabbed the bottle of cream, and, closing the icebox made his way back to the stairs, where he tapped the plate on the wall with his elbow to turn out the lights. Then, he made his way back upstairs.
“Torias! My friend!”
Torias’ smiled. “Master Beldar! It’s good to see you again!” He set the mutton on the counter and placed the jug of cream next to it before turning around to throw his shoulder against the heavy door to the cellar to close it. “There, that’s done,” he said, clapping his hands together. He turned back to Master Beldar. “How are you, my friend? I was hoping you’d make your way back here soon.”
Master Beldar was a short, wiry bald man who was the best spice merchant in the known world. There were trading houses that might disagree with that, but Torias and every cook worth their salt between Maltraxi and Malantia knew better. Trading houses could deal in bulk and get rich off their royal contracts, for the best quality spices, the spices no one else could get, there was only one name you needed to know: Beldar.
“Torias, it has been too long! I am glad to come back this way, my friend because I have new wares, fresh from the markets of Lamarkand.”
“Tell me more, Master Beldar,” Torias said with a grin. He pulled a knife from the block and turned back to the mutton. “But your pardon if I have to do some work while we do business. I’m expecting some customers later.”
“No worries, my friend,” Beldar said. He lifted a polished red box onto the counter and opened the lid. Torias set to work on the mutton, carving the meat from the bone and cubing it and waiting for Master Beldar to speak.
“I take it you’ll want your usual?” Beldar asked.
“You know me well, Master Beldar,” Torias said. “I’m low on Vascadoran basil, I could use some of that fennel from Cormant as well. And…” he paused a moment. “I’m trying to think of the name of that spice you brought me from the Malakkas?”
“Ah,” Beldar smiled. “The cardamom?”
“I’m low on it, but we get some pilgrims from the Great Mughan Empire and they like their curries.”
“I have plenty of that,” Beldar said. “Now,” he said, holding up the first vial. “Can I interest you in some strands of this? The Lamarkandis call it saffron, say it’s more valuable than gold!”
Torias put the knife down and, wiping his hands on his apron reached out and delicately took the vial from Beldar. “May I?”
“Please,” Beldar said. Torias unscrewed the top of the vial and held it up to his nose. He inhaled… “the smell, it’s almost willowy.”
“They use it in their sauces. It produces mild flavors.”
“How much?” Torias said, screwing the top of the vial back on and handing it back to Beldar.
“Twelve piastres,” Beldar said.
“You must be joking! For that little amount?” Torias shook his head and went back to carving the mutton. The two men haggled for the next half an hour or so, by which time, Torias had the mutton carved, the bone safely preserved to make a stock later, and had the start of his cream sauce bubbled on the fire.
“So, we have an agreement?” Beldar said.
“I think we do,” Torias said. “My usual, plus some of that saffron. Oh,” he snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. Do you have any more trakanti root?”
Beldar nodded. “You seem to be the only one of my clients that buys it.”
“I’ll take as much of that as you can spare,” Torias said.
“One of these days, you’ll tell me what dish you could use it in. Salaysians only use it sparingly in their dishes. It’s that spicy.”
“I’ve got a regular who loves the stuff,” Torias shrugged. “What does that leave us at?”
Beldar considered that for a moment. “For everything? Thirty-two and four?”
Torias sighed. “All right. We have a deal.”
The rest of Torias’ day seemed to fly by after that. He refilled his spice pots with the new spices and found an empty one for Beldar’s saffron. Not long after that, the Burgovian Knight and his friends staggered over from McGoolie’s and they enjoyed mutton in cream sauce over noodles he had prepared. The food soaked up some- but not too much of the ale and they were generous with their coins.
After that, the Temple seemed to fill up and Torias had no time to think. The dishes blurred together. Salaysian curries gave way to noodles in red sauce to Lamarkandi Noodle Soup to Ilbonese Ramen and before he knew it, dusk had arrived and the shadows were lengthening across the reflecting pool and there was a chill wind in the air.
Torias kept a pot of water bubbling, ready for one last serving of noodles. He retrieved the trakanti root from where he had placed it next to the spices and unwrapped it gently before putting on leather gloves and gently shaving off what he needed for his sauce. He prepared the basic ingredients for the sauce and set them aside and turned his attention to scouring the pots and pans.
The sun sank lower on the horizon. The other merchants began to drift away, heading for their homes down in the village far below. Torias kept scrubbing.
The lightsticks of the Temple began to come on, one by one and Torias kept working. It was nearly full dark when the caretaker came by.
“You staying here the night then, Torias?”
“As always, Jimbo. Be an early start for me.”
Jimbo shook his head. “You should get away from this place now and again, Torias. Come to the village pub, have a few pints with us.”
“Not tonight, Jimbo,” Torias said with a grin.
“Well, I tried,” Jimbo shrugged. “I’ll lock the gates for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Torias said.
Shaking his head, Jimbo wandered away. Torias kept scrubbing until he heard the distant sound of the gates being shut and then, seemingly satisfied, he took his dishtowel and dried off the last big pot.
Then, he set to work making one last dish of noodles. He stoked the fire to get the water boiling nicely and plunged the perfect amount of noodles into the pot. The base of his sauce, a brilliant orange thanks to the trakanti root went into the wok for frying. Soon enough, the noodles were perfectly cooked and the sauce smelled beautiful. After that, he plated: noodles, then sauce– drizzled in a spiral pattern, just because he could.
He set the dish on the counter and, taking his apron off, hung it on a hook behind the counter before he flipped over a section of the counter and emerged from behind it. He picked up the bowl of noodles and walked over to the path that led out to the altar. Soon he was there, staring up at the dark outline of the mountains in the distance. He held up the bowl, as if in offering.
There was a rush of wind and the constellations vanished behind a great shadow that seemed to blot out the night. The closer it came, not making a noise save the beating of wings. Torias didn’t move a muscle. The dragon came, her scales glittered in the faint lights, the water splashed, and-
Suddenly, the footsteps became human and Torias gave a nod as she stepped up to him. He held the bowl of noodles out to her and the Dragon of Maltraxi took them, nodding in appreciation. “About time. I was getting hungry.”