Page 40 of Orc'd & Loaded
I reach up. Pluck a single, perfect leaf of mache from where it's wedged against my left tusk. Hold it between two fingers. Stare at it.
Put it in my mouth.
Grak retreats to the smoker without another word.
The lunch rush hits like a stampede of drunk minotaurs. Every seat filled by noon. I'm hauling a fresh cord of hickory from the back alley to the hearth when the brass bell starts clanging in the town square.
That bell never rings twice in one month.
I drop the wood. Sawdust plumes off my apron as I shoulder through the front door and join the stream of bodies already flowing toward the square. Shop owners, farmers, a cluster of pixies hovering above the fountain for a better view. Mayor Hendricks stands on the gazebo steps in her usual uniform ofsensible tweed and barely controlled panic. A piece of paper trembles in her fist.
Solene materializes at the crowd like she teleported. Arms folded. Coat pristine. Not a single trace of last night's cellar on her. Our eyes meet for exactly one second before she looks away and studies the gazebo railing with the intensity of someone memorizing grain patterns in reclaimed wood.
Professional.
"Attention, everyone!" Hendricks smacks the bell one more time. The crowd winces. "I have a critical update regarding the annual food festival."
A murmur rolls through the square. I plant my feet and cross my arms. Whatever this is, it reeks of bureaucracy, and bureaucracy never smells good.
"As many of you know, the renowned food critic Reginald Vance has graced our town with an extended visit."
Extended. My stomach drops. That man was supposed to be here for a weekend. A weekend of surviving his acid pen and moving on. Extended means he's dug in. Extended means he's hunting.
Hendricks clears her throat and reads directly from the trembling paper.
"Mr. Vance has informed me, in no uncertain terms, that he finds our current festival format..." She squints at the handwriting. "'Pedestrian, fragmented, and indicative of a community with no cohesive culinary identity.'"
A gasp from the baker's wife. A grunt from the fishmonger. I crack my knuckles.
"He has proposed a revised format, which the town council has voted to adopt."
"Voted when?" someone shouts from the back.
"This morning. Emergency session. Seven to two." Hendricks pushes her glasses up her nose. "The new format eliminates individual vendor booths."
The crowd erupts.
"Instead, the festival will feature a single, unified town menu. One collaborative meal representing the full spectrum of our community's culinary heritage. Every participating chef contributes to the same table."
My blood pressure spikes so hard I hear it in my ears. One table. One menu. Every dish judged not on its own merit but as part of a whole. Which means my smoked brisket doesn't stand alone. It sits next to someone's wilted salad and gets dragged down by association.
"Furthermore." Hendricks holds up her hand. The crowd quiets, barely. "Mr. Vance has specifically requested that the centerpiece of this unified menu be a single collaborative dish. Created jointly by our two newest and most..." She glances between me and Solene. "...prominent culinary voices."
Every head in the square swivels.
Solene goes rigid. The color drains from her face so fast I half expect to see it pool at her feet.
"No. Absolutely not."
"The catering contract will be awarded to the entire collaborative team," Hendricks continues, steam-rolling past the objection like a cart with no brakes. "Not to an individual. Mr. Vance was very specific. He wants to see unity."
"Unity." I roll the word around my mouth. It tastes worse than the sawdust.
"This is absurd." Solene pushes through the crowd toward the gazebo. "I spent two weeks developing a complex tasting menu. Twelve courses. Each one calibrated to the gram. You're asking me to scrap all of it and share a plate with..." She doesn'tlook at me. Doesn't need to. Every person in the square fills in the blank.
"I'm asking you to adapt, Chef Rostova."
"And if we refuse?" I step forward. The crowd parts. Perks of being the largest person in any given room.
