So you want to be a Chef?

Chuck

Soul Chef
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It had been two months since Chuck had returned home from school as a graduate, and yet the moment his mother’s rooster crowed, he still tried to turn off his bedside alarm. His hand landed heavily on the empty nightstand, rattling the contents within. Aww, man… just one morning to sleep in, that’s all I’m asking…

Of course, he knew he’d regret actually staying asleep. With a heavy sigh, he pealed himself off the twin-queen bed, yoinking his tail from the crevice between the two length-wise beds. His feet found the floor first and slid into his oversized, fluffy house slippers. He grabbed his custom-made mittens and soon his covered hands found the floor too.

He missed the barracks back at the boarding school. The fifteen-foot ceilings of the all-boys dorm meant he could just barely stand up. Here, with the nine-foot ceilings, he had to walk on all fours, butt up in the air and tail hung low like a struck dog.

A trip to the bathroom had the overgrown lizard on his knees to drain the proverbial lizard. This was about the same from school, except at least here he didn’t peer over walls into other stalls. The only thing new was the need to take off then put on the mittens to get around. No room in this old home had ceilings over nine feet. At least the school had a minimum ceiling height of eleven feet, just enough to walk hunched.

With his morning business done and hands washed and recovered, he padded his way towards the kitchen to get breakfast started.

“Hey, munchkin! I was about to--”

“Sit your butt down, before I tell Dad,” Chuck interjected. The woman in front of him was just a run-of-the-mill human. Five foot, three inches tall, she had luxurious brunette hair and the biggest blue eyes with barely a hint of wrinkles. Mimi, as the town called her, had a plethora of remedies for beauty - and the touch of her skill as an enchanter assured they worked.

The woman was a third the height of Chuck, but sure enough this was his mother; Mia-May Hamsley. “Okay, okay, I just thought I’d give you a break!” She held her hands up in mock defeat. “Besides, you may be some hot-shot chef in the making, but I still know how to cook!” Despite her age, she stuck her tongue out at Chuck like some middle-grader who had just been told off.

Chuck gave her a deadpan with a cocked brow. Luminescent blues just stare her down. “Fine, fine, I’ll go!” She gave up her place at the stove with a playful sigh of defeat. She strode over to wrap one of Chuck’s arms in a tight hug. “Potato cakes and fried ham, please?”

“I have a better idea,” he chuckled. “Go tell Dad I’ll have breakfast ready in about thirty minutes.” He craned his head down to place a kiss atop his mother’s head. “Spicy or mild?”

“Mild please!” She chirped. “Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll at least do those for you, okay?”

“Sure, Mom. Sounds like a fair trade.” She finally released his arm and took her leave. “Love ya, Mom,” he called. She responded in kind, leaving him to his morning routine.

Chuck shifted to walk about on his knees, head ducked low and tail held out for a solid counterbalance. First, he pulled out a dozen medium-sized russet potatoes. He gave each a firm poke with his round-tipped thumb-claw for firmness. Satisfied, he plucked a knife and made quick work of cubing them, skin still on.

With the potatoes in a colander, he gave the vegetables a good wash, then into a pot of water to boil. He added a few pinches of salt, a dollop of butter, and a few drops of hot sauce. He snapped his fingers and pointed finger guns at the yet-to-boil pot of potatoes. “I should take you in for premeditated murder, ‘cause yer gonna kill it!”

After the momentary self-praise, he moved to the next big contender. From the fridge, he pulled a pork belly fresh from yesterday’s slaughter. While the potatoes were boiling, he took a thinner knife between two fingers and expertly peeled away the larger ribbons of fat and cubed the hunks of meat.

Once he had cut the fat content down, he plopped the fat into a pan on low heat to render and melt down nice and slow, along with a pinch of salt.

The meat was last, and he made a speedy step of stuffing it into a manual meat grinder, rendering it down to ribbons of ground pork. He hated this grinder though. It was so tiny, and even though it was solid steel, the gears were delicate and he always seemed to torque it a little too hard and jam something or another.

Once he was finished wiggling and jostling the arm of the grinder back into a functional position, he tackled the meat with a hearty helping of salt, pepper, a pinch of cumin and a pinch of garlic powder before washing his hands and getting into the mix knuckle-deep. After the first round of mixing, he cracked in two eggs, mixed again, then went to quickly stir the potatoes as they bubbled away.

The fat had rendered down, and now he added a pinch of salt, a dollop of maple syrup, a spoon of brown sugar - nearly dropping the tiny utensil in the process. He gave it another stir and let it slowly warm back up again.

Had he the ability to sweat, Chuck might have broken one with the rising heat in the kitchen. He took the bowl of pulverized sticky meat to the stove, took up another pan, and began rolling up the meat into little sausage-like rolls. Again, employing low heat, he tossed a number into the pan and covered it.

The fat mix was bubbling away once again. He added in pinches of flower with one hand, while whisking with the other. Slowly, a thick roux was forming.

This was crunch time. He kept stirring the roux while the other hand lifted the lid off the pan of sausages to give them a roll. After the lid was back on, he took a tiny fork to poke the potatoes. Soft as a cloud! He mentally cooed to himself.

While still wisking, he took the pot by one handle and stretched that impressive wingspan of his to dump the potatoes into a colander in the sink. “Don’t go nowhere,” Chuck warned the potatoes - as if they’d sprout legs and run off.

The roux puffed up wonderfully, so it could finally come off the heat. The sausages were mostly done, and slightly crumbly. Perfect! He turned off the heat to let them steam a bit longer. “Final stretch,” he urged himself cheerfully.

The colander of potatoes were pulled out of the sink and dumped into a bowl. He took up a potato masher to mash and crush the starchy cubes. Into the mix he added a bit of butter, a touch of milk, and a pinch more salt.

Chuck believed in seasoning every step of the process, in moderate amounts of course.

By the time he had mashed and splashed his way to a bowl of thick mashed potatoes, they had cooled just enough. He brought the bowl to the sausage pan and pulled up the crumbly rolls with a spatula.

He pattied out the mashed potatoes, laid a sausage roll in, added a bit of goat cheese to one side, and the sweet roux to the other. The potato patty was rolled around to capture the sausage, roux and cheese within… and then tossed into the sausage pan to fry in the grease.

Of course, he could not finish one meal without interjection. “By all the stars in heaven, that smells divine.” He could hear his father from down the hall, walking through, minding his own business when he was struck by the smell.

“Five minutes, Dad. Actually, could you help me set the table?” Chuck called out.

His father almost stormed into the kitchen. “Gladly.” Anyone else might have looked at this six-foot, well dressed man and assumed him a butler with how ready he was to work. Xvartantu, or Varta, as the town called him, was always a man of rather posh fashion.

This six-foot-nothing, salt and pepper haired man shared Chuck’s luminescent blue eyes. Otherwise, he looked like a well groomed human. So far was that from the truth: behind that faux form was a well aged dragon with Olde magic running through his draconic blood.

Yet… here he stood. Ready to move plates and platters like a busboy. He waited silently, patiently, until Chuck filled a platter with twenty of his odd fried potato rolls. “Eight, eight and four. I’ll grab the syrup and hot sauce.”

“Don’t overwork yourself there, son.” His father teased as he took the heavy steel tray and made off for the dining room. Chuck took up the condiments and awkwardly followed on his knees, ducking still beneath the frames of each wide door, or crawling through those too narrow for his broad shoulders.

His mother was already seated, his father was sorting plates. He had taken Chuck’s orders, giving his wife four - probably more than she could even eat - and eight for both himself and his son. Varta may have a human form, but it was little more than an illusion, he still ate meals fit for his true grandeur.

“I see; king of the castle has picked out the fluffiest,” Chuck chuckled.

“Listen here, I just plated them randomly - it was fate that the thicc-with-two-C’s cake found me,” he smirked wickedly. “Now hush up and take a seat. If we don’t eat, I’ll start gnawing on your arm.”

He may be a beast in disguise, but he’s still a dad… aweful jokes included. Chuck was still grinning, the thick, leathery hide of his maw turned upwards at each corner.

He sat down, not quite ready to see if his father was joking or actually starved after Mom’s attempt at dinner the night before.
 

Chuck

Soul Chef
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Breakfast went as expected - which was a good thing. The table was silent except for a tune hummed by his father as he stuffed his cheeks with the sweet, mildly spicy, savory goodies. Sausage from scratch, wrapped in fried potato cakes, seasoned to perfection and hearty enough to fill a starving Viking. Needless to say, it was a breakfast befitting the adult dragon, regardless of what shape he polymorphed into.

Chuck's poor mother managed two before exhaling a labored sigh. "Chucky... don't take this the wrong way, but I simply can't eat another bite. I'm already miserable."

"That was the goal, Mom. I'll wrap them up for your work lunch if you want?" Chuck offered with a delighted smile. The way she fanned herself from even the mildest spice was amusing. She simply could not stand the heat as well as he and his father could. Then again, a childhood past time for Chuck and his father was eating spicy peppers in place of popcorn for movie nights. She just couldn't hang with the fire-breathers.

Regardless of whether or not Chuck's fire-breath had come in or not.

"That would be lovely, dear," Mother smiled. "Though, I might need a mid-morning nap before work. I'll come back to the dishes, Munchkin... The couch is calling my name. You boys behave." She slowly stood, blew a kiss to Father, then toddled off with yet another sigh.

"Love ya, Mom. If I don't see you before you head off, have a good day at work." Chuck munched another bite as she responded with a lazy wave. With a stuffed cheek, he turned to his father; "You gonna need a nap too?"

"I feel like I could run a marathon," he stated proudly. His free hand waved off the idle banter, the other paused in stuffing his face with the delectable bites. "But enough idle chit-chat for now, son. I do have a bit of important information for you."

"Oh? Steamrolling past idle banter, are you sure you're feeling alright?" Chuck chuckled. "Who abducted my father and left you behind?"

Varta rolled his eyes with a half grin. "I know, unusual as it may be... but it can't be helped, or we'll never have this conversation. I spoke to Mr. Holloway down at the mess hall. He's willing to give you back your summer job, full time. As long as you don't cook off-menu."

Now it was Chuck's turn to sigh. "Yessir. I won't cause any trouble. Strictly his boring, flavorless--"

"Except Saturdays," the old man interjected with a wicked smirk. "Saturdays, you'll be on the grill once you clean it up. He said, and I quote;" Varta's lips twitched and his adam's apple dropped, "'That boy o' yers ain' half bad on th' meats, but I cannae afford what he's want'n ta make. Tell 'em, he pr'vides tha meats an' such fer Saturday cookouts, an if'n a profit comes in, he'll be gett'n comp'nsated. Plus any tips he brings in. An' he does his own advertisin' ya hear? I cannae afford them flyers, jus' fer those damned hunters ta tear 'em off th' walls again.'" The voice was a dead ringer for the overweight, mildly grumpy and gruff Mr. Holloway.

"So... Free run of the old outdoor grill area, I just have to provide my own supplies and print out a few flyers?" Chuck failed to see a downside to this.

"Yer Ma--" His father had to clear his throat, having almost locked himself in the gruff voice. "Your mother has already printed out about ten to get you started. Also, there was some jazz about alcohol - keep it under eighty proof."

"I-I need to go hunting! Fishing too, I could do a gumbo! I gotta buy hops! No, I don't have time to brew for this Saturday... Do I still have a bottle of wine from last summer, or did you guys down it?"

"Gone, sadly. Your mother and I couldn't resist."

Chuck huffed, but nodded. "Fair enough. Might have to tell Mr. Holloway to hold off a week, so I can prepare."

"I figured as much. This is the most help we can give you, son. This is your dream you're chasing, I just helped with the foundation. We can't afford to slaughter all our goats and cattle, so you're on the right track with going out and hunting for it. I will say that any sort of profit you make off your Saturday cookouts should go into savings. Start a hoard, like your old man, at least until you have enough to open your own place." Varta nodded sagely - before stuffing almost an entire roll into his mouth.

Chuck nodded along with him. "It's a very good idea, Dad. And thanks for doing this much. When does Mr. Holloway want me to start?"

"Dinner rush tonight. Prep starts in three hours." Varta managed around his mouthful.

Chuck's leathery maw curled into an eager smile. "Awesome. Flipping burgers for a few days doesn't sound so bad. Even if they're soul-crushingly bland."
 

Chuck

Soul Chef
Level 1
Joined
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Messages
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Essence
€2,373
Coin
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Profile
Click Here
A heavy sigh left the half-dragon. Luminescent eyes almost dulled at the sight of the grungy old mess hall. Even the M in Mess had broken off and just sat loosely on the ground, leaning against the clay-brick wall.

"Mr. Hamsleh'!" Chuck jumped in surprise at the wet-gurgling voice of the overweight Mr. Holloway. "So good of yuh t' c'mon back! An' t' fallow mah rules, I tell ya what, s' gonna be mighty nice ta not hafta worry if'n Imma come back ta an' empty fridge e'ry mornin'."

"Hello, Mr. Holloway. I'm sorry about last summer, I just... had ideas." Chuck crouched down, knees nearly to his chest as he tried to lower himself to his new boss' height. The rough palm of his hand scraped at the back of his scaled neck. "I didn't mean to empty inventory..."

The pudgy man waved a chubby hand. "Bah. I han'l'd it a bit rough at th' time, but I knew yer head be in tha right place, kiddo." The so-called chef put his hands on his rotund hips and stared the giant youth up and down. "S' why when yer pa said ya were comin' back, I tol' 'em I hadta think it ov'r, aye? An' tha' Saturday thing jus' seems like it'd be a good ol' way ta capitalize on yer skills."

"I --" His brow crunched as it furrowed. "Capitalize on my skills?"

"Aye, Th' hall gets cust'mers, sells th' plates, an' jacks up th' price. Ya bring in yer own foodstuffs, an ya get a commission fer each plate ya sell!" Chuck's head tilted and drooped as he tried to figure out this used-car salesmen take on restaurant business.

"My father told me I get the profits... Doesn't that mean whatever the plate is worth, minus what I use from your stock?" He retorted with hesitation. He felt like he knew the answer...

Mr. Holloway let loose a barrel of laughs, jiggling like pudding with every burst. "Oh, boyo, ya cannae be tak'n er'y dime, or else ya'd put me whole business un'er th' sand!" The boss waved off the notion as silly. "An' since yer makin' comissions doin' yer own thing, ya won' be need'n tha hourly, ya should be fine with yer skills."

Chuck's scales prickled. "You... you mean that on Saturdays where I cook... I only get a percentage of what I sell? And I don't even get my hourly wages? AND I have to bring my own supplies? How does that seem fair?" Chuck used every ounce of willpower to keep his voice low and calm. Even then, his wording alone earned a stern look from the pudgy cook.

"Look 'ere, kiddo. Ya work fer me, Monday ta Friday, an' Saturdays ya freelance usin' mah facilitays. Mah grill, mah cust'mers, mah seats 'n tables 'n ev'ry thin'. Ya ain' got a pot ta piss in, an' if ya wan' this job, yer gonna bust yer ass fer it, ya hear me?" The usual wet-gurgle that was Mr. Holloway's voice grew more hoarse as he spat in sudden anger. Froth seemed to drip from the corner of his lips. "I don' care that yer daddy is some big scary dragon, back 'n my day, we hunted drag'ns fer meat 'n armer, an' he ain' no different."

Thirty years ago, maybe that might have been a threat, but now? Chuck paused to look him over. He wouldn't even be the guilty midnight snack Dad'd eat huddled in front of the fridge... Chuck mentally mused, and he'd discovered his father eating a whole, raw, porkbelly on more than one occasion.

"So roughly how much would I make per plate?"

"Ehh, I'd say about five percen' 'er so." Mr. Holloway seemed to calm, now that Chuck appeared to be getting with the program.

"Fair enough." Not fair enough, he internally heaved. Covering for prep-time, he guessed he would have to sell almost thirty plates an hour to match his hourly.

Mr. Holloway nodded, his numerous chins wobbling. "Good boy! An' I cannae wait till this Saturday! I'mma thinkin' some ribs 'n somma that there sa--"

"I can't do this Saturday, I'll have to go hunting and foraging, then butchering and advertising. I --"

Mr. Holloway scowled, eyes wide and furious. "You'll get it all done by this' weeken' or ya can kiss th' offer goodbye. An' I better na' see a drop in th' night's income, or yer days here are done. Now, get ta work, an' man up." Mr. Holloway barked. Leaving no room for debate, he toddled off into the building, leaving Chuck to mentally fume.

"Right," Chuck stated with a heavy sigh. "So this is sabotage... That makes sense."
 
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