Joris Torrell stood in front of the wooden cutting board and stared down at the carcass. 'No, canvas' he corrected himself. He was no miner; he possessed no talent for reading the flow of veins in rock and couldn't tell pyrite from gold or quartz from diamond. Nor was he a smith, able to see the potential in a lump of metal and shape it to realize a vision. He did not have a silver tongue, enabling him to bargain and wheedle his way to a merchant's riches. Many things he was not, but he was an artisan without peer in Orzammar – when it came to food.
Today was a defining moment in his career, the day he finished 'Een Jaar van Nug.' Once it was given over to the Shaperate, it would be entered into the Memories; his recipes preserved, etched in lyrium to be passed on for generations to come. His predecessor, Bragan Tolban, had similar aspirations and his treatise 'In Praise of the Humble Nug' was a discussion about their use as a staple foodstuff deemed worthy enough to record but the distinction between essay and defining dishes was what separated the two men. Joris presented an appetizing array; all boasted of having graced the table of the king and received endorsement from said esteemed personage as being eminently delectable.
The fryer in front of him was for his final, three hundred and sixtieth recipe. Around him, the kitchen behaved like a living thing; dwarva rushed back and forth on tasks independent yet part of the whole: slicing, chopping, baking, frying, kneading and stirring. Other nugs – roasters, larger and not as finely grained or marbled as the one in front of him – rotated on spits; turned lazily by a spit jack whose skin was reddened by his close proximity to the flames. Fat dripped down and the fire spat and hissed angrily, adding to the raucous ruckus.
'Inspiration. Concentrate.' Joris stroked his beard; none was forthcoming. His thumb rubbed back and forth over the short black bristles of his neatly trimmed sideburns, 'Nothing puts a diner off like stray hairs in the soup.' Wise words from his father, echoed by his mother; she made him tie his hair back as well. The need to continue that practice was long gone – he was bald save for a fringe around the back of his head where it remained dark as on his chin and cheeks.
Unable to focus, he surveyed the kitchen. The nameless youngster Joris only knew as the nug boy stood in a corner, looking at loose ends. Required to stay in case any of the meat proved too stringy or tough, he shifted from foot to foot. 'Blame your master, child.' The cuniculturer Shafan was not above slipping nugs past their prime into the shipment, wagering on their use in stews to soften flesh into palatability. A surreptitious glance around – the boy must have assumed his lower caste prevented someone of Joris' stature from looking at him and under normal circumstances he would have been right – and the youngster picked his nose and wiped it on his shirtfront.
'Disgusting!' he thought, bellowing, "You – boy! Out! Get out of my kitchen" and he picked up a knife and shook it with intent. Faces turned and the child disappeared around a corner. "Shameful! No standards." Those around him made sympathetic noises in agreement although it was unlikely they witnessed the child's vulgarity – his caste enough to damn him. 'Dust Town, that's where he belongs.' Behave like an animal and he should be relegated to living with the rest of them, where filthy habits were tolerated – probably even encouraged.
The momentary distraction over, Joris returned to staring at the meat on the table until a light touch on his shoulder silently sought his attention; it was his eerste kok, Mirjam. "Is there anything I can do, Joris? Do you need anything?" She was his messenger and his voice in the kitchen; he told her what he wanted and she made it happen. In this, her element, she was like a jaca-dura, the prickly but firm fruit that grew underground, a hard taskmistress and unforgiving of error. When they were alone together, she was an enoki, velvety and soft. 'It's her mouth I love the most,' and if all went well tonight, he would be able to kiss those lips for a lifetime when he asked her to be his wife. Her words washed over him, unheard and unheeded. She stopped speaking; he heard not a word but knew what she said – they were waiting on him, all of them. Gamel, the onder hoofd, Diederik, his hoofd van deel and all the bediende whose names he never bothered to learn – all anxious for his orders on how to proceed.
His thoughts drifted back to his parents, who were so proud of his rise to prominence. While in service to House Medra, he was never called on to prepare anything requiring finesse so long as it was hearty and nourishing. The night the then Prince Bhelen was guested was an ancestor sent miracle. Joris had screamed, he yelled – he may have beaten one of his underlings with a ladle (he couldn't remember) – but the meal was perfection. Roast saddle of nug: crispy belly flaps with the tender loin sliced into bite-size pieces that melted on the tongue. Bozek Medra, one of Bhelen's confederates, slopped ketsiap over the dish and declared it edible but the prince's reaction was one every chef hopes for, each mouthful taken with relish.
Upon King Endrin's return to the stone, a messenger arrived and instructed Joris on his new duties, Bragan having been dismissed – Joris was to take his place on the prince's express command. Since then, he had done all he could to further elevate his patron with successive scrumptious masterpieces – Bhelen's name would be inscribed as the inspiration for the book being relegated to the Memories.
A pot dropped – it clanged into his consciousness and interrupted his train of thought. Quiet, yes, that was what he needed; the hustle and bustle drowned him in needless noise. "Take everyone outside. Please, Mirjam – I need to think." Done without argument, minutes later, the kitchen was empty and he was alone. His bittersweet Mirjam kept them within the sound of his voice; they would await his summons and not return until then.
He grasped a stiff boning knife and stared down, considering where he wanted to make the cut. 'The shoulder? The rump?' Perhaps use the intestines or boil down the head – was there time to make sylte? Before he realized what he was doing, he plunged the knife into the meat – over and over, with a vengeance – before he collapsed to the floor; the cutlery clattered away from his numbed fingers.
He hated nugs. He loathed everything about them; they were his salvation and his bane. A year ago, he was blessedly ignorant, content with their gamey flavor and the consistency of the meat. Endless possibilities stretched out in front of him – every time he looked at a nug he pictured a different dish although until he joined Bhelen's service he had little reason or opportunity to exercise his imagination. He met Mirjam and Shaper Assistant Milldrate approached him about writing a book – this book, the one slated to finish today. He achieved his ideal life, culminated by the end of months of squabbling by the Assembly; the sole remaining Aeducan's claim to the throne of Orzammar ratified and Bhelen donned a crown fashioned by Paragon Caridin himself.
He worked on the post-coronation feast for two days without rest, driving his staff mercilessly and discarding dozens of dishes for trivial reasons. He raced upstairs to listen to the nobles as the servers presented each course. Dace, Helmi, Bemont, Gavorn, Ivo, Voldin, Vollney and the new house Ortan were all present; they raved about his presentation, the food's flavor – on and on until he thought he might burst from pride.
"I would enjoy being in your Ferelden far more, my friend, were the food not so utterly bland. Your stew being the exception of course – it is in a category all by itself."
His previously perceived success weeks ago vanished in an instant; Joris felt as if he'd been submerged into an ice bath prepared for deep mushroom soup. The speaker was easy to locate; it was the elf accompanying the Grey Wardens with an accent thick as olibanum tears. 'Bland?' Did the foreigner meant something else entirely and he misunderstood the pronunciation? He grabbed the nearest guard's arm; the warrior looked as if he might remove his hand for the affront but Joris was past caring. "The elf – who is he? Where is he from?" The guard peered at the one he pointed to and shrugged as if to say 'Don't know, don't care.'
He requested Mirjam corral the servants as they returned from the dining hall. Once assembled, he questioned them, "The elf – the one with the Grey Wardens – which of you knows where he's from? Do any of you know his name?" 'Bribery will loosen tongues.' "Drippings from the big cast iron kettle and all the bread you can stuff down your gullet to anyone who knows anything about the saffraan-haired foreigner."
This got him a response. "I don't know his name," a young woman ventured. She looked half a step from starvation but hid her hollowed cheeks with the over-application of paints, "I heard Lord Anwer say he was from Antiva." The grumbles from her fellows made her defensive, "On my honor, sir, for what it's worth. That's where he's from."
When he asked her name, she shot him a hungry smile that had little to do with food. "Grieta, if it pleases you."
It didn't. Joris snapped his fingers. "Mirjam, see to it she gets the reward promised her," and the girl's face turned sullen as if she was being robbed of a prize. Later that night, he lay in Mirjam's embrace, kept awake by turbulent thoughts. 'Bland? Bland?' It was a crushing reverberation and even when he clapped his hands over his ears, he couldn't block it out.
He couldn't remember how he got to the elf's rooms – couldn't recall going to the kitchen or picking up the cleaver – but he stood outside the door. A nervous swallow, another short span of time lost and he was inside the guest quarters and menacing the Antivan with the knife, repeatedly muttering, "Bland? Bland?"
For his part, the elf sat up and seemed nonplussed to find a dwarf in his room brandishing a weapon but not frightened, as Joris himself would be if a raving maniac (he wasn't insane, surely not!) entered his sleeping chamber, wielding a blade as large as his hand. This gave him pause, enough to form his thoughts into a coherent sentence, "What did you mean – my food is bland?"
"You are the… cocinero, the… chef of last night's meal?" When Joris nodded, the elf had the decency to look apologetic.
"Did you mean it? Does that word mean the same in your language as it does in mine?"
The elf hedged. "In Antiva, we would instead say desabrido." The word sounded so melodious coming out of the other man's mouth Joris could almost fool himself into thinking it meant something good.
Joris dragged a chair to the bedside and took a seat, laying the cleaver on his lap as he spoke, "Zacht, bland, desa… whatever you said–"
"Desabrido," the Antivan provided helpfully.
"–all mean the same thing. No cutlet frills to pretty up the truth, is there?"
If the elf didn't understand the analogy, his shrug covered his confusion. "Considering what you have to work with, it is probably quite fine. Where I come from, however…"
Joris couldn't disguise his eagerness, "Yes?"
"Where I come from, there are many more varieties of… well, of everything. You have just the one meat – the nug – yes? Are there no fish? No underground caves where such might dwell?"
Well into morning, the two men discussed cuisine; Joris explained their reliance on nugs to the exclusion of all else and the Antivan – whose name was Zevran – talked fondly of the viands of his homeland. He described spices coming in all colors: bold red paprica, warm brown canella and sandy yellow coentro; of markets filled with fish from the ocean and meats from all manner of beasts. Of cherimoyas with their custard-like interior and padrón peppers that might or might not be hot, their unexpected heat a surprise to the consumer. When he could, Zevran provided translations for the words he knew in Fereldan but most he could only identify in his native tongue so did his best to describe them.
The longer Zevran talked, the more obsessed Joris became. 'How can I live my life knowing such things exist yet never taste them?' But a life on the surface meant becoming an outcast, an exile – no better than the casteless scum of Dust Town, though without a branded face. He shuddered, 'Sun-touched.' What a price to ask; to give up Mirjam, his parents, his ancestors – all the way back to Shotkyar, the first artisan. They would be lost to him, forever.
When Zevran finally escorted him to the door, a parting made with the yawned request that if he wished to speak to the Antivan further about food it be done during daylight hours and without the accompanying cleaver, Joris' head spun. He thought he knew all there was to know about cooking and perhaps in Orzammar he was the foremost expert but outside the dwarva city…
He tried appealing to the castellan, requesting a budget to allow for the purchase of foreign provender. "His Majesty will become bored with nug every morning, noon and night."
"It's your job to see that he doesn't grow bored," was his answer, the request denied. Joris stomped out and returned to the kitchen; he felt listless and dispossessed in a room once more a home to him than anywhere else in the city.
He made covert inquiries before meeting Legnar – one of the merchant caste and rumored to have no compunction about dealing with surfacers – with a portion of his personal fortune. The two struck a bargain, an inevitable result for one was desperate and the other avaricious. "I'll take your gold. You're good for that." and Legnar did, for several months.
The small vials with their precious contents found their way into his kitchen but their limited supply curtailed his creativity. The shipments were not only seasonings. Once, rich livers from a bird – it spent most its life falling up into the sky if the merchant could be believed (just the thought made Joris queasy) – called a duck; he wrapped the morsels in salt cured and smoked nug spek and then marinated them in a sweet sauce. The dish received acclaim from the king until it sent him to the lavatory all night. 'Too rich, too rich,' Joris cursed himself and Legnar terminated their arrangement – he didn't want to fall under suspicion of poisoning because of the chef's eagerness to experiment.
He sank lower. He used the girl Grieta; she put him in contact with a casteless named Rogek. The cost for these clandestine deals was double – triple – as the smuggler demanded more coin to stay quiet about the source of his new stock. Joris paid to preserve his honor and when his money ran out, he began to steal from the palace stores at the other man's behest. Soon he was in the Carta's pocket, doing their bidding for pineapples and papadum.
His life had spiraled out of control but tonight was the night everything changed. Tonight was his three hundred and sixtieth recipe. The confession of his transgressions would absolve him. Forgiven, Mirjam would consent to be his wife and he could forget the Antivan elf and the path of depravity talking to him had led to. 'Praise the humble nug!' was Joris' fervent prayer as he scrambled back to his feet.
He stared down at the mutilated pink flesh of the small animal and then gazed around the kitchen before his eyes alighted on… an epiphany and he set to work, pausing only to scribble down instructions for all those who came after him to follow.
Joris Torrell stood behind the throne of King Bhelen Aeducan; he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple into the combed hair of his beard. The droplet lingered there, just as the king's eyes remained on the plate Joris uncovered with flourish only moments ago, before he felt it drip down his neck, absorbed by his starched shirt collar.
"What did you say this dish was called, Joris?"
He thrilled at hearing the king say his name. "Bell Peppers and Nug, your Highness." He resisted the urge to wipe his brow.
Bhelen poked at the contents of his plate with a fork, "You said Bell Peppers and Nug."
He bowed but King Aeducan didn't turn; he didn't see Joris' gesture of obeisance. "Yes, your Majesty."
"There's no nug in here," the king said, pointedly. "So you wouldn't really call it Bell Peppers and Nug, now, would you?"
Bhelen's voice was a velvet glove slipping smoothly into Joris' mind. His king was so rational – so reasonable – and Joris was obligated to give his equally sane reply to the question. "Yes, I would."
The king lifted his napkin from his lap and daubed genteelly at his lower lip. "Well. It's not." Bhelen's cadre of warriors was well trained; they dragged Joris off before he began giggling madly, sparing King Aeducan's guests the ugliness of a scene.
The dwarven Shaperate is a vast repository of knowledge, most renowned for its genealogical records; they span hundreds of centuries, back to the founding of their empire with the first King, Bloadlikk. It is through these – as the dwarves call them – Memories that each generation learns of the one before and so on.
The archive contains other great works – histories, literature – as well as its share of cultural anomalies. By our standards, Seuss might be considered one of these (as dwarves are not considered a whimsical people) yet he was venerated and achieved the rank of Paragon for his mastery of rhyme. Another such is 'The Year of Nug' by Joris Torrell, former head chef to King Bhelen Aeducan. The book contains three hundred and sixty recipes for nug – one for every day of the calendar year. A cookbook devoted to the preparation of a single animal seems extreme but given the dwarven reliance upon these odd creatures as a primary food source, the volume is practical and useful.
What makes it unusual is not its contents but the legend surrounding it. Joris' talent and his subsequent disappearance from the public eye led to gossip regarding the man's mental state; penning the book drove him mad and the final recipe, 'Bell Peppers and Nug' supposedly contained no nug at all.
I was allowed to inspect the tome and while toward the end of the book some of the words used are nonsensical (rumaki, for example, has no meaning either in Dwarvish or Fereldan) and the ingredients become more extrinsic (such as the inclusion of duck liver) all include nug, even the infamous 'Bell Peppers and Nug.'
As I discovered later, all books are inscribed in lyrium via a process known only to the Shapers. Was nug was not originally included but instead added afterward? What proof might there be if the writing is not done in the author's hand? There is little to be gained from altering a cookbook though, so the rumors (as was the case of the Rivaini Circle of Magi and pigs) are likely untrue. Whether Torrell himself was a visionary or lunatic appears destined to remain a mystery.
-From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, Volume Two by Brother Genitivi
My entry for Soignee and Aimo's contest over on deviantART. The rules stated so long as your submission was dwarf-centric, anything goes, including fan fiction. There are some intentional references to Cowboy Bebop in this story, but for the most part, what is written here is mine - (except for that which isn't, like I said). Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).
I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).