Night 28: Hellagur, Rum Baba
The Late Night Diner is a part of Rhodes Island's canteen. That goes without saying – to whom had anyone ever heard of a diner in the boiler room?
As the name implies, it opens around midnight. There are only a handful of customers at a time.
Operators off their night shift could take an order and bring back to their quarters. Night owls could sit dining-in while leeching off the Diner's wi-fi. The Doctor would come for instant noodles from time to time.
Drinks are in the cooler. Anyone burdened by their own thoughts could take one and chug it down, anytime.
Menu? No such thing exists. What the Chef prepares is what you get. It all depends on his mood of the day.
Welcome to the Rhodes Island Late Night Diner. In here, you might even meet a familiar face or two.
After nearly a week of toiling under the scorching sun, the Chef reluctantly passed the management of the Carnival food stalls to the youngsters of the canteen and went back to the Diner. Some money ought to be made by others, he thought, and it was not worth the effort for his old bones to be dragged through the hard labour again.
"Eyy boss, long time no see!" A customer grabbed a bottle of beer from the cooler and asked. "I heard you set your shop up for the Summer Carnival with Closure above the decks. Y'know, we had to make do with pre-packaged bread from the convenient store after work for the past days. We all missed you so very much."
"I opened my shop here right after I got off from upstairs. If you are not coming to help my re-opening, I oughta drag you one by one from the dorm myself !" The Chef huffed. "Kids these days. All talks and do nothing."
"Aww, please don't be like that boss. We are all friends here. Got anything to recommend tonight?"
"Durin mushroom pie, roasted During mushrooms, or salt-braised fowlbeast drumsticks with mushroom sauce." The Chef pointed towards crates with mounds of mushrooms inside on the counter. He said. "Who would've known – apparently the little folks had a fixation on the stuff. As for the pastries, well ... you are here too late. The Sanktas had already got them all."
Just as the customer, now with a sullen face, was about to order some food, someone beside him pushed a small, shabby-looking paper package to him.
"I got some pastries here, if you don't mind." An old man spoke. It was from him where the package came from. He had a cup of vodka in hand, and the ice ball inside the glass reflected a beautiful array of light onto the low ceiling above the bar counter.
"Oh, you are a life saver!" The customer pulled the package toward himself. On the package printed an Ursus matryoshka doll in oil painting style. "Just want something sweet after working the whole day, thank you so much!...Hold on a minute, aren't you..." He examined the old man closely – the neatly-trimmed white beard, the chiselled jawline and hardened features, the pair of straight yellow ear-feather and the unmistaken Ursus accent...this must be him. "Gen-" The customer stammered.
"I'm afraid you got the wrong person." The old man took a sip of his drink and swirled the cup in his hand. "I am but a simple mercenary, that is all."
"Ah...well...um, my apologies." The customer did not dare to press for more answers. He took the packaged pastries and moved to another seat, waiting for his food. The old man sighed, and downed the rest of the drink in one gulp.
The Chef tossed the prepared ingredients into the wok, and poured another cup of vodka for the old man. "I thought those are for the kids." He said.
"Children, the Infected, operators. The way I see it, they are all the same to me. I still remember you saying "after a hard day's work the best reward are sweet pastries", or something like that. It was on the first time I visit your place, too."
"General Hellagur is getting on in years I see, and people of our age would always like to reminiscent about the past." The Chef chuckled, and poured himself a cup of vodka as well. "It's been years since you first visit my place. Back then I don't even have a shop, and would only cook with a portable stove inside my dorm. Then you came, sitting beside my door on a small stool and drank vodka by shots, and handing Ursus biscuits out to other customers."
"Rum baba. Could you make some?" Hellagur replied, raising his head.
"I could, sure. Just have to wait for those Sankta youngsters to leave." The Chef answered, brining out a small bag of flour from the cabinet. "I thought you didn't like it. After that time I served those to you, you never asked any again in all these years of your visits."
"The children want to have a taste. They could only know their motherland from history books and some video records. I figured it'd be better for their understanding if they had a taste of some authentic Ursus snacks."
Flour, baking soda and sugar. They were mixed together with butter, eggs and yeast water to make the dough. The Chef left the dough beneath the counter to leaven, so the Sanktas would not find out and argue with him for not selling the finished pastries. Among the rescued Infected and survivors from Ursus, many were children and young students. Just like Hellagur had said, they had not a chance to know their homeland well before the Origium crystals on their skin separated them from the rest of their kin. After the destruction of his underground clinic, the shadow of persecution loomed largely above the heads of Hellagur's patients, so naturally he chose to cooperate with Rhodes Island. But the children, they never would have a chance to look upon the leaden sky and the snowy fields of their country, but instead know only the white, sterile walls of the Medical Wards. So he hoped through Ursus cuisine he could help the children recall a semblance of memory of their birthplace.
It was next evening when Hellagur came back to the Late Night Diner. The Chef was making a pot of orange rind syrup. The small cakes had been waiting in a corner of the display cabinet for the whole day. The cake base for rum baba must be air-dried, and these enlarged-wine-cork-looking pastries were spongy on the inside, perfect for absorbing syrups prepared by the Chef. He poured in a small spoonful of aged rum into the pot, and the strong aroma of the spirit instantly rushed out of the heated pot.
"You sure you could let the kids eat these?" The Chef stirred the syrup, looking towards Hellagur with concern. "It'd not be a good idea if the Medical people somehow know you are feeding them with alcohol."
"The children should have a taste of the fiery spirits." Hellagure answered with a smile. "They had been through too much hardship unbefitting of their age."
"It was that girl again who taught you this, wasn't it?" The Chef tasted the syrup, and poured more rum into the pot. After the syrup was done, he dumped the small cakes one by one into the pot. When each and every one of the cakes had fully absorbed the syrup and carried on the soft texture of soaked dish sponges, he fished them out and waited for them to dry. When he dripped a layer of condensed milk and a cherry on top of the each cake, his work was finally done. The slightly sticky syrup gave a beautiful sheen to the cake bodies like a layer of glaze. They gleamed gold underneath the overhead lamps, with a faint yet distinct aroma of rum and orange coming off naturally from them.
"She did say something like that before, and I think she was right." Hellagur said, carrying the paper box full of rum baba in his arms, then drained the cup of vodka in his hand and placed it upside down on the counter. "This land should never be harsh to the children. Not like this. I will explain to the Medical people. Thank you for your hard work."
"It's something I should've been doing." The Chef took a gulp from his own cup, and raised it to the old general leaving the Diner. "To you and the children."
Then he shouted towards the dining area. "Ursus-style rum baba! First come first serve! Ey you Sankta kids over there, want some sweet treats?"