Luminous

11 - The Gourmet's Gambol

The week sped by in a whirl of color, noise, and movement. Furlongs of sausages had been stuffed, hills of apples sorted, mountains of hay burned at the nightly bonfire, and the Fools' Games were upon them.

As to be expected of harvest-time festivals, there were ye old run-of-the-mill face-stuffing, ale-chugging, and pig-riding contests, but the Games' staple was the Sausage Tree. The womenfolk of Crosset clapped and squealed as bare-chested lads stepped up to scale the oiled poles—and scarf down the dangling braid of fat, peppery sausages. It wasn't enough to haul one's behind onto the top of the pole, one must also finish the sausage train to be declared winner.

After many sore bums, tears, sweat and slobber, it came down to the final scramble between Maro, Steffen, and Georg Krulstaff. While simple Steffen and stubborn Georg chow the sausage as they go, Maro had taken a leaf out of Meya's book of cheating. He sped to the pinnacle with the sausage in his mouth, then perched there savoring his haul while his opponents coughed and choked below. His reward was, of course, a barrel of more sausages for the family, and much swooning from the ladies who'd gather for a gander of his muscular chest gleaming in the sun.

Then there were the Plate-Throwing Contest, which Marcus could always be counted on to enter. Each contestant would roll up his sleeves and chuck old trenchers gathered from the entirety of Crosset at his chosen nemesis, in a bid to dock a tower of apples off his head. If the target lasted five throws with an apple on his head, he'd roll home a barrel of fresh cider. If the thrower knocked off all apples in one throw, then the barrel was his.

Marcus would always argue that with his red, bald, shiny crown housing a pea-sized seed, Gregor Krulstaff's head should count as an apple, and so justified him pelting for Gregor's face, but a Krulstaff would rather die before he ducked, anyway, so they made for a great match (of dolts).

Behind the rowdy tomfoolery, however, a bitter battle of cooks was brewing. This year, the Gourmet's Gambol had decided on Crosset as their stage, an honor that for a decade had only befallen capitals like Meriton, and many suspected had only strayed thus far due to the Dragon Ambassador, or an outrageous bribe from Lord Crosset.

The prestigious cooking contest was hosted by Sir Rufus Alverie, renowned court jester to the last two Wynn kings. Banished early into the brief reign of Devind the Demented, he supported Alden's rebellion. Once Alden secured the throne, he implored Alverie to return to service, but the jester elected to spend his prime years traveling the kingdom, honing his craft, discovering new cuisine. He never judged the contest himself, however, always deferring to the expertise of his lifelong friend Sir Boltor, the palace's master cook, whose final word had single-handedly made many a famous tavern-master.

At dawn, the remains of the bonfire was swept from the town square, making way for a dozen long tables draped in white. Contestants filed in at dinnertime, lugging wheelbarrows piled with meat, fish, flour, pots and pans, and dived for their sharpest knives at the bell. Three hours later, the Games had concluded, and crowds trooped back from the pastures beyond the village, sore, concussed, dirty champions and losers among them, just in time for judging to commence.

"And now, the moment we are waiting for draws near! Let's give our contestants time to flourish their finishing touches and whisper their most desperate prayers! Let's take a gander at our distinguished judges!"

Sir Alverie brayed amid the jingle of bells on the tips of his drooping hat, prancing spryly on one foot then another. The crowd cheered as he flourished his hand towards the first judge.

"Our good man here hails from Aquar, where he developed his eye for beauty and refinement. He then expanded his palate through his apprenticeship in Damerel, and his pilgrimage to Easthaven. He then circled around to Meriton, where he discovered nothing beats the warmth of a mother's stew curdling in a chilly autumn belly. His criteria will be as complex as his taste is layered. We all know him. We all love him. We all fear him. I give you—the one, the only, the almighty—Master Chef Boltoooooooor!"