Nothing a pinch of salt can’t fix.
She grabbed the seasoning from the shelf and gently sprinkled a handful into the bubbling cauldron. The potion was perfect now. The salt more or less neutralized eye of newt’s pungent tang and augmented the subtle flavour of adder’s fork.
Most people called her a witch but she saw herself as an experimental cook. She had trained in the best culinary schools before embarking on internships with the great chefs of Europe. But disheartened that molecular cooking had taken flight she soon scoured libraries to find the roots of traditional cuisine in the Dark Ages.
An ancient monastery manuscript especially peaked her interest. In it was included a list of recipes from an old crone the monks had burned at the stake. The ingredients baffled the mind: gall of goat, scale of dragon, liver of blaspheming Jew. Not your run of the mill dish items. Yet she wanted to give it a try.
Gathering the ingredients proved to be quite the quest until she ran into a hump-backed Romanian named Igor who assured her he could provide her with everything she needed. Even nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips. As he came good on his promise time after time she no longer asked questions about his collecting methods. She’d been cooking the Dark Age dishes ever since.
Her hand feathered the little bell and in came the waiter. She handed him two plates. Table four.
The guests sniffed the plate. They had heard great things about this new place. The food was supposed to be delicious and innovative.
Of course the only ones telling that weren’t those turned into frogs, trolls or in one case, after gobbling up the same soup the guests were now sinking their teeth in, a fire-spewing dragon.
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