Travelers 3: Heimlich the Chef

Plain broth and three slices of bread, that was the meal that Heimlich was most familiar with. One might look at Heimlich’s towering frame and assume he consumed thrice more than average, but this was far from the truth. The master chef preferred to eat last, enjoying a small moment of solitude with a simple meal to save ingredients for the next day’s dishes. He awoke every morning to a line of hungry and eager diners, his mind abuzz with culinary schemes and experiments. In the early days, there was a full pantry of spices, meats, vegetables, and fruits to work with. With no less than a dozen assistants and apprentices studying under him at a time, nobody had ever accused Heimlich of hoarding his secrets for himself.

To Heimlich, eating was not just a means of gathering strength to tackle the next day, it was a way of speaking to one’s own soul. Eating plain rice or unsalted noodles might allow your body to carry on a bit further, but could the spirit last? The master chef relished in the challenge of a new diner approaching his kitchen. It meant a new face and name to learn, a new palette to help refine. Many who enter his kitchen leave knowing things about their tastes they had not known going in, or trusted the chef enough to prepare them a dish they would never otherwise try, only to lick the plate clean. When traders came to stock his pantries less often with less ingredients, his work had become even more complicated. He enjoyed a challenge, but even Heimlich could only stretch a few helpings of salt so far before his menu grew stale. His hands forced, his offerings consisted of simple dishes with minimal options, eventually serving the very same plain meals that he himself ate. It pained him to offer so little, for his heart was nourished by the comfort he brought to his diners. Heimlich felt himself starving as he served only the bare staples they needed.

Diners would dwindle, his busy kitchen becoming quieter as time went on. He shutters his doors earlier in the day as even the most basic ingredients are harder and harder to come by. One day, nobody came to visit at all, and Heimlich felt an odd relief that nobody would frown while eating his cooking. Even as he spent more and more time in an empty kitchen, he never felt the urge to leave. He couldn’t leave his post, lest a hungry diner come to find he had left. Then again, what good would it do him to simply shrug and apologize for having nothing to prepare? It was then that Heimlich decided to set off to find ingredients for himself, foraging the woods far away from the crumbling city that he no longer recognized. He did not keep track of time, what seemed like days passing before he smelled something he had not smelled for a long, long time. Meat. Roasting over an open flame, that smoky aroma unmistakable. Heimlich almost dropped his basket of wild herbs, berries, and mushrooms as he stumbled along the overgrown path and found the encampment, the occupants roasting a haunch of strange meat over an open flame. The timid chef approached slowly, watching as the campers struggled to keep their flame burning and their makeshift spit from collapsing. Heimlich decided these inexperienced travelers needed help, and came with arms outstretched, bearing gifts of fresh herbs to garnish the meat, berries to mash into a jam and pair with their meal, and some much needed salt. It was then that Heimlich realized that his kitchen could never be confined to one place, not while there were so many in the world that needed his guidance. Not while he was hungry to bring comfort to the souls of the world.