Northern Breakfast Blues

The North, for the most part, had food that lacked flavor. The region, battered by harsh, bone-chilling cold, prioritized nutrition over taste, making hearty staples the norm. Greasy. Heavy on seasoning. Salty. James loved everything about the North—except its cooking. Early that morning, down in the kitchen, he was deep in thought, pondering what to serve the two guests staying at his inn.

What could he make that they'd like? They seemed a bit shady, but they were paying customers all the same. One looked half-mad, yet he had that noble air about him, and he'd paid handsomely. So there James was, apron tied on before dawn.

"Hmm..." He wanted to treat these rare visitors from beyond the North to something perfect.

—Why have you come to the North?

—The Young Lady... no, just curious about the place.

—Pardon?

—Wanted to see the locals' culture and food for myself.

—A fine reason.

Paid well, so courtesy demanded a fitting meal. And for a young man who'd traveled here for such noble motives, James's love for the North wouldn't let him half-ass it.

"...Time to put in some real effort for once." He rolled up his sleeves, face serious. But this lifelong Northerner still couldn't decide. Truth be told, he hated Northern food himself. He was confident in his skills, but the core issue? No confidence there. Grim-faced, he focused on breakfast prep.

Two hours later, with a massive pot of stew bubbling, James scooped a spoonful and shook his head.

"...Too greasy." The thick broth clung stickily to his tongue, feeling heavier than ever today. Northerners would go wild for it, but those guests? Doubtful. As his insecurity gnawed, a booming shout echoed from upstairs.

-Air raid... ALERT!!!!!!

James flinched at the bizarre yell from the second floor, looking up.

"What the—?"

-AIR RAID ALERT!!!!

Gripping an empty frying pan, he shook his head. Monsters must've awakened. Hands trembling, he hurriedly set the table and waited for the guests.

Soon, one came down, yawning and stretching.

"Haaah..."

The first was the red-haired man. Ricardo, was it? He'd said to call him casually, but after glimpsing the hefty sum in his pouch yesterday, James found it hard.

Ricardo nodded slightly at James. "You're up early."

"Innkeepers can't sleep in. Heh heh... Good morning."

"Yeah, good morning."

"Room not too cold? Tried to keep it as warm as possible."

"It was so well-heated, it was almost too hot. Haha."

Ricardo eyed the spread and smiled faintly—seemed pleased. As he approached, James clutched his apron, swallowing hard.

"You've prepared breakfast. Sorry for the trouble—thank you."

"Oh, no need. Can't just take good money and provide a bed—that'd be rude."

"Appreciate you looking after us."

Even chatting, the young man's eyes kept flicking to the food. Once at the main of braised lamb ribs. Twice at the broccoli-topped soup. Thrice at the crisp baguette. Blinking softly, he wore an enigmatic smile.

"Hmm... So this is a Northern breakfast?"

James swallowed his nerves. "No... We usually keep mornings light—bread, jerky."

"So this is more like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a feast for dinner or special days."

"Strictly speaking, yeah... Any issues?"

"No, just curious."

The young man shrugged and stepped toward the stairs, then paused, head ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tilted. "Could I cook breakfast starting tomorrow?"

"..."

"Ah, not implying anything—just don't want to burden you."

"No need to..."

"I'll pay for kitchen use. And yield if other guests are around."

"Is something wrong? Looks a bit off, but tastes fine."

"No real reason. The Young Lady likes my cooking..."

"Well, if that's it..."

James stared blankly at the spot where he'd vanished, clenching his fist. Felt like they'd dissed Northern food. Not outright, but it stung. As a proud Northerner, he wanted to defend it. Even if he hated it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠himself.

* Bringing the Young Lady down to the first floor, I sat her before the lavish table and pinched her cheeks.

"Young Lady."

"Hmnya..."

"Wake up. Time for breakfast."

"Ugh... morning..."

Rubbing sleepy eyes, she shook her head and blankly stared at the feast. Braised lamb stew. Finely chopped broccoli garnish on soup. Crispy baguette. Her eyes sparkled.

"Meat?"

"Yes, meat."

"Ricardo make it?"

"No, the innkeeper did. Say thanks."

She awkwardly bowed to James, hovering nearby. "Thanks."

"Say 'thank you properly.'"

"Tank you pwoperwy."

Always so polite. Smiling, I plated some seasoned lamb ribs for her.

"Let's eat."

"Wets eat."

She eyed me, fork poised, seeking permission. I nodded, tucked a napkin on her lap, and smiled. "You first."

"Ung."

I gestured to the empty chair at politely standing James. "Join us, James. Too much for two."

"Not too much!"

"You're on a diet."

"...Right."

Hesitant under my insistence, he sat and picked up his fork. Then came the Young Lady's icy verdict, ruthless as ever on food.

"Tastes bad."

She stabbed her fork into the meat, blunt. "This meat sucks."

True to her villainess nature, no sugarcoating before the cook. Loud enough for all to hear: how could meat taste this bad?

"Super gamey."

"...Guhk."

"Chewy as hell."

"...Kuhk."

"Salty."

"..."

"Too sweet."

James paled with each cold word. I'd taken my share of her scoldings, so I got it... but what could I do? It was worse than my first attempts. Bitter smile at my empty plate—I'd known from the kitchen stench it'd be bad. Forced it down anyway.

Bowing her sulky head, I apologized to James. "Sorry. The Young Lady's picky... Apologize."

"Why! Can't lie it's bad! You'll go bust!"

"Even if it's bad, not polite in front of the chef."

"Eeeek... Sorry. But it really sucked."

James stared at the table, knuckles white on his utensils, trembling. Deeply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hurt by her honesty.

Wiping my mouth, I said carefully, "I'll cook lunch onward."

"Sure."

"Huh?"

At my casual reply, he looked regretful, head tilted.

Smiling faintly, I met his eyes. "I'm pretty good at cooking."

Talented as I was, I figured I could satisfy him. Knowing what he wanted.

Roll up sleeves, head to kitchen. Plenty of time—something simmer-heavy. To dazed James: "Like soupy dishes?"

"..."

"Coming?"

He followed.

"Simmer pork bones like this..."

His practiced hands from old part-time gigs drew awe; he fell silent. One bite of the finished dish, and teary-eyed: "What's this called...?"

"Pork bone soup."

"..."

Grabbing my hand: "Fancy dating my daughter...?"

Pork bone soup never fails.

* A cold wind blew. A bone-cutting gale from the North. In some Northern hideout, heretic remnants encircled a massive magic circle, chanting strange incantations. Hard to make out, but clear: the huge beast at center writhed in agony.

One remnant smirked darkly. "Shall we begin the inversion?"

As he spoke, the beast twisted into something horrific.