//------------------------------// // Chapter 6 – Chestnut's Roasting on an Open Fire // Story: Merry Chestnuts and a Happy New Fleur // by Prane //------------------------------// Among all eighty-something gastronomic venues Canterlot had, one could find places which excelled in the quality of food they offered, but in turn weren’t the cheapest. Others, which had their menus full of dishes both affordable and edible usually couldn’t set an example when it came to customer service. Others again suffered from a terrible location. Far from the lights and warmth of the Promenade, they simply weren’t popular enough in the wake of Equestrian winter. Then there was Acquarellion—the best-staffed, most prestigious and perfectly situated. And also the priciest. There were two ways of getting into that palace of palatial pleasures. The obvious one through the front doors was guarded by two identical lion statues with impressive manes covered with a thin layer of snow. They stood proud amidst the carved sea foam rising at their paws, and watched the visitors carefully, as if assessing their worth. If their menacing stares hadn’t discouraged, a quiet lobby welcomed the bold and the beautiful of Canterlot’s finest ponies, yet even those had to wager their names against the booking list. If they had requested a table a month in advance—or were socially outstanding enough—they were invited in. The commoners were kindly informed that the restaurant was full for the evening. “Full for the evening?” a beige mare harrumphed as she stormed out of the lobby. “How can they be full at three o’clock already? I can see free tables just fine from here!” “That’s their thing, honey,” the mare’s boring companion replied. “They want to appeal to elitists and snobs, so they’re keeping some extra reservations on the side to get any unexpected VIPs seated,” he explained. “Don’t fret, on any other night we’d have a chance, but it’s just before Hearth’s Warming after all. Let’s find us some other place, how about that?” “Gladly. The Weather Corps scheduled a frostbite for tonight and I’d hate to be outside when it strikes.” The pair had gone their way, oblivious to the restaurant’s second point of entry. Not that going there would help them in any way—it was perhaps even harder to pass, located just around the corner in an unnamed alley. The door lead to the kitchen area which, unlike the restaurant itself, was hardly quiet, especially when there was so many demanding guests waiting for tonight’s special. To get through that door one didn’t have to face any wild animals, but had to either be one of Acquarellion’s many workers, or know the owner. Luckily for Chestnut, she was considered a part-timer for the afternoon, so that’s something. It was evident by the white mushroom-shaped hat she borrowed from an Istallian sous-chef, Pastalardo, a stallion sporting a mustache curved upwards so typical to his nation. Plus, she knew Chef Garlic Bread himself—of course she knew him. They both belonged to the same club of the city’s high society ponies: the Canterlot Elite. In which Chestnut considered herself a part-timer, too. “Not too spicy for you, sir?” she asked with concern she picked from the ponies surrounding her. A dozen stallions and mares in double breasted jackets all awaited the verdict. “The sauce we made—“ “Glazing, signorina,” Pastalardo whispered. “The glazing we made was mostly honey and butter, but also some ginger and a pinch of caradmom.” “Cardamomo, signorina.” “Cardamomo, sorry. And then we squeezed a few oranges dry into the mix.” “That part è corretto,” the sous-chef agreed. “We-a followed the young signorina’s recipe to the letter, capocuoco. Do you find the results satisfactory?” Unusual silence fell upon the kitchen, as if suddenly everyone decided they didn’t have to cut, dice, fry or blend. The big-boned Chef Garlic Bread was known of his love to small eatables and flair for dramatics. As the unquestionable master of his trade, he accepted only the best cooks, ingredients and ideas presented to him. The sweet-and-spicy chestnuts the filly and the kitchen brigade roasted had been under his scrutiny for a good few minutes now, and Chestnut was nervously recalling every step of the preparation process. Did they mix it right? Was the milk to honey ratio accurate? Did they add too much ginger? They probably added too much ginger. “Miss Chestnut,” Garlic Bread began slowly, his voice that of a Canterlotian artist-cook, “your recipe is definitely… something.” “Something good, I hope?” “I’ve been to Tramplevania once, you know, and I’ve tried regional treats there. It was a cold evening, yes. I asked my friend for something warming but not too hot. A snack made with certain finesse, but nothing as complicated as a full dish.” He put the bowl down, then leveled his eyes with it. “Imagine my surprise when he brought me a plate of roasted chestnuts, an ingredient which was never too popular among Equestrian chefs. I was skeptical at first, naturally, but then I tasted them. Oh, so I did. They were absolutely delicious.” The circle of ponies shuffled as he paced around the table, beholding the bowl like a priceless sculpture. “It was a memorable experience, sweet and warming as promised,” he continued, “though I doubt the ponies who care little for the subtler aspects of the Great Cuisine would appreciate it. I certainly did. I was told that those chestnuts came from a nearby village where supposed experts in their trade lived, ponies who also came up with the secret recipe for the glazing. Right off the bat—pardon the phrase—I decided to visit and inquire for it as a fellow pony interested in culinary matters, but a snowstorm cut off the valley.” The chef picked up the bowl, weighted it in his hoof, then put it back down. It didn’t go unnoticed that he was stalling to delay his judgment, but not even Chestnut, her hooves shuffling nervously, dared to interrupt him. “When I was leaving Tramplevania on the following day, I had only a note listing the possible ingredients I remembered. Milk, butter, ginger, cardamom, orange juice and… something else. I spent a few good days tinkering with the amounts and different ways of executing the recipe, different temperatures, intervals, tools, but I was never able to replicate the taste of those ‘gilded roastnuts’, as the dish was supposedly called.” The filly nodded ever so slightly. That was the name of the dish. The name her... her first family came up with. “Eventually, I moved on. There were more recipes to try and more flavors to discover.” Garlic Bread straightened up, easily towering over Chestnut and most of the staff. “Tonight, you made an attempt to recreate the taste, and I have two things to say about it.” He reached out for a shard of glazed chestnut and savored it. The tension boiled throughout the kitchen like a five-star stew, steaming and bubbling out of the excess of emotions. “That’s not the taste I remember.” The kitchen team reacted: Chestnut’s ears drooped, the saucier groaned, entremetier cried, potager dropped the ladle, legumier started chewing on his hat, and grillardin fainted. “Order in the hall!” Garlic Bread boomed and the ponies collected themselves in an instant. Even the grillardin got back to all fours and returned to grilling asparaguses like nothing happened. “I said I had two things to say! The first is that, unfortunately, you were unsuccessful in reproducing the flavor of what I’ve tasted those years ago. But!” He raised his hoof, taking a moment to look at each and every pony involved. His bearded muzzle was stern, but when he got to the filly, a warm smile appeared in the black bush. “But it’s close. Very close. Closer than I’ve ever gotten myself. You should all be proud of yourself, brigade!” Within the general cheer a loud thump was heard. Garlic Bread put a hoof to his face. “Someone take care for Wobble Heart, please. And her asparaguses, they’re needed at table four. Pastalardo, take the roastnuts and prepare them to be served at table nine. Madam Polomare has a feisty temper… and you wouldn’t like her when she’s moody,” he muttered under his breath. The others looked at him inquisitively, as they couldn’t recall any restaurant-related incident regarding the mare. “What are you looking at? Everyone, to your stations! There are tongues to be satisfied!” The word ‘Suri’s’ was heard but Garlic Bread was denied the chance to lash out at the culprit. The ponies dashed quickly to their respective positions and were momentarily back to cutting, dicing, frying and blending. The stallion nodded in content and turned to the filly, the only pony whose job for the day was done. “You seem to have a hoof for the stove. Have you ever considered a career in the culinary branch?” Chestnut snickered at the idea. “I’m afraid I’m a pony of a single trick, sir. I may know a thing or two about growing and cooking these, but that’s it. I don’t think a restaurant serving a single dish all year long would be very successful,” she said. “To be honest, I’m surprised I could be of use here in Equestria. Tramplevanian chestnuts are hard to get and I was worried I wouldn’t know what to do with them.” She rubbed the back of her head. “I hope your guests will like them. They all look like ponies of refinded tastes, and it was just a simple recipe.” “Sometimes, simple is all a pony needs—especially during Hearth’s Warming,” Garlic Bread replied and reached out his hoof. “I am grateful for your help tonight, Miss Chestnut.” As a socialite-in-training, Chestnut didn’t realize she was supposed to offer her foreleg for the waiting gentlecolt’s respectful kiss. Instead, she bumped hooves with him. “Hey, no problem, it was fun!” she exclaimed. A long second later she noticed the awkwardness painted on the stallion’s face, and it got to her. Acting as a lady and not just a child was still something new to her, much like keep finding herself in those rich and fancy places. She wasn’t quite feeling the line between being casual and formal just yet, but she was learning. “Uh, I mean, I am delighted I could be a part of tonight’s culinary entrepreneur. Enterprise! Enterprise, is what I meant,” she corrected herself, flushing with embarrassment. Learning didn’t mean getting better, it seemed. “So, I guess I will be going now. My mom’s waiting at the Carousel Boutique.” “Don’t you want to stay and enjoy your creation?” Garlic Bread asked. “Anything from the menu you’d like with it?” She shook her head. “Perhaps another time, sir. I’ve had plenty when we were working on the recipe.” “Then at least take some for your parents.” He quickly wrapped a generous pile of hot chestnuts in a silver foil. “They were kind enough to let you come, and I feel I’ve eaten most of the refreshments the last time we met, so consider it a form of repayment. You are, of course, cordially invited to a dinner at my restaurant whenever you find fitting, as we agreed, anytime.” “Any time? What if you’re full?” “For VIPs like you, Miss Chestnut, we always keep an extra reservation on the side.” He pushed the bundle into her hooves. “Allow me to accompany you to the door.” The filly made a step. “No, not the kitchen door. The main entrance.” “Whoopsie. Sorry.” At the swinging doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant, Garlic Bread suddenly stopped. “Just lose the toque, if you please. I can’t have my brigade running ill-equipped.” “Double whoopsie.” With the tip of her wing, she swung the hat over the plates full of soon-to-be-served roasted chestnuts. “I think that’s yours, Pastalardo! Thank you for letting me wear it.” “Grazie, signorina,” the sous-chef replied. “Buon Hearth’s Warming.” The symphony of knives, plates and frying pans died out in favor of music. Tonight’s smooth jazz embroidered with bells so typical of Hearth’s Warming was brought by a gramophone in the corner, but Acquarellion was known of bringing in musicians to perform live for the guests. The sounds served as a reminder of the holiday, as if the mounds of snow piling outside weren’t obvious enough. As Chestnut followed the stallion across the room packed with ponies of importance, she got into the right way of walking in such places. Head high. Straight as a string. A delicate smile. That was the walk of a true Canterlot pony her mom taught her, and although it argued a little with the filly’s natural state of limbs, the lesson was yet too novel to be forgotten or ignored. She made a small ceremony of putting on her jacket and scarf while engaging in small talk with the chef, as it was proper. A few discreet stares had been thrown their way, and she couldn’t tell if they were more surprised seeing one of her kind, a batpony, in such a classy restaurant, or watching the owner paying so much attention to someone so young. Either way, Chestnut felt out of place—and not the first time since she found a new family. Done with the layers of orange around her neck, she nodded at Garlic Bread’s final bow and left. “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” she assessed. “Good job not setting anything on fire, me.” The icy wind smiting Chestnut’s cheeks didn’t bother her at first. After over an hour spent between stoves and ovens she welcomed it, much like she welcomed the short walk ahead of her. The boutique was... that way! She couldn’t say she knew Canterlot very well. She only know a couple of points and the simplest routes between them, like the Promenade and home, home and Mr. Inkblot’s shop, and the Promenade and the Orphanarium. That last one was giving her some trouble because the first time she went there she actually ended up in a wax figure museum... But she was positive she could get to Emerald Street. She had to. She didn’t want her mom to be worried all the time, so she had to prove herself. It was also a chance to be alone with her own thoughts for a moment. Of course she wasn’t really alone, as despite the late afternoon, the Promenade was still crowded with ponies rushing from left to right, across the street, back and forth between shops, and everywhere else. They carried all sorts of seasonal shopping: a new tree to put in the living room, new ornaments to hang, or new stockings to put gifts into. Chestnut wondered how many new things awaited her in the coming months. Not merely objects, but experiences she would never live through as a full-time orphan. Tonight’s cooking in Acquarellion was a perfect example. When she first acquainted Chef Garlic Bread, her legs were shaking and she could think straight only thanks to the insane amounts of orange juice she was pouring into herself. The memorable party with the Canterlot Elite made her a guest of honor and had her talk to a great many adult mares and stallions. Her game face on, she managed to be brave only because her mom believed in her, and she didn’t want to disappoint her, Fancy Pants, Doctor Hugs or herself. At some point, Fleur had recommended she talked to Garlic Bread, and from one casual topic to another—and from the first toothpick snack to eleventh—Chestnut got herself invited to share an old family recipe with the best cooks Canterlot ever saw. It felt good to be useful again, to have her talent matter. The chef probably didn’t realize it, but Chestnut had a good idea of what village he intended to visit for the recipe. It brought all kinds of memories, too… but nothing concerning the missing ingredient. A wailing blast of cold brought her back to the present moment. “Brr!” She shivered and weighted the silver-wrapped package. “Frostbite, right. I better get to the boutique before these nuts get cold!”