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// Flapjack Dreams of Pancakes 
// Story: Matters of Lesser Interest 
// by PhycoKrusk 
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	Every night, they were consistent. For certain, the dreams were not always the same, but they were consistent.

For long after the Battle of Canterlot, it was wondered by many if changelings dreamed, and what they dreamed of. The few books that were written on the subject were filed by many a librarian as speculative fiction, containing more editing mistakes than facts. At least two cinema reels were produced with plots centered around what happened in the mind of a sleeping changeling, and what secrets might be found there.

Whatever secrets were to be found (or found lacking), the simple truth was that, regardless of what ponies thought, changelings did dream. And just as changelings dreamed, so did the changeling known as Flapjack dream. His dreams were never the same, but they were always consistent, always about the next day. He would dream of eggs in every style he knew, of potatoes just the same, of muffins and toast. He would dream of omelets when the chickens were in high spirits (as frequently as they cared to) and sausage links when griffons and diamond dogs passed through (as infrequently as they dared to). And one night, he dreamed of them, perfectly shaped, perfectly proportioned, perfectly light, and perfectly delicious.

On that night, Flapjack dreamed of pancakes.

The next morning, when Gertrude Von Griff stepped through the door of Jack's,  she found herself compelled to stop and examine the chalkboard declaring what the day's special was. "Jack?" she called after a moment. "I think there's a small problem with the board out here. All it says is 'pancakes'."

"There's no problem with it, then."

Again, Gertrude had to pause and consider this, and then she made her way to the kitchen. "I don't think I understand," she said, announcing her intention to clarify. "There's no fruit on them? Or whipped cream or nuts?"

Inside the kitchen, she was unsurprised to find the earth pony Flapjack, whom she had not yet, after the two years she'd known him, decided was an eccentric genius, or simply 'out there.' As expected, he was preparing the griddle, carefully adjusting the well-kept gas taps until it was at the perfect temperature. Exactly as he did every morning.

"None of those things, Gert." Flapjack's response was, as always when cooking was concerned, direct. "They will have pats of butter and a precise drizzle of maple syrup. Nothing else."

"At all?" the griffon felt compelled to ask. "Is there any particular reason that today were serving...."

It was, of course, only seconds that passed in between Gertrude's trailing off and her answering, but they were seconds that felt like hours as her mind raced. Never, in any span of time she could imagine, would Flapjack serve 'ordinary' pancakes. By the end of the first second, she had further ruled out 'plain' and 'simple,' each for seeming inadequate in describing anything Flapjack would decide to cook. By the end of the second second, she had convinced herself to move beyond 'regular,' which was certainly accurate, but struck her as rude. Relief came just after the third second, with the appearance of the right word.

"Traditional pancakes?"

At that moment, Flapjack determined that the griddle was at the perfect temperature and turned his attention from it to regard Gertrude.

"I dreamed of golden pancakes, with a pat of butter and precise drizzle of maple syrup."

Flapjack turned his attention to the creation of the first batter to be made that day. Gertrude turned her attention towards preparing the till for that day. Not another word was spoken of the pancakes. Flapjack had dreamed of them, and that was that.

When customers finally began to fill the diner, their reactions upon entering were similar to Gertrud's. They paused for a moment to wonder what 'pancakes' might mean, and then were seated. The orders that Gertrude took were not usual; many ordered what they usual did, or simply weren't up for pancakes. Those who did eat Flapjack's pancakes, however, all sat for a moment in stunned silence after their first bite, needing a few moments to understand what had just happened. Eventually, all of them contended that what had experienced in those moments was the feeling of a miracle, and they resumed eating.

It was two hours into serving that the front door burst open to let in an earth pony, green-furred, flaxen-maned, and gasping for breath. Before any diners could properly react, Gertrude was at his side, a glass of water in her talons. "Mayor Bigwig!"

The mayor all but collided with her, unsteadily taking the glass in his hooves, and after sucking in a deep breath, taking a large gulp to calm himself. "Du liebe Zeit, why are you in such a hurry, Mayor? What's happened?"

"I was, in my fields," Bigwig stammered in-between breaths. "My daughter..."

At once, every pony was on their hooves, ready to spring into action. Bigwig drew in another deep breath, and continued. "Met a mare at the gate. A food critic. From Canterlot! And she's coming here!" The diner's occupants settled down, but they were still very concerned about the possible implications of the situation. A Canterlan taking an interest in their humble diner had not happened for...

Truthfully, the last time had been not two weeks ago, when a peculiar gent in a capotain had taken an interest in Flapjack, and turned out to be from the Midland, but nothing else had come of it. This fact, naturally, did nothing to stem the concern felt at that moment, for at the moment, no one recalled it. The ponies were, at that moment, very much concerned.

Not included among the concerned was Gertrude von Griff, who calmly responded, "Oh. Is that all?" As soon as she'd said it, everyone around her calmed down even further, and Bigwig visibly shrank and blushed through his green fur, suddenly feeling very silly for making such a big deal out of what should have obviously been nothing. "Nopony told us, though, so it's good to hear it early. You sit down and rest, Mayor, and I'll tell Flapjack so he can decide what to do."

And that is what happened. Bigwig sat on his haunches by the door and drank his water while pretending he did not run clear across Oldenburg for no good reason. The diners sat down and resumed their breakfast, although their conversations turned uniformly to the mystery mare. Gertrude retreated into the kitchen, and emerged a few moments,to say, to the surprise of nobody, "Jack has decided that we should all carry and not worry about it, and that he will deal with it when the time comes."

That was good enough, and the conversation in the diner returned largely to normal, with only casual speculation about what would happen when the critic arrived.

Ten minutes passed. That stretched into thirty minutes, then an hour. Despite the length of time, hardly anyone had left, even thosethat had only come in for lunch, so interested in seeing the outcome of the critic's arrival and evaluation. None were more strongly affected than Bigwig; as time had done on, he'd grown more and more nervous, to the point where Gertrude was constantly refilling his water glass, cold liquid being the only thing preventing him from shaking.

Two hours passed since the mayor had first run in, and finally the door opened to reveal a pony that had never before been seen in Oldenburg. As soon as she entered, all eyes were on her, and everyone in the diner knew imediately that this was the mare they had heard about.

The first, most obvious, and really the only necessary indication that this mare was from Canterlot was the fact that she looked very smart, wearing a dress that was best described as elegantly simple, an affair of violet and deep blue that served to compliment her fur, which was colored much like a flan or crème brûlée. What her mark was was a guess for anybody, obscured by fabric. Her mane was a deeper red-orange and was done up. She was in no way dressed for walking, and it was clear that part of the delay in her arrival was doubtlessly spent making herself 'presentable.' Despite these efforts, she still seemed somewhat plain, and was not at all the visage of culinary retribution that most of the diner had made her out to be in their minds.

But plain or not, she had come all the way from Canterlot. This was the moment of truth. The opportunity to make a good impression on a visitor from the Midl-

"Willkommen!"

Before Bigwig, or indeed, anyone else had an opportunity to begin irritating the visitor, Gertrude chimed in noisily and all but bounced up to the unicorn. To say that she was caught by surprise would be fitting, given the height that she jumped to.

"willkommen. Welcome, welcome. We don't see many fancy ponies here. There's a rumor that we'd have a visitor from Canterlot. Dare I guess that it was accurate?"

To the mare's credit, she recovered from her surprise in short order. "Yes, you would be," she said, voice ringing in a rich Canterlot accent. "Crème Custard, food critic for the Canterlot Tribune. I take, from your exuberant greeting, that you are employed here?"

"Ich bin. Yes, although I'm not the one you're looking for, probably."

For a moment, Custard regarded the griffon with a mixture of caution and interest. "Is the chef here today?" she asked. Gertrude answered with l
No more than a nod of her head.

"And, is the chef currently available?"

Gertrude nodded a second time. "I'll let him know you're here. I'm sure he'll want to speak with you himself. A moment, please." The griffon turned and went back into the kitchen, and before long, an earth pony emerged and approached Custard promptly.

"I'm Flapjack. I understand you asked for me, and have heard a rumor you've come to review my cooking," he said.

Crème Custard bristled, just slightly. "Mister Flapjack, I don't 'review' anything. I critique food, and do so based on a number of traits."

"Well, I'm very happy for you, then."

Custard quirked an eyebrow. It was not any of the number of responses she had expected. Brushing the remark aside, she continued on as undaunted as she could manage. "Yes, then. Please, tell me about today's, pancakes."

Flapjack did not hesitate in the slightest. "They're a stack of three pancakes with a pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup."

There were a few seconds that passed before Custard realized that there was no further explanation forthcoming. "That's, that's all?"

"That's all."

Another few moments passed before Crème Custard spoke again. "I've been a critic for some time. It goes without saying, I think, that I've sampled more dishes than I can easily recall. That includes pancakes in almost any style you can imagine. And yet, I'm not sure how I should feel today."

This time, it was Flapjack who quirked an eyebrow. "I'm sure I don't understand what you mean," he replied.

"Nopony, Mister Flapjack, has ever served ordinary pancakes for a critique. The objective is to show skill and imagination. What can you hope to show me with ordinary pancakes?"

"Have you had my pancakes, yet?" Flapjack asked, suddenly.

The question caught Custard quite off-guard. "Well, no, of course not-"

"Then how can you claim to know what they will or won't show you?"

Crème Custard did not like this stallion one bit. Or perhaps she did? Never before had a chef facing one of her critiques been so antagonistic, or so certain. Of course, many had said they were 'certain' their food would be to her satisfaction, but here was one who either knew it would be to her satisfaction, or didn't care. It was a bit exciting, in all truth.

"Very well, Mister Flapjack," she said after a moment. "Pancakes." With no more than a curt nod, Flapjack guided the critic to an open table- which was, if nothing else, spotless- and then returned to the kitchen. A moment later, Gertrude reemerged and brought the unicorn a mug of hot, black coffee, asked if there was anything else she needed at that moment, and when the answer was in the negative, departed to attend to the other tables.

The several minutes that passed- several minutes longer than what seemed necessary to prepare a stack of three pancakes, two eggs over easy, and toast- were not marks in Flapjack's favor. But Custard kept quiet and waited, sipping her coffee, which was surprisingly good considering the general quality of coffee berries available in the Provinces. Finally, Gertrude went to the serving window, lifted a plate in her talons, and brought it to Custard's table, saying, "Guten appetit," and once more turning to the other tables.

The only word that Crème Custard had to describe the presentation was 'good.' It was honestly nothing special, and to her expert eye, even seemed amateurish, although she could not deny that the pancakes looked as perfect as pancakes could ever hope to. With a light sigh, she levitated her utensils into the air, cut a small wedge from her stack of pancakes, brought it to her mouth and began to chew. 

After swallowing her first bite, she paused, and for the first time she could remember, it was not to contemplate the flavor or texture or her food. After several seconds, the corners of her mouth turned in a gentle, warm smile. She finished her meal in silence, and when she had finished, caught Gertrude's attention and asked for another moment of Flapjack's time. The griffon vanished into the kitchen, and a moment later, the earth pony appeared. Upon reaching her table, Flapjack asked casually, "I trust everything was to your liking?"

Quietly, Crème Custard rose from her seat and quite suddenly seized Flapjack in a tight embrace. "You've done a wonderful thing for me. Thank you," she whispered. She then stepped back from the stallion and, wearing the same warm smile she did during her meal, left far too much money on the table and departed from the diner.

After she'd left, Mayor Bigwig approached Flapjack and asked, a bit too anxiously, "What did she say?"

"She said 'thank you.' I believe she left extremely happy." And without another word of his own, he turned about and returned to the kitchen to relieve Gertrude.

For the rest of the day, ponies came, ponies ate, and ponies left. Finally, the diner closed, the till was counted out, the kitchen was cleaned, and the diner's remaining two occupants returned home to sleep.





On that night, Flapjack dreamed of cream custard.