Beers and Beards Book 3: The Big Brewhaha

Rosie Digger was a lovely dwarfess, once you got to know her. When she realised we were customers, she immediately stopped tossing things at her son and greeted us with open arms and a wide smile. She had a jolly laugh that kind of reminded me of Rumbob, and a ribald sense of humour.

She was running the inn with the support of her husband, Darrel Digger, and their only son Bando. The Digger’s Dive wasn’t the only inn in the town of Gemena, just one of the best, and it served a steady stream of merchants, nobles, and travelers on the road out from Kinshasa.

The building, or rather cave was quite cozy, with the warm glow of solstones hanging from the ceiling giving a slight yellow tinge to everything. A smattering of bog-standard dwarven picnic-style tables were scattered around the room, with furs and carpets laid strategically to break up the bare stone floor.

Tapestries hanging on all the walls helped capture the heat of a roaring hearth in one corner of the room, and leant a splash of colour to the space. A series of tunnels lead off from the main room to where the rooms were, their entrances covered with simple hanging fabric.

A wooden bar on one end of the room was reminiscent of our dear Thirsty Goat, complete with tankards on the shelves and landscape paintings. A similar serving window led to a small but well-appointed kitchen. One difference from the Goat was a massive battle-pick hanging on the wall, and the other was that instead of a blonde moody maiden behind the bar, there was a grey matron mommy.

It was incredibly rustic, but at the same time quite homey. I loved it.

Rosie had been welcoming, then downright cordial when she’d learned we were the Thirsty Goat. She’d pointed to some kegs of ass-blaster and bottles of barista brew and liquid gold behind the bar, and declared our special brews a hit amongst the miners and adventurers alike. They'd had a few fights over the changes to the 'Sacred Brew', but HIghwatch members coming through the inn had routinely thumped anyone who muttered a peep against barista brew.

Then she’d sent Bando to take our bags to our rooms, and sat us down for an inn-cooked meal.

“Here’s yer hen, hon.” Rosie said, pushing me a plate of grilled chicken covered in spices and heaped high with mashed erdroot. The faint green sheen to the erdroot spoke of the stealth vegetables common in dwarven cuisine. It was heavier in spices than most dwarven food I was used to, and was actually reminiscent of Bran’s cooking.

“Thankee Innkeeper.” I said, wiping some drool from the side of my lips. It smelled delicious, and after several weeks of mostly travel fare I couldn’t wait to eat it.

“Just Rosie is fine, hon.” Rosie slapped me on the back and laughed, her bosom heaving with every guffaw. “Hoh hoh! I wouldn’t ‘ave become an [Inkeeper] if I knew it would make everyone so Yearn-durned respectful!” She had the same southern twang as the rest of the dwarves we’d met in Gemena, and it somehow made her even easier to talk to.

“But, it’s quite a feat!” Annie protested. “Even in Minnova we didn’t have too many actual Specialised [Innkeepers]!”

“What’s it Specialised from?” I asked, ladling a bite into my mouth. I closed my eyes as I chewed, letting the taste of pepper and rosemary roll over my tongue.

“Ya wouldn’t believe it, but I started out as a [Butler]!” Rosie said with another laugh. “Wasn’t me Darrel surprised!”

“A Butler? Really?” I asked, thinking of Whistlemop’s [Butler] Bimbleberry.

Rosie winked at me and flexed her muscular bicep. The rose and skull tattoo bulged as she did so. “Aye! No better Title fer service ya know!”

“Except a [Courier] of course!” Kirk said around a similar mouthful of chicken.

Rosie whipped a towel off her apron and snapped it in his direction. “Now don’t you give me that lip! We get more than a few giants through these parts, and I’m not afraid ta tell you what’s what!”

I pounded the table. “Yeah, you pay some respect to our Innkeeper! Just because you’re eating some bird doesn’t mean you can have a fowl mouth, Kirk!”

Kirk gave me a betrayed look, and Annie snorted, but everyone else was too busy eating their delicious food to give us any mind.

Rosie chortled and pounded me on the back again. “Hoh! Good one lad! Now eat up and put some meat on those bones. Yer wastin’ away, just look atcha! At least some of you are eatin’ properly!” She gave Richter an appreciative look, and the buff dwarf buried himself deeper into his chicken. “Who’s even feedin’ you lot? I woulda thought celebrities like you woulda been eatin’ better!”

“That would be me…” came a voice that could have frozen hell. Bran was neatly using a fork and knife, unlike a few others that were digging in with their hands. He raised a small bite of chicken to his lips and chewed it thoughtfully.

Rosie planted her hands on her hips. “Oh? Is that so? And how do ya find that taste of real cookin’? Me Darrel’s got his Blessin’ from Barck fer his recipes!”

Bran looked down at the plate. “Good use of spices, and the meat was cooked properly.”

Rosie smiled broadly. ”Why thankee very much!”

“But,” Bran continued, “the erdroot could use more salt, and I would mix in cabbage instead of dungeon greens. It’s passable, but I wouldn’t put it on our menu.” He blandly took another bite and chewed slowly. Beside him, Opal hid a snort.

Rosie’s eyes narrowed, and all our eyes moved to a very obviously placed hole in one wall made for tossing. But instead of trying to maneuver Bran through it like a certain roast from earlier, she gave a wicked grin.

“You a cook or some ‘at? You think you can cook better than me Darrel an’ me?”

“Don’t think.” Bran flashed her an equally wicked smile. “Know.”

Rosie crossed her arms menacingly. “Fine then. Yer gonna talk down to our cookin’? Then the Digger’s Dive calls out tha Thirsty Goat to a Feud!”

Annie silently groaned something about, “not again.”

Bran looked at me for approval and I rolled my eyes and shrugged. We’d won our first Feud, and Bran had literally proved himself the best chef in one of the biggest cities in Crack. We could handle a tiny backcountry inn. Wait, wait, I didn’t mean that! Dear Gods, that habit had to stop!!!

Bran thunked his fork into the chicken, spearing it to his plate. “By the Nation of Crack Ordinances Ver. 1130, Chapter 1, Section 4, Subsection 24, the Thirsty Goat accepts your Feud. What’s the Challenge?”

“If’n we wins, you’ll send us a month’s supply of Thirsty Goat Ale once yer all set up in Kinshasa.”

“And if we win our stay is free whenever we stop here. Includin’ today,” Bran countered.

“And ya have to tell me Darrel that his cookin’ is better than yers.”

“Bah. Fine.”

“Alrighty, then. Whatcha want ta do fer it?”

“Feud’s over cookin’, so we’ll make that the Contest. The judges can be those nobles we saw out there. They’ll be pickiest. We’ll cook somethin’ none of us have ever cooked before, and see who does it best.”

“Agreed.” Rosie spat on her beard and held it out. Bran did the same.

“Our beards are joined, our words are one.”

There was a beat for everyone to roar their approval, but the only sound was munching and chewing. At the other end of the table Richter gave a halfhearted clap.

Honestly, the chicken really was kinda tasty.

—

“I don’t see why I’ve been roped into this.” I grumped, as Bran began laying out his knives in the kitchen.

“Because yer the only one who can simply make up a recipe neither of us know.”

“Well, I guess that’s true. You do realize that the cost of the beer is going to come out of your pay if we lose.”

Bran smirked. “Section 5…”

I combed my memory and swore. Since the Feud had been with the Goat, and I’d given tacit permission, the Goat was on the hook. “ARGH! DWARVES! You’d better not lose!”

Beside us, Darrel was watching with an amused expression. He was a bit younger than his wife, which meant he was only 400 odd years old. He had one of the shortest beards and hairstyles I’d ever seen on a dwarf, with a fairly standard modern short cut. What stood out was the pure white streaks he had running from the corners of his mouth down to under his chin, and some more at his temple. Standing against his shock black beard it made him look downright sinister, like a middle-aged Count Dooku. He was wearing a somewhat dirty apron, and the rest of the kitchen matched. There was a thin patina of grease on just about every surface, and I frowned as I looked around.

It was fairly bog-standard dwarven cleanliness though. Dwarves had a naturally higher resistance to piddly things like food poisoning, and didn’t like wasting time on dusting or cleaning.

There were some exceptions of course, like Opal and other Doctors, and I suspected that Bran had picked up his own cleaning kick from her.

Darrel spoke up as Bran finished laying out all his knives. He had a surprisingly high tenor, with the same accent as the rest of the Diggers. “Well Artisan Bran, I heard what you said. You think cabbage would work better than the greens?”

Bran nodded. “Aye, with the spices you chose for the chicken. Cabbage also adds some flavour to the Erdroot without overpowering it.”

Darrel bit his lip and nodded. “Aye. I could see that. Maybe add some lemon too, ta really bring out tha chicken.”

Bran hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Aye, lemon would be good. You do know yer stuff.”

Darrel laughed. “Hah! I’m just good because we need me ta be! Me Rosie wouldn’t be able ta throw herself inta her innkeepin’ if’n I weren’t here cookin’. S’why I’m still only Blessed. I’m fine with it though, and I’ve gotten real good these past few centuries.”

Darrel turned and looked me up and down.

“So yer tha Brewer Pete I heard tell of from some o’ tha [Peddlers]?”

Well, that could be good or bad. “My name is certainly Pete, and I am indeed a [Brewer], but I can’t guarantee they were talkin’ ‘bout me,” I hedged.

“HAH! Yep it were you. So you’ve got some recipe fer us?”

“Yep.” I reached into my pocket and activated [Pete’s Miniature Remembrance] silently, then pulled a small notebook out. “We’re going to make some me bread!”

Bran and Darrel both gave me incredulous glances. “Some what?”

“Peter bread! It’s a Pain In The Ass, so it’s perfect!”

I laid out the dwarven transcribed recipe in front of the two chefs and they looked it over, confusion evident on their faces.

Bran was the first to speak. “It’s… bread? Just flat bread? Nothin' to go with it?”

“Yep! I love making bread. It’s the beer of the baking world. Take yeast, add some grains and sugars, let it react for a bit, and bam! Deliciousness!” I’d made some small changes, replacing white flour with Erdroot flour and Olive Oil with vine oil for example, but it should still make some tasty pitas.

I hoped.

Darrel hrm’d. “Says we’ll need some yeast. I cook me own bread some’at, but mostly get it from tha baker. I’ll send Bando ta get us some from Baker Robert. OY, BOY!”

Bando’s head suddenly appeared, sticking in through the service window. “What is it pa?”

“Go get me some yeast from Baker Robert, but don’t be blabbin’ about this Feud, I donnae want tha whole town turnin’ out.”

“Gotcha pa,” Bando said and disappeared again.

“Then I’ll get tha oven heated up. We’ll need ta take turns, methinks,” Darrel huffed. “Do ya want ta go first or second?”

“I’ll go first,” Bran said, reading over the recipe again. “That way you can see how its done.”

Darrel barked a laugh. “Haw! I kin see how ya set off me Rosie!”

While we waited, Darrel and Bran chatted about chef things, and were soon laughing uproariously at something only they understood.

Bando arrived with the yeast a few minutes later, sweating profusely, and Bran immediately got to work.

Peter Bread

3 cups of Erdroot Flour

1 cup of warm water

1 teaspoon of salt

2 tsp baker’s yeast

½ tsp sugar

¼ cup minced garlic

2 tbsp Greentree vine oil

Mix a half cup of flour with the water and stir in the yeast and sugar

Put the mixing bowl in a warm place and wait until it starts bubbling.

Add the garlic, vine oil, and 2 cups of flour. Stir until fully mixed and sticky.

Next you knead to dust the counter with flour. Then knead the dough until it’s smooth.

Cover the dough and go drink a beer for ten minutes.

Knead again. Make sure the dough is a little moist, but not wet. Add more flour if needed, but don’t let it become dry.

Coat a clean bowl with more vine oil and put the dough in. Cover fully and let sit for an hour in a warm environment.

Go do the dishes you filthy animal.

The dough should rise to double the size. Pop it, and split the dough into nine equal balls. Cover them with a towel and let them sit for a quarter hour.

Roll the dough into circles that are about a centimeter thick.

Heat your cast iron pan on the oven and set to medium heat. Drizzle with vine oil then lay out one pita at a time. When bubbles form, flip to the other side. Cook for one minute, then flip and cook for one more.

The chefs worked feverishly for the first while, mixing and carefully reading the instructions. When they reached the one hour break though, we moved out into the tavern to chat.

Johnsson and Richter had disappeared to our rooms at some point, Kirk and Malt were kicked up in front of the fire. and Annie, Aqua, Opal, and Rosie were chatting at one of the tables. They looked up when we walked in, looking much too happy given that a Feud was going on.

We men-dwarf-whatever-folk gave them wary looks then sat in a booth and drank from their small supply of Thirsty Goat liquid gold bottles. Ah, bonding. Wait, wasn’t this a fight?

Then it was back to the kitchen for baking. Bran managed to turn out nine perfect pita breads, each smelling strongly of oil and salt and garlic. I felt my mouth watering at the scent. Memories flashed by of munching crispy calamari with tzatziki and slices of lemon on the patio with Sammy and Caroline. Basking in the sunlight while a balmy breeze came in from Okanagan lake. With a pint of Mythos lager, of course!

Darrel burned his first try, but managed to get eight perfect golden orbs for his following attempts.

Darrel called for Bando when he was done, “Oy, boy! Get in ‘ere and bring these plates out ta tha nobs. Tell ‘em it’s on tha house, but theys needin’ ta tell us which of tha two plates tasted best. Got it?”

“Aye, pa.”

And then it was all over except for the verdict.