Chapter Text
The lights on set were as hot as the Hells and the batch of contestants as hopeless as any of the Hells’ fumbling lemures, if Chef Gortash Ramsay were any judge. He hadn’t met them yet, but he’d riffled through their files with the show’s Producer: a decent mix of mostly conventionally attractive people from differing backgrounds, none of whom seemed to have much (if any) experience in professional kitchens, though several claimed expertise with knives. It seemed almost a tragedy to unleash them in the gleaming, red-and-white-tiled kitchens that were the crown jewel of the redesigned Elfsong Tavern. Fit for a Duke’s palace, or a King’s, and Gortash was quite certain they’d be a wreck before the day was out. Shame.
Gortash sighed, drumming his bare fingertips against the countertop. Gone were his elaborate golden claws; the Producer had insisted. Clashed with his chef’s whites, the mindflayer said. The chef’s whites were another thing it had insisted on, when Gortash would have preferred a black uniform. Black wouldn’t show blood if he were forced to engage in a little impromptu on-screen butchery, see?
That, the Producer had said, was the point of the white uniform. The blood would show up much better—and blood, they’d assured him, was something the audience of Bane’s Kitchen would want to see.
Gortash found it both amusing and baffling to think that the audience would both cheer for the contestants and want to see the losers run afoul of his legendary temper—and Bane’s legendary lack of mercy. Still, he was a man of the people. He’d give the people the violence they craved in spades if a piece of raw chicken crossed his plate. He only hoped he could talk the Producer into allowing him his clawed rings back for the occasion.
Perhaps after the first episode? The thought drew a smile to his face as he turned to leave the kitchens, heading for his office in a room above. Soon, he’d meet the contestants himself. Soon, he’d decide which of them were, perhaps, fit to learn from the greatest chef in all the Sword Coast…and which would be swiftly and painfully shown the door.
#
“You have forty minutes,” the voice intoned. “And your time starts…now!”
The Dark Urge drifted back to reality, blinking hard, his unfocused red gaze sharpening. The white dragonborn shook his head to clear it. He’d been thinking of something else, or rather determinedly not thinking of something else. Sometimes it was difficult to do either, but it was important to try. It was dreadfully important.
“Forty minutes to do what?” The Dark Urge asked, but there was no one listening; the owner of the voice had already turned and hustled away, while the other contestants had headed for the well-stocked pantry at the back of the kitchens, some at a run. Everyone, apparently, knew what to do. Everyone else had been listening, their focus their own and not divided by the need to think about something other than the racks of sharp, gleaming blades just begging to be used.
Gods damn it all to the deepest of the nine Hells.
Mimicry was clearly the best course of action. The Dark Urge jogged to catch up with the other contestants, meeting them at the pantry. They were rummaging for ingredients, snatching up handfuls of veg and herbs and fretting over fresh cuts of raw meat that made the Dark Urge’s mouth water. A woman with a long, dark braid made off with her arms full of apples and fish heads turned away, trodding on the Dark Urge’s foot as she passed him. The glance she gave him was not apologetic in the slightest.
Sensing that his fellow amateur chefs were on edge, the Dark Urge stood to the side as they ravaged the pantry. He assessed them as he did, unconsciously dividing them into potential targets or allies. The woman who’d trod on his foot: target, though he suspected she wouldn’t go down easy. The dark-haired man all in purple: target. The handsome human who kept flirting with the green-skinned woman: target.
By the time they’d escaped with their ingredients and their pitiful mortal lives, the Dark Urge realized he’d labeled them all as targets. Hmph. Well. He needed no allies, did he? He was the chosen and only and best and most good son of Bhaal, and he would win this cooking competition without any help at all. Just as soon as he figured out what he was supposed to be doing. He’d gathered that they were supposed to be cooking something, but what?
“Your signature dish,” Sous Chef Florrick said, when the Dark Urge finally gave up and sought the woman out in the empty dining room, desperate for an explanation.
“My signature dish?” The Dark Urge asked, puzzled. The broad, horny ridge of scales over his eyes furrowed.
The sous chef had a pitying expression on her face that made the Dark Urge want to rip her spine out through her mouth. “Yes, your signature dish. A dish that defines you—that encapsulates you. You want to impress Chef Gortash Ramsay, don’t you?”
Did he? To tell the truth, the only entity the Dark Urge wanted to impress was his daddy, but he sensed that admitting as much would bring that pitying look back full force. “Yes, of course,” he muttered instead, stepping away from the sous chef and heading back to the kitchens.
Signature dish. He could handle that. Something that defined him, was that it? The Dark Urge would rather keep the finer details private, if only to avoid the attention of the Watch, but he could sort of color in the picture, like. Yes, yes. It would be most beautiful.
The Dark Urge hummed cheerfully as he worked until the white-haired elf at the station next to him told him to stop (target). He finished before the others, though he couldn’t resist adding loving touches here and there until the Producer told the contestants their time was done.
#
As predicted, the dishes set out to sweat beneath the too-bright lights were a bleak assortment. Chef Gortash Ramsay, celebrity chef, successful restaurateur, and winner of multiple coveted Balduran stars, clenched his jaw and wondered what his career had come to. The Producer had told him that the audience would like him more if he was temperamental. It would play well, whatever that meant. Staring at the dishes set before him now, Gortash did not have to feign outrage.
“Slop,” he said, peering into the pot of fish head and apple stew. Had the cleric with the dreary haircut meant to make some of exotic stock? He was repulsed.
“Pitiful,” Gortash said, curling his upper lip in sincere disgust as he examined the tray of sausages stuck on toothpicks shaped like tiny blades handed to him by the exiled Ravengard heir. “A child could do better.”
“Inventive,” said Gortash, eyeing the single wineglass proffered by the pale elf, which contained a deeply unappetizing lump of what appeared to be black pudding. “But ultimately disgusting.”
“The theory was superior to the execution, I assure you,” the elf said.
“I’m sure.” Gortash moved on, raising his eyebrows at…well. He hesitated to use the word abomination, given the quality of the rest of the dishes he’d seen so far, but this was certainly the dish he’d least like to be forced to eat, and that was saying something. For the first time since he’d begun reviewing their signature dishes, Gortash was speechless.
The hulking white dragonborn on the other side of the gruesome display grinned, showing every glistening fang. “It’s very good, isn’t it? Tell me it’s good.”
“Good isn’t the word I’d use, my friend,” Gortash said. It looked rather like a portrait of his mood, displayed in raw, bleeding flesh and gore. “Is this a…raw pig?”
“Yes.”
“An entire pig?”
“Yes. Well,” the dragonborn said, correcting itself, “More like one and a quarter. They went and took the innards out, so I added them back, only the kitchen didn’t have all of them, so I made up for it with a few extra livers.” The dragonborn beamed.
Again, Gortash found himself at a loss for words. He could hardly stand there gasping like a fish, though. “Points for improvisation,” Gortash said, leaving the dragonborn and moving on. He caught the eye of Sous Chef Florrick as he went, raising an eyebrow and casting the woman a Significant Glance that meant I hope your security team is paying attention to these weirdos.
Where had the Producer found these people?