L’Alchimista

By N. K. Jemisin

She did not particularly care whether he paid; it wasn’t her inn. But at his words she lifted an eyebrow. “What sort of challenge?”

“A very special one.” He slipped a hand into his coat like an old-fashioned pistolero, but before Franca could worry he pulled out a bulging sack made of what looked like deerhide. He set this on the table — carefully, Franca noted.

“You are willing to follow a recipe? So many chefs of your caliber think themselves above the direction of others.”

She lifted her chin. “I was head chef for Parliament once — before that bastard Berlusconi, anyhow. While I was there I had to make Florentine dishes like a Florentine and Venetian dishes like a Venetian and the Madonna help me if I did them wrong. If the recipe is sound, I can follow it.”