Chương 16: Making Scratch from Scratch

The first day after the sailors left, the Breakwater went right back to being the Breakwater again. The afternoon was quiet enough to hear a cricket play the world's smallest violin. Evening in the bar was so dead I could've mistaken the place for a graveyard. Only the memories of our recent guests filled the place like ghosts. I was almost inclined to chalk it up to an early-in-the-week lull. With the improvements we'd achieved, it didn't make sense why more people hadn't shown up.

Yet when we went out to "stock our larders," as Wynnie put it, I overheard several conversations about what was happening in The Good Inn later. So that was it.

"We should check it out," I suggested.

"No. No, no, no."

"Just to see what it's like. C'mon."

"See one inn and you've seen them all. Rooms. Drinks. Kitchen." She spread her hands out at the spartan prep table in front of us.

"Besides, I'm not ready for The Good Inn."

"What do you mean you're not ready? It's just another inn!" Wynnie shook her head vehemently. Her foot backed up a step involuntarily, as if she needed to create space between herself and a predator.

"No, I couldn't. I'd be too embarrassed."

"Why? Because they're The Good Inn and you are the... Breakwater?"

"I mean, yeah. That's pretty much exactly why. Since my business is a dump, I'd rather avoid it until I look presentable, at least." I did a triple take. What did she mean by presentable? Maybe her messy bun was messier than usual. And sure, the way her glasses fogged cutely when she was embarrassed might make her self-conscious. But those were endearing qualities with charm, not flaws. And her body was totally stunning. Any man with a pulse risked a cardiac event just by staring at her for too long.

"Is there anything that you'd want to have in place before we check out our competition?"

"It would be nice if we had a little trickle of customers. Just in case they ask me how business is."

"I think we're close." I rolled my hand for her to continue.

"Go on."

"And something that makes our business stand out." I noticed she said our business. Once she saw what I could do with cocktails, I was pretty sure we'd satisfy that need.

"Easy. Anything else?"

"And maybe... maybe it might be nice to, I don't know, have a new dress?" Was that a question? Because if she was asking me for permission, she could do whatever she wanted with her money. If she wanted a new dress, then by golly, we'd just have to sell a few more cups of punch to sailors as they reached port. How much could a dress be in this world, anyway? Three copper? The lull wasn't going to disappear overnight. Maybe I could use some downtime to look into new clothing.

Or better yet, I could start on some bartending projects that might take us from moonshine punch to something a bit more respectable. It would take some specialty ingredients, but we had enough coin to take a few chances. But at least now I had a plan: Get customers. Find a way to stand out. Buy Wynnie a dress, maybe.

Several days passed, almost blending together. A reluctant few passers-by stuck their heads in to see what we had going on. The changed exterior was getting noticed, finally. A few brave souls even stuck around to chat or try a cocktail. It was still just punch, but punch was a revelation in this world. And our prep sessions were fast becoming a favorite part of my day. I'd taught her some kitchen safety basics from back on Earth. She took them to heart.

"Behind!" Wynnie zipped past me with a mixing bowl of roll dough. The rolls-to-be were destined for the oven, which I managed to keep at a stable temperature. We hadn't burned anything in days. Our afternoons were full of fresh-baked bread and even fresher air. The sailors had broken the seal that kept the windows shut, and the breeze from outside already swept much of the lingering smell of heavy, waterlogged soot. By night, we ate our dinners by the cozy, smokeless fire.

The stews we ate no longer tasted like unseasoned ash. I showed her a bit of seasoning knowledge and cooking technique, and she took it from there.

"Behind, sharp!" She passed me again, this time holding a knife. I wasn't at all concerned. On our first day doing prep together, we'd bumped into each other a few times. Now, our movements were a delicate dance. We knew the steps by heart. They didn't involve any stabbing. My eyes left the small mountain of citrus in front of me, following her trail through the work area. My gaze was nearly glued to her backside. The usual, vibrant hum of lust was there, but it harmonized with something deeper and steadier.

Her butt disappeared from view as she opened a tall cabinet. Alas. My mind wandered as I picked up a grapefruit. Immediately, I became absorbed in my task. First, I peeled it, setting aside the knobby outer part for my oleo saccharum. Then I sliced it in half so I could juice it. Some of the juice would go towards punch, but I wanted to set more aside to make Greyhounds. We needed to expand the menu. Abruptly, a cascade of tumbling ingredients scattered across the prep surface.

Several bundles of spices, roots, and nuts rested haphazardly on the kitchen counter. An array of saucepans, mesh sieves, and utensils lay just within reach. So much for an organized prep space.

"I almost forgot. You asked for these things. Care to tell me what they're for?" Wynnie picked up one of the items she'd just spilled out onto the table.

"Why so much ginger?" Ah. That. I'd pitched this whole haul to Wynnie as critical cocktail supplies. She worried that we didn't have much money to spare, but I guaranteed a return on investment. This was the first step to getting customers and finding a way to stand out. The dress would come later. The excess of ginger came from something I'd stumbled across in a subreddit. I wanted to try making a ginger bug. I didn't know how to do it, but I understood the basic principles.

Ideally, I'd create one without poisoning anyone. I didn't have a plan, but I had an idea. I'd proven just as dangerous with those as of late. I'd make the ginger bug first, since it took the most time. Then orgeat, and finally bitters. The bitters would be the easiest to make, and usable right after I made them. There was no question that I'd want to test them. Making them last was my version of discipline.

"The ginger is for something called a ginger bug." I picked up a gnarled root and inspected it.

"Let's start with that." She shuddered.

"Your drinks are amazing, I draw the line at insects."

"No bugs, I promise." I hoped that was true. I still wasn't super confident about my knowledge on the subject. If memory served, a ginger bug was just wild yeast, but yeast could've technically been some kind of bug, for all I knew.

"It's just an alcohol thing?" I shrugged.

"Kind of. This will ferment over the next three to five days, but we're not going to drink it on its own." Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"Then what are we going to do with it?"

"Think of it as a sourdough starter. We'll add a bit of this to some ginger syrup and then let that ferment. The outcome will be alcoholic, but only mildly so." That put her at ease, and soon she was ready to lend a hand in creation. We minced and shredded the ginger, added sugar, and mixed it with water. It didn't take long before the mixture sat on the counter of the bar, fermenting at glacial speeds. When it was finished, she leaned over and smelled the open jar of ginger bug starter.

A mild shrug lifted her shoulders, and she gave it an appreciative nod.

"Well, it smells good. Not sure if I'll like it fermented." Conversely, I was pretty sure she would. How could I paint a picture of ginger beer for her? I got the general impression that something like soda was more akin to sorcery than a menu staple.

"The final drink will be sweet, spicy with ginger, and it will sparkle on your tongue."

"What makes it sparkle?"

"Like beer. Like really foamy beer," I added, thinking about how cask-stored beer usually lost most of its carbonation. That was probably what they had around these parts.

"If you've ever had bubbly wine fermented in the bottle, this will be similar." Her eyes lit up.

"How did you learn how to make this?" My hand reached instinctively for my pocket where I held my phone. It was still in there, weighing me down like an anchor to the past. I hadn't yet gotten the nerve to leave it in my room on the bedside table. Just for illustrative purposes, I pulled it out. The object felt flat, cold, and dull in my hand. It had been inert since I arrived here.

"Using this device, I could access an entire world of information. I learned it on here." She eyed it with awe. In a careful whisper, she asked, "It had all the information in the entire world on it?" I shrugged.

"Not all of it. A good deal of it, though. There's a lot of disinformation, too. And plenty of porn." I didn't stop to explain what that was.

"Mostly, this device is supposed to keep people connected."

"You mean if you have this device, and someone else has one, you can speak with them?" I nodded, impressed.

"Exactly."

"That sounds so magical! I can't imagine feeling so connected to everybody. I bet with these devices, everybody gets along and nobody feels lonely." I laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh.

"Actually, it's quite the opposite."

"You're joking."

"People get so addicted to them that they don't even connect with people right next to them. Two people can hang out, oblivious to each other, completely engrossed in their devices."

"That's awful! I can't imagine being on a hike next to somebody who won't even acknowledge you because they're too busy on their thingy!" I stashed my phone back in my pocket and looked away to collect myself. Part of what Wynnie said had struck a chord deep within. Even though I'd grown to resent my phone over time, it still had its core usage. Her hopeful inquiry reminded me of it. The phone was supposed to connect me to the people whom I loved. On Earth, my friends and family were still back there without me.

They all had their phones. They had service. I knew they wanted to speak with me again. And I couldn't reach anyone. When I finally wanted to use it to connect, I couldn't.

"Are you okay? You look sad all of a sudden." I managed a weak smile.

"Every now and then, this phone just reminds me of what I left behind."

"Do you miss Earth?"

"Yeah. A lot of things were easier there. A lot were more difficult, too. I like where I am now, for what that's worth." She smiled.

"I like where you are, too. I'm sorry that you miss your friends." Her hand reached out and took mine. It was a small but comforting gesture. There was no heat behind it. No lust or yearning. Just two people sharing support. Together, we started clearing up the mess from making the ginger bug. Cleanup went faster with two people on the job, but we took our time, anyway. The slow pace and nostalgia made me want to share. Wynnie was so curious about my time on Earth.

Perhaps talking about it would lessen the sting of its absence.

"You know, my friend Zach and I used to experiment with drinks on game nights. He got really into rum for a while."

"You mean just drinking it? Plain?"

"Not quite. There's a whole culture around rum cocktails. Special themed glasses in the shapes of sharks, dancers, and tribal island things. Lots of spices and fruits. The presentation of the drinks was a big part of the fun. He used to light things on fire and make the whole production as flashy as possible." He was the one who taught me about the sparkling light show that burning cinnamon powder made. Our Spanish coffee was the stuff of legend.

The first night he showed me how to control the flame and caramelize the sugared rim, the two of us had gotten hammered because we kept making cocktails just to see the glittering pyrotechnics.

"You were with Zach the night you left Earth?"

"Him and a few others, yeah. Even though we all had jobs and families, we found a way to make game night happen twice per month. It broke up the monotony of late nights and a dead-end job. It would have been nice to at least say goodbye."

"You know, I understand what you're feeling. At least somewhat."

"Because you lost your family too?" She nodded.

"It's not like things were always perfect between us. When my father found out I could shape mana, he was thrilled. He wanted me to join the Crown Academy of Elemental Mages to become a protector of the kingdom."

"Let me guess. You didn't like that idea?"

"That's where they train people for war. He would have been so proud. I think it broke his heart a little when I refused. We'd go on vacations to different parts of the kingdom every year. He'd tell me, 'As a Crown's Mage, you could see this whole empire traveling with the protectorate!' That's never what I wanted for myself."

"What did your mother think?"

"I think she was secretly happy I didn't join the academy. On our last trip together, when my father was griping about it, my mom told me she was glad I was taking trips with them instead of with a bunch of random war mages." A wistful half-smile faltered on her lips.

"I think she was reminding him that I'd chosen a life of love and family over that of adventure and violence. If I'd become a Crown's Mage, I might've seen them once per year at most. He stopped pressuring me after that."

"It sounds like you were really close with them."

"Elves are drawn to family. We are long-lived compared to other races. We typically keep our family near to our hearts, and we don't form many bonds outside of it."

"So when you lost them, you lost everything." She sighed.

"Everything but this gosh-forsaken inn. I'd trade it for them in a heartbeat. Instead, since this was all I had left, I moved here to take it over. Now it's all I have."

"Not even any friends?"

"I have a few acquaintances around town, but nobody close. You might be my closest friend now." She shook her head sadly.

"Actually, I'm certain you are. Someday, I'd really love to have a family again. The bigger the better." The silence blanketing the kitchen was heavy enough to suffocate a baby. We were just two people, sharing a moment of misery and hope. The pause reminded me we had a job to do. Various ingredients still littered the prep space. I grabbed the bag of almonds and heaved it in front of us on the kitchen counter. The nuts sat there, unmoving, daring us to do something with them.

"Soo… what are we making here, anyway?" Wynnie picked out an almond from the bag and inspected it.

"Can I eat this?"

"Go ahead. We're making an almond syrup." She popped it into her mouth and immediately reached for another.

"For drinks?"

"Yep. It goes great in quite a few rum drinks. It adds a rich, nutty note and a silky texture."

"Zach taught you that?"

"No, I came by that one honestly. But he showed me a trick to make the syrup better. We toast the almonds first, then make the syrup over heat. Want to help?" Wynnie was more than happy to lend a hand. We smashed them up, gave them a quick toast in an iron pan, and then added sugar and water until they came to a simmer. Finally, I let it all macerate together off the heat. Both the orgeat and the ginger bug would be ready in a few days. With them, we could make ginger beer and a few fun classical cocktails.

The last item I wanted to perfect was our bitters. They'd be ready immediately. And without a doubt, we'd have to make some drinks to test it out. We could kiss goodbye whatever productivity we had left after running our, ahem, quality assurance checks. We mixed some blackstrap molasses with more ginger, black pepper, and a handful of baking spices. Using an old bartending trick, I caramelized sugar in a saucepan until it began to burn.

Then, I added water, whole cloves, and cinnamon sticks to the pot with the other ingredients. I simmered the mixture for a while until it reduced. While the bitters simmered away, Wynnie made a face.

"It smells great, but it looks horrible."

"Are you talking about me or the bitters?" She giggled.

"The bitters, obviously. You're the other way around." I laughed and held my heart as though she'd just shot me straight through it with an arrow.

"You wound me."

"Sorry, I can't cauterize it. I'm but a poor, sad ice mage. Best I can do is numb it with a bit of cold." Her tone was playfully maudlin. I loved hearing her tease about her power instead of moping. It may have been self-deprecating still, but like, baby steps. Finally, I removed it from the heat. It was almost ready to go. All I needed to do was mix in something to keep it shelf stable. I eyeballed a questionable amount of moonshine. I set a few spoonfuls aside to make test drinks.

We could store the rest of the bitters for later. While I grabbed orange peels, sugar, and measured out more moonshine to make Old Fashioneds, Wynnie froze the bulk of the mixture. Spectral tendrils of shimmering blue emerged from her fingertips. It looked like my favorite Gatorade flavor, Glacier Freeze, but aerosolized. Ice formed around the glass jar we were keeping it in. Soon, it was completely encased.

We stashed it in a cool, dark corner of the kitchen where she assured me she'd keep it frozen until we needed it. The hard part of our kitchen escapades was finished. All that was left was sampling the bitters while cleaning. It felt great to take on a little project together and show her a bit of my life. I'd done similar prep work for countless hours at the bar. I was glad that in some small way, it was coming in handy here in my new life.

I looked at her, one hand clutching an Old Fashioned, satisfied with a job well done.

"This is really tasty!" She coughed.

"Kind of spicy and bitter, but I like it."

"It'd be better with whiskey. Or rum. Or… anything but moonshine," I admitted.

"But yeah, the recipe works with just about anything, and the bitters came out great." She took another slow, contemplative sip, then smacked her lips.

"So now the bar has what? Punch and whatever this is?"

"Punch and an Old Fashioned. Also a Greyhound. Yeah, things are really starting to come together in here."

"In here, sure." She looked over her shoulder back into the main room. The kitchen was well put together, but the rest of the inn still had a way to go.

"I'm still not ready to show my face at The Good Inn, though." We could work on that. We had menu items to help us stand out. The next thing she wanted was a steady trickle of customers. We were almost there; I could sense it. But the last part was the one I couldn't stop thinking about. Where would we get her a new dress? It was time to keep a sharp eye out.