Bonus Short Story

The Head Chef and the Vegetable Cookie

Let us tell the story of a regretful man.

It begins in Ganudos with a normal man who’d led a normal life as the owner of a small tavern. His name was Musta Waggman, and he was a bear of a man. Possessing a knack for cooking, he offered a multitude of seafood delicacies on his menu that, along with his mild disposition, kept customers coming back again and again. His tavern was a true favorite among the locals.

One day, a bit past noon when traffic calmed a little, a man stepped into his tavern. He looked like a traveling merchant; the thick clothes he wore suggested he didn’t live nearby. As he lowered himself into a counter seat a deep sigh escaped his lips.

“What a fine mess...”

“Oh? What’s this?” Musta, who’d approached to take his order, noticed his troubled expression. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? You bet it is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the damn empire, of course! I swear, I don’t know what this new regime and it’s so-called ‘revolutionary army’ think they’re doing, but they’ve made a real mess of the place. It’s nothing but wasteland for miles and miles. I went there thinking I might be able to set up some sort of shop, but nope, not a chance. The whole country has gone to the dogs. They need to purge it, or something. Raze it to the ground. There’s too much of the old badness left to make room for anything decent...”

Another sigh followed this pronouncement, even deeper than the last one. Then he finally took a good look around the room. His eyes stopped on the row of wooden plates hung on the wall, which detailed the tavern’s offerings.

“Huh, this menu of yours... You from Tearmoon?” he asked, his tone growing more affable.

“That I am. Good eye, sir.”

“Hah, I knew it. I’m the same. Whereabouts in Tearmoon are you from?”

“The capital, born and raised. A city boy to the bone, I am.”

“Aaah. Well then. Wasn’t easy for you, was it? What with the famine, and the war... I heard the capital was pure hell.”

“Ha ha. Actually, I moved here just before the revolution began, so I didn’t have to go through the worst of it,” answered Musta with a calm smile.

The man looked down and shook his head.

“Good for you then. You wouldn’t have wanted to. As for me, I’m from the sticks. We didn’t get it too bad there either. Lucky us, I guess. I’ve been to the capital plenty of times though. Were you running a diner there too?” he asked, gazing around again. “Maybe I went there, before.”

Musta smiled and scratched the back of his head before answering with some reluctance.

“Not exactly. I worked at the Whitemoon Palace.”

“Whitemoon Palace? Damn... Have you cooked for the emperor, then?”

“I have indeed... Didn’t last long though. Lost the job after a few years.”

“Long enough, I think, still damn impressive. So, what? You telling me you can make fancy court food too?”

“Not without preparation. I suppose I can manage something if you want to place a special order, but it’ll take time. And...it’ll end up costing you a good coin or two.”

The man fell silent for a contemplative moment. Cuisine served in the imperial court was not the kind of food one could find just anywhere. This might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In the end, however, he shook his head.

“Nah, I’ll pass. For now at least. If I make a good profit off a big deal, I’ll come back and order one of them court dishes from you. Today... Yeah, I think I’ll just have this ambermoon tomato stew.”

Musta’s eyes widened slightly at the man’s choice.

“Right then. One ambermoon tomato stew, coming right up.”

He retreated into the kitchen. Soon after, he reappeared with a gently steaming bowl. The tomatoes, simmered to melting, were joined by a number of other vegetables that had received the same thorough treatment, soaked in the savory juices from the thick slices of fish—added as a Ganudos special. The merchant spooned up a mouthful and, almost in spite of himself, let out a yelp of surprise.

“Damn, this is good... This is good. So this is the work of a court chef, huh?”

Musta left the man to his stew.

After finishing, he set down the bowl with a satisfied exhalation, then cocked his head. “Say, if you’re so good at cooking, how’d you lose your job? This is some fine food. I can’t imagine there are a ton of people out there with your skills...”

“...Funny you ask. As a matter of fact, it was because of this very dish.” He tapped the now-empty bowl. “Ambermoon tomato stew.”

Normally, Musta was not a man to talk about the past. What was past was gone, and there weren’t many happy memories to dredge up anyway. But a chance encounter with a fellow countryman, along with his coincidental order, had softened Musta’s inhibitions. He felt a strange bond, as if there was some invisible hand of fate working to bring the two of them together in this moment.

“One day when I served it to the princess.”

Memories of that day resurfaced in his mind, as vivid as ever. Though the tomatoes were a pain to prepare, they were said to be highly nutritious and good for people’s health. He of course knew that the princess hated them. The head chef before him hadn’t been able to prepare them well, and the bitter taste had stuck with the young princess ever since in the form of a culinary scar. As a result, she grimaced at any mention of ambermoon tomatoes.

Musta, however, was worried about the princess. Specifically, he found her diet troubling. She was a picky eater, and ate far more sweets than anything else. That couldn’t be good for her health. Every so often, he’d try to mix some vegetables into her meals, but his efforts were to no avail. Time and again, she’d pick them out and leave them uneaten.

“Really? She didn’t like this?” asked the merchant, glancing incredulously at the bowl. “It’s so damn good. I guess she was even worse than the rumors made her out to be.”

Musta sighed and gazed out the window with a wistful smile, his eyes half-closed in reminiscence.

“It’s true that Her Highness was a girl with a...discriminating palate. When it came to food, she loved and hated with equal fervor... It certainly caused plenty of headaches.”

“Yeah, I’d imagine it did. She’s known as the ‘selfish princess who ruined Tearmoon’ after all. Must have been tough cooking for her. Hell, I bet you were glad to leave by the end of it all.”

That elicited a shake of Musta’s head.

“No, not exactly glad. I left with...regret.” His smile turned sad. “In the end, I walked out the gates of the Whitemoon Palace without ever hearing Her Highness say she enjoyed my cooking. As a chef...I regret that to this day.”

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up. This is the spoiled princess of legend we’re talking about. Getting a word of praise out of her was probably like pulling teeth.”

“She could indeed be quite difficult. Hardly the type to eat something just because you served it to her. But as head chef...it was my duty to ensure the members of the imperial family dined on meals that were good for their health. Even now, I still wonder if there might have been a way... If I could have tried harder...”

It was, perhaps, pointless to theorize. It might never have been possible. But, even so, even if there had been no chance at all... Musta nevertheless felt a bone-deep sense of regret.

“Maybe it was my fault. I was too stubborn. I kept trying to make her eat her vegetables, but maybe there was a smarter way to go about it. A way to cook them so she’d want to eat them. I always wonder...”

He was confident in the taste of his dishes, but somewhere in that confidence, he couldn’t help but think there had been too much him and not enough her. That he focused too much on getting her to eat his cooking rather than cooking something she’d enjoy. He could still remember how the little princess, the sight of her scowl still fresh in his mind as if he had seen it just yesterday, had stared daggers at his creations.

And...he could still remember how he’d felt when he heard that she’d been executed. When he heard what they said of her last moments there at the guillotine, her cheeks sunken, her body gaunt...

“I wish...I could have cooked one last meal for her. Something good, at least, to send her on her way...”

Musta wasn’t particularly fond of Princess Mia. He simply...pitied her. There was something profoundly sad about the thought of her locked in a dungeon, fed only barely edible rubbish. If he’d been there, even under the difficult circumstances, he could have made something for her to eat that was at least decent.

Realizing he’d retreated too far into his thoughts, he shook his head and smiled.

“I have to say, looking back on it, it all feels like a dream. Me, in the palace, working as head chef for the empire’s royal family... It’s hard to believe that actually happened. And...” He sighed. “Even harder to believe that empire no longer exists. Hah. Life is really something, isn’t it? You can never tell what’s around the corner.”

The two of them shared a worldly smile...then parted ways. Their paths never crossed again.

This was the story of a normal man and the life he’d led. A life that had reached the lofty station of head chef of the imperial court in the Tearmon Empire before concluding as the owner of a small tavern in a small country. It was not an unhappy life. It had its ups and downs, triumphs and setbacks. It was, in other words, normal. The small, stinging thorn of regret in his heart included.

Now, let us spin the dial and turn over the hourglass, so that time may flow anew.

Let us tell the story of a great man.

He was a renowned chef who left a lasting mark on the continent’s culinary history. He was a man who took that small thorn of regret in his heart and, through hard work and perseverance, pulled it free and cast it off. This is the story of his life.

“Head chef, are you, um...sure about this?”

Faced with this question from one of the junior cooks, the head chef of the imperial court, Musta Waggman, cocked his brow.

“‘Sure’? Sure about what, exactly?”

“Uh, well... Didn’t we just serve Her Highness a dish with vegetables in it? And, um... Didn’t she flip the plate over?”

“We have a duty to ensure the imperial family remains in good health. So long as she eats even a little, it’s worth our time and effort to keep making such dishes.”

Noontime today had been a battle as always. Mia, refusing to eat her lunch, had stormed away and returned to her room without so much as a bite. Not too long ago, however, she’d poked her head into the royal kitchen again, presumably driven by her empty stomach.

“I want some moonberry pie,” she’d said.

The demand was, of course, immediately shot down by Musta, who declared, “No lunch, no dessert.” Snacking without having eaten a proper meal was out of the question. After some wrangling, she eventually capitulated to his stern insistence, sullenly agreeing to eat “the leftovers from lunch or whatever. I don’t care. Just bring me anything.”

“This is good,” Musta said in the kitchen. “This way, we can get her to eat at least a little bit of healthy food. It’s a worthwhile effort...”

He stubbornly repeated the sentiment, cementing his public position on the matter, though he was aware that behind all his talk about duty and worth was a growing sense of resignation. Strip away the bravado, and he’d have to admit that deep down, even he couldn’t make himself care much anymore. It was, perhaps, inevitable. Every meal he served, he’d prepared with all his heart and soul. One could only watch so many of one’s darling creations be overturned before something inside gave way. Like a soldier riding into a losing battle, he brought the dish from the kitchen to her table... only to hear something that made him doubt his ears. Mia complimenting his cooking, telling him it was “delicious.” She took a bite of bread, then a sip of stew, and—sweet moons high above—tears started streaming down her face.

As the initial shock wore off, elation filled Musta’s chest, and he was gripped by a sudden loquacity. Pride moved his tongue, leading him to ramble a little about the culinary techniques he employed. He soon caught himself and glanced at her nervously. To his further surprise, she seemed to be listening. Intently, at that.

“That seems like a lot of work. Why do you do it that way?” she asked with interest.

The earnestness of the question struck a chord deep within him. He stood up straighter, bowed, and answered, “For us servants, ensuring the nutrition of the royal family is as important a duty as any.” The words flowed naturally from his lips, uttered so frequently they were becoming rote.

“How terribly considerate of you. Know that I am most grateful for your efforts.”

Her response, though just as natural in tone, was anything but rote. Rather, it was an expression of thanks so genuine as to sound alien in her voice. It struck another chord, but this one felt different. It came with a stinging discomfort, as if the chord was tugging against a small thorn lodged deep in his heart...

From that day forward, Princess Mia never again left her meals unfinished. In fact, she didn’t just eat them. She savored them.

“Simply delicious! These vegetables, they melt in my mouth! The seasoning is marvelous, a perfect balance of sweet and sour! Your skills are absolutely incredible!”

Day after day, Musta was showered with praise for his cooking. She commended his technique, thanked him profusely, and even began to take a keen interest in the culinary arts herself. In particular, she demonstrated a fascination with recipes involving mushrooms, and went so far as to ask him to teach her a few. Their frequent conversations led to the forming of a bond, and Musta began thinking of Mia almost as a daughter.

After that, the pains came more often. It was never more than a brief twinge, but always in his core, and always coincided with thoughts of the princess. It wasn’t guilt—not guilt from slacking off in his cooking, at least. He knew that he prepared every dish with the utmost care and could declare with an unburdened conscience that he picked only the healthiest ingredients to make Mia’s meals. Nevertheless, the pains kept coming, and he couldn’t help but wonder... had he really made every effort to hone his cooking? To optimize the texture of vegetables for the delicate palate of a young princess? Was there craft to his work as well as commitment?

Every innocent compliment of Mia’s caused something bitter to stir within. Eventually, he had to admit he knew what the feeling was—guilt. He didn’t know why he felt it, but it was becoming ever-present. Driven by its sting, he began conducting further research into his profession. Until then, he’d always been a first-rate cook. His knowledge and skills were both of the highest caliber, more than sufficient for even his station—the Whitemoon Palace’s head chef.

But therein lay the problem. His exceptionality was as a cook, but his job required him to excel as a chef. His cooking, while superb, had firmly abided by the methods and rules he’d learned from his master. He’d never thought to doubt, to cook outside the box. Unconcerned—unconscious, even—of those he fed and their individuality, he’d failed to explore beyond the realm of his own “common sense.” In his mind, the circumstances and unique needs of the palates he served had made way for his fixation on maintaining his technical prowess and his position. He’d scaled the peak, yes, but he’d lost sight of the horizon. That had been his life so far.

Once he began researching the culinary arts for Mia, however, his cooking changed drastically. He began using cooking methods he’d never been taught. He experimented with unfamiliar cookware and followed developments in the design of pots and pans, incorporating the latest styles into his workflow. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, but his diligence never faltered. Then, two years after Mia began attending school at Saint-Noel, the day finally arrived.

“Her Highness...seems to be fatigued.”

Rumors of the princess’s physical condition circulated through the Whitemoon Palace’s kitchen, making their way to Musta’s ears.

“Yes. I heard she spent a few days in the village of a minor tribe in the Sealence Forest. Their unfamiliar lifestyle must have taken a toll on her...”

“I see. That’s rather worrying.”

Mia was a princess among princesses. The life of forest dwellers must have been nigh otherworldly for her. Considering the undoubtedly-difficult process of adapting to such a drastically different environment, she’d probably had trouble sleeping and likely ate very little. Musta found himself overcome with sympathy for her tribulations.

...Of course, the truth was that she had been wholly satisfied with the Lulu Tribe’s welcome and had wolfed down feast after feast without the slightest hesitation before enjoying long, undisturbed stretches of round-bellied slumber. Musta, though, had no idea about any of that.

So young, yet so committed to her duties. What an exemplary young princess she is. I wish there was something more I could do for her...

Such thoughts occupied his mind as he made his way to the cafeteria, where he found her trying—and failing—to hide a wide-mouthed yawn. He let her rub away the drowsy tears from her eyes before approaching her.

“Welcome back, Your Highness. You seem rather tired.”

“Do I?” She gave him a weak smile. “I suppose I am. I’ve been quite busy surveying Princess Town and such. It must have worn me down a little, so some indulgence would be greatly appreciated.”

“Indulgence? What kind?”

Mia smiled at the puzzled chef and said jokingly, “Oh, I don’t know. The kind that involves an all-sweets breakfast, maybe?”

Something clicked for Musta. It occurred to him that this must have been how knights felt before they rode into battle. Without another word, he retreated to the kitchen. Before long he reappeared holding his masterwork—the Vegetable Cake! Made by grinding ambermoon carrots into a fine paste and adding mini kabocha squashes along with ambermoon tomatoes. Only a dab of seasoning—just a dab, with minimal sugar—was added so to preserve as much of the natural flavor as possible. This was no simple creation; it represented the culmination of tireless research and endless iterations. A miraculous coexistence of nutrition and palatability, it was a culinary breakthrough. And it was his answer to the challenge his conscience had posed him.

As a matter of fact, he’d pre-prepared it in secret. His vegetable cake was not something that could be whipped up on the fly. This way it would be ready for Mia’s consumption whenever she showed up. Unfortunately, he’d failed to work up the nerve to present his creation to her. After all, who had been the one to pester her with incessant reminders to eat proper meals? Him of course. He was the one who’d sternly turned down her requests for sweets and reprimanded her about how eating too much sugar was bad for her. To go so far in his insistence, then present her with a cake? It would be terribly awkward and embarrassing. The thought alone made him quiver with discomfort.

The sight of her tired face blew all that away. He set the vegetable cake down before her, feeling resolve gather within him.

“My! Th-This is...” Mia stared agape at the pastry. “Cake?! This early in the morning?! A-Are you sure this is okay?”

She looked up at him with disbelief in her eyes. He nodded solemnly, the gesture almost a bow.

“Yes. Your Highness seemed tired, so... we made this for you.”

He allowed himself this small lie. His resolve hadn’t hardened quite enough for him to admit to keeping it hidden in the kitchen out of embarrassment.

“B-But, isn’t it bad for me to be eating sweets all the time? I remember you said something like that before.” she responded with genuine confusion.

He felt a rush of delight at knowing she’d taken his advice to heart. His expression softened, and his chest expanded with pride as he explained the special trick he’d used for the cake.

“I decided to challenge myself. That cake is a new creation of mine, made with a mix of vegetables.”

Mia looked from him to the cake and back again. Her eyes, at first wide with astonishment, quickly curled into crescents as she tried a bite. The sight of her beaming, cheeks bulging with cake, delighted him. He watched her chew until, with her deep sigh of satisfaction, his delight blossomed into a profound sense of fulfilment. He knew then that he’d truly given it his all. He had at last poured the entirety of his heart and soul into cooking for the girl before him. And she acknowledged this fact. With the most sincere smile she could muster given the speed at which she was shoveling cake into her mouth, she looked at him and said, “You’ve done— Mmm. A wonderful job— Mmmmm. Head Chef. I have the— Mmmmmmm! The utmost respect for your skill!”

This might be...the first time I’ve thought so deeply...so thoroughly about cooking for a specific person’s tastes...

In that moment, it all dawned on him. What it meant to be a chef, the sheer depth of the pursuit, and why it was and always would be worth it.

Some time later, after Mia returned to Saint-Noel Academy, Musta received a letter.

“For me... from Her Highness?”

He’d never received a letter from Mia before. Only a privileged few could ever have the honor of receiving a written message from the Princess of Tearmoon, and he was well aware their ranks did not include himself.

“What in the world?”

With utter bewilderment, he unfolded the letter and read through it. A low rumble escaped his throat.

“Head chef? What does it say?” asked one of the cooks.

“It says...” he slowly answered, “that Her Highness would like to incorporate my recipes into the cafeteria menu at Saint-Noel Academy...”

“Really? Wow!”

A wave of commotion spread through the kitchen. Their amazement was understandable. Saint-Noel was the pinnacle of academia on the continent. Located in the Holy Principality of Belluga, it enrolled numerous young nobles from neighboring nations, and there was no shortage of royalty among its student population. In other words, it had arguably the densest concentration of demandingly refined palates on the continent. The food served there, then, had to be equally exceptional. Nothing but the crème de la crème would suffice, and to have the recipes he’d devised selected for Saint-Noel’s menu was an honor of the highest magnitude. What pleased Musta, however, was not Saint-Noel’s esteem but Mia’s recommendation. The fact that she liked his cooking enough to deem it suitable for the academy made him happier than anything else.

It seems that I have indeed gotten through to Her Highness... She truly appreciates what I’m trying to do...

The prestige of having contributed to the academy’s menu was doubtlessly grand, but it was the love and appreciation shown by those eating his food that filled him with pride.

“So... What are we going to do, head chef?”

“We’ll certainly heed her wishes...but some of these recipes are a little complicated. We’ll need to write them out in a fashion that’s easy to understand... It might be best to add some pictures as well. All right, go find someone who can draw...”

When he took on a task, he gave it his all. He’d spent countless hours maximizing the benefits of his cooking for both the taste buds and the body. His recipes represented the crystallized fruits of his intense labor. Now it was time to pass them on so they could be thoroughly and accurately inherited by others.

Slowly and thoughtfully, he began setting his knowledge to paper. As an extra perk, he included a new recipe he’d thought of for a different kind of vegetable cake. If the cooks at Saint-Noel were as great as was rumored, then they should have no problem reproducing it.

Thus did his vegetable cake spread far and wide throughout the continent.

Let us hasten the clock again.

The next time Musta Waggman’s name appeared in the annals of history was when he was entering his senior years. A ceremony was underway in the Grand Square of the imperial capital of Lunatear. Guards in stately armor stood shoulder to shoulder like walls of polished metal. The band performed a spirited fanfare in celebration of the auspicious occasion. In the center of the square, standing on a stage covered by scarlet cloth, was a woman. Her long silken hair cascaded down to the middle of her back, glowing like white gold in the sunlight. With eyes as clear as the cloudless sky and deep like bottomless wells of knowledge, the Great Sage of the Empire calmly, quietly, settled her gaze upon Musta.

“Head chef of the imperial court, Musta Waggman, please present yourself!” announced the chancellor standing beside her.

He straightened and walked forward. Stopping a few paces before her, he lowered himself onto his knees in a ritual bow of respect.

“Please accept my deepest gratitude for this exceptional ceremony. I am honored beyond words, Your Highness—”

He choked back the last two words and stared up at her, hands over his mouth.

“I am terribly sorry. Out of habit, I—”

Mia all but giggled at his flustered reaction.

“My, but I find myself quite content to be ‘Highness.’ Feel free to continue addressing me as such.”

Her gaze drifted into the distance.

“Habit indeed... We’ve known each other a long time... You’ve served me since I was but a young girl.” Then, with renewed verve, she declared in a voice that rang with true majesty, “Musta Waggman, as head chef of the imperial court, your contributions to the empire’s dietary culture are numerous and significant. In honor of your work...and in appreciation of your continued dedication over so many years to teach me and my children about the joys of meal and mead...”

She produced a medal with the characteristic rotundity of a mushroom and pinned it on the left side of Musta’s chest. It glowed as bright as the full moon.

“I hereby award you the Mia Medal of Freedom.”

“I humbly accept this extraordinary honor.” He bowed deeply, took a step back, then straightened. With his chin held high and proud, he looked across the crowd gathered there. Though his acceptance was humble, he presented the medal without diffidence, for he knew himself to be worth its weight. He’d withheld no effort, pouring his heart and soul into every meal he prepared for Mia. There was not a speck of guilt marring his conscience, and the medal felt hefty—but not burdensome—on his chest.

“Now that’s done with, I must say, head chef, I’m craving cake for dinner tonight. Preferably sweet ones, and enough to fill me up...”

He heard Mia’s voice behind him. Turning, he pulled his lips into a line and replied, “Out of the question. That would be terrible for your health. You must eat a balanced, nutritious meal...”

A twinkle in his eye poked through the stern front. The corner of his lips curled up.

“After that though... I suppose you can try some of this new type of veggie cake I made.”

As a continental superpower, the Tearmoon Empire was known for its rich food culture. Dessert, in particular, was an area of cuisine it excelled in. Their quality and variety was unmatched, surpassing even that of the Holy Principality of Belluga. This culinary achievement could largely be attributed to one man who had an outsize influence on its development. His name was Musta Waggman. As head chef of the imperial court, he spent much of his life as the perennial champion of the imperial family’s palate. Among the numerous recipes he invented, the most famous and extraordinary were doubtlessly his vegetable sweets. Almost a genre unto themselves, these unique creations turned an assortment of vegetables into mouth-wateringly delicious desserts so beloved that they were permanently added to the official menu of Saint-Noel Academy’s prestigious cafeteria.

Equally famous was the widely-retold fact that the Great Sage of the Empire, Mia Luna Tearmoon, loved them dearly as well.