There exist some universal dietary regimens. Across the face of Ansalon, no matter where you go you will find folk who begin the day with some form of gruel, make a lunch of cheese and bread, and sup on freshly caught game of one type or another. There are, naturally, individuals who break from this pattern—vegetarians and the like—but the basic meal plan described above would not be considered exotic in any corner of the continent. Furthermore, every culture and race we know hunt the same animals and cultivate roughly the same vegetables, and most bake a recognizable form of bread.
Perhaps the best place to begin an examination of nutrition in the Age of Mortals is with the citizens of Teyr. Since this area is inhabited by draconians, we have little or no information about them, and my journey through this land was fraught with peril (about which I shall say nothing). Geographic influences restrict the range of choices available to the people of the region. The arid savanna provides precious little in the way of native vegetation (only grasses and a few tubers) and the local game consists mostly of medium to small animals. Rabbits and weasels are plentiful, and some areas are home to small communities of badgers, porcupines, and boar. No herd animals keep permanent grazing lands in Teyr, but small groups of wild sheep, horses, and deer cross the plains during migration seasons.
The cultural factor that most strongly exerts influence on the Teyrian diet clearly is the martial lifestyle to which most draconians dedicate their lives. One must always bear in mind that draconians are not a naturally occurring race, but were called into existence by the machinations and perverse magics of the goddess Takhisis less than one hundred years ago. So far as the draconians knew, the only choice they had in this world was whether they would obey orders or be summarily executed for insubordination. Basing decisions on likes and dislikes, as well as creating a culture that afforded the individual the opportunity to explore any vein of creativity and purpose he or she could imagine, was a long time in developing for the draconian race. Truth be told, they still struggle with this issue.
As a result, Teyrian diets consist mostly of dried meats, hard biscuits, and other traditional military rations supplemented by whatever edible vegetable that can be foraged in the immediate area. The draconians are skilled hunters and treat their prey with respect and honor—they are extraordinarily careful not to overhunt a herd, knowing that a hungry belly tonight is better than no food at all in a few months. They eat nearly half the fresh meat they bring back from a hunt. The other half of the prey is preserved and left in store in case game becomes less plentiful or the community is ordered to relocate. Even in these relatively peaceful times, draconian culture still revolves around the notion of following orders, and many families continue to move from place to place as though participating in a military campaign—just so they don't get "too soft."
As a result of their austere existence, the Teyrians have become skilled scavengers as well. While they do not go so far as to feed on carrion, they do make it a practice to track any large predators into whose territory they settle. Small numbers of tigers are known to wander the northern plains, and at least one reputable source states that packs of wolves have lived in the region from time to time. If the draconians can find these animals in the act (or just after) of bringing down a kill, they chase the predator away and claim the meat for themselves.
This is not to say that all the draconians of Teyr live in a state of nomadic barbarism. Many, perhaps even most, of the citizens live in towns and small semi-permanent communities, but most of what scholars would call their "cultural identity" is borrowed from other regions and societies. As a result, draconians are not known as the originators of culinary excellence. Rather, they fuse other cusines and often lend them a unique draconian flavor. However, they are credited with creating at least one recipe that members of other cultures find palatable enough to emulate—a dish the draconians call shredded venison.
The meal is prepared by taking freshly dressed venison and tearing it into long, thin strips. These strips are then coated with a mixture of common herbs, a standard array of cooking spices, and the juice from a local pepper that is so pungent that until the draconians created this recipe it had been used only as a catalyst for alchemical reactions and caustic irritants. [Mostly by the gnomes of Mt. Nevermind, who experimented with it for some years as a possible basis for a chain reaction that could power an automatic nosehair trimmer (though the more innovative gnomes saw bigger uses—perhaps for running a power-driven fingernail clipper). When a container of the juice exploded, it is said, the resulting spray of pepper juice incapacitated forty gnomes for a week and led to the epidemic known in gnomish chronology as the Great Sneezing Fit of 26 SC which led to the invention of the disposable handkerchief.] (Lest any readers worry, I have tested—and tasted—this juice myself, and while it has hardly what one would call "delicate flavor and bouquet," it poses not threat greater than oral discomfort and temporary numbness of the palate.) Thus treated, the venison is wrapped in leaves and placed atop the embers of a recently doused cooking fire. These embers are kept alive, though never fanned back to full life, for an entire day, and when night falls the meat is removed. It should be stored in a dry place and may be kept safely for more than a fortnight.
The final results are dried and shriveled strips of meat that are intoxicatingly flavorful. Unlike other dried meats, these are not overpoweringly salty, but rather brim with an almost fruity zest that tingles the lips and thrills the tongue. Much like the draconian race itself, shredded venison takes what many people would consider a most distasteful set of ingredients, fires them in an unorthodox kiln, and results in a wholly unique creation.
Lest the reader think that this treatise will dwell overlong on exotic and outlandish fare, let us turn our attention to the plains of Abanasinia. The food enjoyed by the farmers and merchants of Abanasinia is comparable to that served in nearly every section of the continent.
It is quite ironic that the dish most closely associated with this region is the singular Otik's Spiced Potatoes made famous at the Inn of the Last Home. The irony lies in the fact that these potatoes—while quite flavorful and filling—are not particularly piquant. The truth of the matter is that Abanasinian food as a whole makes use of a relatively narrow family of spices, and it uses them notoriously sparingly. In fact, while elves from the both Qualinesti and Silvanesti are said to consider human Abanasinian cooking to be robust, dwarves, minotaurs, and various peoples from the lands to the east often call the food bland and flavorless. The Abanasinians prefer to say that their palates are more refined than natives of other regions, allowing them to enjoy food's natural tang. In fact, they abhor foods covered in sauces and smothered in aromatic spices.
Abanasinian cooking spices consist of wild garlic and onions (both of whose flavor tend to be considerably less pungent than the domestic varieties grown in other regions), salt provided by dwarf merchants, and dried herbs cultivated from the local forests. All are used with the greatest restraint. In fact, the only regionally distinct flavor to be found in most Abanasinian cooking comes from "leathercaps," a bitter mushroom that sprouts in the autumn.
Hunting for these fungi is an annual ritual that Abanasinians look forward to with great glee. While in Solace working on a different project, I took time to question the locals regarding the practice. It seems that while those of intermediate age (those running businesses and raising families) are the ones who make the most use of the leathercaps, it is the youngest and oldest of the community who most enjoy the harvest.
"It's the only time I can go running through the woods by myself," one lad of eight or ten years explained. "Most of the year my folks are too scared that I'll wander off and get lost or eaten by a pack of wolves. There are so many people around during the harvest that it's nearly impossible to get lost, and we make such a noise that no animals want to get within a mile of us!"
Those of the older generation say they enjoy the hunt because it makes them feel young again. Tika Majere, proprietress of the Inn of the Last Home, says that going on the mushroom hunt "brings back the days of innocence.
"It sometimes seems as though all my life has been filled with war and strife and working for someone else's needs," she told me as she sat by the fire in the Common Room where her great adventure began so many years ago. "Collecting leathercaps has always been something I do just for me—well, and for those who enjoy my cooking!"
One may find it odd that a people who seem to prefer mild flavors in nearly every other ingredient have such a great affinity for a fungus with such a strong taste. Indeed, the mushroom is too bitter to be enjoyed by itself, but once dried and minced, it finds its way into almost everything the locals make—from bread to soup to meat seasonings. There are never enough leathercaps to last more than a few months, so if you are curious about this mushroom I suggest you travel to Abanasinia about the time of the autumnal equinox.
Abanasinia is also known for another edible fungus, although one that the locals eschew completely. The small, plump, juicy nodule known by gourmets as a "plum of the earth" has long been considered a delicacy in Solamnia and Ergoth. However the tiny fungus became exceedingly rare in these areas following the Second Cataclysm. Those that could be found were drier, more bland, and inferior in every way to their predecessors. It is only by chance that a Solamnic Knight, who happened to be the son of one of Solanthus's greatest chefs, was posted as an honor guard at the Tomb of the Last Heroes and spent his leisure time wandering through the local woods. There he came across the telltale stalk and six-pointed leaf that at the time was the only reliable method of finding the much sought after plums.
The Abanasinians laughed at the Knight. These fungi (which they describe as looking like the droppings of a burrowing creature) were considered subterranean weeds—where they grew the soil became incapable of sustaining crops or other "useful" plants. Moreover, the fungi were almost undetectable save by chance.
The Knight and a few other brave souls patiently experimented with methods of finding concentrations of the fungus, and eventually they discovered a remarkable fact: Domesticated pigs loved the fungus and could sniff it out from yards away. Herein lay an obvious, if somewhat odd, solution to the problem.
Now every spring the villagers take to the woods surrounding their farmland, leading pigs around by leashes and letting the swine nose out the fungus. Most local farmers are paid handsomely by merchants, chefs, and gourmets to restrain their pigs and save the plums of the earth for human consumption. Farmers who feel they are being offered inferior prices for their crop are wont to drive the bid up by tossing one of the larger specimens into the pig pen in dramatic fashion. In this way, many farmers have the wherewithal to avoid disaster in a year of drought.
Being one of the few remaining bastions of both freedom and prosperity, Solamnia remains a nation where all foods from across the continent are still available to any who can afford them. There is, one must note, a distinct difference between the diets of the common folks of Solamnia and those with greater means. In particular, the eating habits of the Solamnic Knights tends to be somewhat dissonant from those of the common folk.
The great majority of Solomnians (approximately eighty percent) are farmers, craftsmen, and domestic retainers in the employ of the richest citizens (approximately ten percent of the population). The remainder are merchants, religious disciples, and a small number who have broken the social contracts that have held Solamnia's society together for centuries.
The commoners, like their brethren across the continent, eat whatever foods are available. Thanks to the prosperity of the land, though, it is quite routine for even the most provincial of general stores to be stocked with cloth from Kalaman, leather from Qualinesti, and gnomish confections from Mt. Nevermind. As a result, they have a significantly healthier diet than those in other regions. Most Solamnian families can serve daily meals that feature high quality meats, vegetable, and fruits.
As is often the case, though, the Solamnians choose to compare their situation to those with a better lot rather than those who are less fortunate. Instead of being thankful that their kettles are so well filled, they complain that they cannot have the even more extravagant fare that graces the Solamnian noble tables. Thus peasants from other regions, groaning beneath the despotism of the overlords, conclude that their Solamnian counterparts are nothing more than whining, petulant children who do not have the sense to enjoy their prosperity while it lasts.
The aristocracy, on the other hand, enjoys the best of everything (though its members, too, are given to bemoaning the fact that things were better in years past). The range of foods enjoyed by Solamnian nobles defies plain classification. They rarely eat anything so simple as roasted meat. Everything must be cooked according to intricate recipes that, more often than not, require significant preparation time.
More interesting than the particular dishes, though, is the mealtime ritual that is still common in many wealthy homes—particularly those belonging to members of the Solamnic Order. In such families, breakfast and lunch are small meals served cold from the remainder of the previous night's dinner. The center of daily society is the evening meal.
The meal itself always consists of five distinct courses: soup, appetizer, entree, salad, and dessert. The first course always features a cream-based soup, never one from a meat or vegetable stock (which the nobles consider fit for only the poor and the infirm). Appetizers usually consist of a dish that previews the main course for the following night, allowing the master or mistress ample opportunity to order the meal changed if the fare is not to their liking.
The entree is the most complex of courses. It must contain both meat and vegetable that are prepared in a harmonious and artful way. Some noble families make it a point of pride to serve only meals where the entree represents some manner of philosophical or political message. While this is most often a highly esoteric (to the point of being unfathomable) exercise, there are times when the meaning of the meal is quite plain—such as when a noble invited his political rival to dinner and served a plate arranged to mimic the other's family crest. He thus indicated that, if provoked, he would eat his rival and family. Rumor does not record the guest's reaction to this culinary challenge.
Solamnia's great addition to Ansalonian cuisine has been in the realm of baked goods. Dessert always features some pastry or torte whose recipe has been passed down through the generations with the same manner and solemnity as great swords and suits of armor.
Meals preceding a ball often include a sixth course—a second dessert, almost always with an inebriating theme—sponge cake drizzled with brandy, or hollow confections filled with sweet wine—served half-way through the evening's festivities.
The country of Neraka has been under the sway of the knightly servants of Takhisis for so long that the Order recently renamed itself the Knights of Neraka. Travel within the realm is tightly controlled, and I was unable to enter this dark land. Therefore I can only guess that the actual dietary regimen is similar to that I have observed among Dark Knights in other sections of the continent. Fortunately (in this instance), the city of Palanthas also falls under the jurisdiction of the Knights, so I may make some accurate guess as to the nature of Nerakan cuisine.
It seems highly likely that most, if not all, popular recipes in Neraka are judged by one standard above all others: can they be made quickly, easily, and cheaply in bulk?
The Knights, you see, have a tradition that is honored so uniformly that it might as well be referred to as law—all Knights at a given post eat the same food at the same place at the same time. No allowance is made for age, race, social background, or (most of all) rank. Every soldier eats just as well—or as poorly—as every other soldier. While this does build a laudable sense of community, it also brings the lowest common denominator to the arena of nutrition—something that is bound to have more negative than positive repercussions.
Most garrisons in my experience feed nearly exclusively on a breakfast of dried meats and hard breads, work all day with no further sustenance other than water, and finish the day with a communal stew containing more celery and gravy than any true meat or hearty vegetables. It is, I'm told, serviceable, though not particularly appetizing. Still, with so little in their bellies by the end of their march, who can doubt that the Knights, squires, and attendants consider Nerakan stew to be food fit for a king (or governor-general—as the case maybe).
There are, of course, some among the Order who do not feel that complete equality has any place at the meal table, those who believe that rank does indeed bring certain privileges and that chief among these is a more agreeable dietary regimen. More than a few reports and anecdotes have been brought to the library concerning Dark Knight talons where the commander, once out of the sight of more evenhanded superiors, takes meals alone in his or her tent—and dines on much more palatable fare than the rest of the company.
One such case is discussed in the journal of Sir Marcus Reddi (a Knight who has won some measure of fame in the campaign against Silvanesti). When Sir Reddi was a minor officer in a talon assigned to patrol the Khur border, his commander (whose name has been scrupulously excised from the document) was in the practice of eating apart from—and more elegantly than—his troops. When the wing commander heard about this, he ordered that the quartermaster dispense only lower quality rations to the talon until the Knight ceased this practice. Unfortunately, the hardship bore most heavily on the common soldiers. The commander continued to eat the best of the supplies, leaving the rest of the talon food normally fed to the hounds. The talon's rations were further reduced, but the commander still continued his practice until his men were stumbling through their assignments, nearly collapsing from hunger. Sir Reddi appealed to the commander for compassion only to be told in no uncertain terms that the men should take comfort in the knowledge that their commander was healthy, able-bodied, and ready to give his life for their protection.
In the end that is exactly what happened. The record indicates that the talon commander died single-handedly defending the hunger-addled company from a band of ogre raiders the very day a new supply of rations arrived in camp. Sir Reddi assumed control of the talon and ordered the commander's rations shared equally among the Knights as a way to honor the man's sacrifice. The entire talon swore an oath over that exquisite meal never to speak ill of their former commander and never to speak of that day again as long as they lived.
Many things about the minotaur culture are considered exotic (to say the least) by other Ansalonian cultures. Their martial manner and immutably dour countenances do more to add to their alieness than do even their bestial bodies. [Though to many, especially to other minotaurs, the bull-headed men are handsome, with their muscular bodies, shining horns, and sleek, fur-covered shoulders. There is no place in the scholarly mind for prejudice against a civilization as complex as it is mysterious.] For all the foreign aspects of minotaur culture, though, their cuisine is surprisingly similar to that of peoples on the mainland. Perhaps, as some scholars claim, this is a clue as to how close our cultures really are—that the otherness that we associate with the minotaurs is one based only on appearance. Other scholars are just as quick, however, to subscribe to a theory best summed up by the phrase, "there are only so many ways to cook a pheasant."
Very few human or elven scholars have spent very much time or effort examining the cultures of the Blood Sea Islands—and the minotaurs themselves place so little value on such pursuits that they have never done so themselves (at least not in any form that has been shared with outsiders). Perhaps there is some depth of culinary tradition among these hulking brutes, but if so, it remains locked away on the islands of Mithas and Kothas.
Minotaurs that one is likely to encounter on the mainland eat a diet similar to that described for the Knights of Neraka. In other words, some kind of military rations (though, for obvious reasons, their particular rations tend to concentrate more on fish and other seafood rather than beef or pork). When traveling minotaurs gather in groups of five or more, though, they are likely to participate in a welcoming feast, though that term is used in the loosest sense possible. This feast is a very personal affair for the creatures, and they will perform it only if they are alone or in the company of no more than two or three intimately trusted outsiders. Several reports tell of nearly identical behavior, so it is safe to presume that this activity in some way mirrors a ritual enacted when sailors return from months at sea.
The festivities actually begin with a ceremonial boar hunt—though in regions where there are no boar, the fiercest local game will suffice. The minotaurs perform the hunt using only knives and spears, to symbolize the difficulty of the journey that brought them together, so it is important that the prey present significant opposition. At the conclusion of the hunt, the minotaurs bring the catch back to the beach.
Some of the minotaurs build a tremendous fire, all the while growling, chanting, and throwing large stones into the flames. Meanwhile the others clean the carcass. When the animal is dressed it is not cooked over the fire, but rather the stones are removed from the flames and stuffed into the beast's hollow chest. The entire creature is then wrapped in long, flat leaves of the grasslike vegetation that grows in great abundance on the shores of these isles. The carcass is buried in the sand for anywhere from four to six hours. During that time, the minotaurs wade in the surf in a contest to see who can land the largest fish using nothing but bare hands and horns.
When the boar is removed from the sand it has been cooked so thoroughly that the meat simply falls off the bones. The minotaurs peel off strips of meat and roll it with the leaves into surprisingly delicate wheels that they feed to one another. This exchanging of portions is part of the ceremony, and it is considered quite rude to actually eat any meat that one rolls oneself.
One colleague of mine puts forward the notion that this entire ceremony is a ritualistic recreation of the grazing and mock battles domestic cattle perform to determine dominance of a herd. The minotaurs, naturally, place no stock in any such ideas, and bodily threaten anyone they meet who repeats what they consider to be racial slander.
Another region—or, more correctly, set of regions—about which virtually nothing was known prior to the Second Cataclysm is the Dragon Realms. Each of the dragon overlords has had a distinct impact on the landscape of his or her realm, and those changes have brought about tremendous shifts in the dietary regimen of the poor souls unlucky (or pigheaded) enough to remain living in the area.
In most domains the culinary differences are few, and remain mostly centered on one or two particular species of plant or animal no longer available or, in some cases, new game that was not indigenous to the area prior to the dragons' arrival. In these areas, one can assume that the food fairly closely matches that found in its nearest neighboring independent nation. There are, however, three particular dragons whose impact on the regional cuisine have been more keenly felt.
Malys the Red transformed the former nation of Kendermore into a heat-blasted desert where no mortal can long survive. This area is now known as the Desolation, and not surprisingly, practically no game animals can be found, and vegetation is virtually unknown in this once-verdant region. Still, humans, ogres, and other races whose members can tend toward the sturdier than smart end of the spectrum continue to live in the Desolation. But for all the difficulty finding food, water is clearly the most precious of all substances here.
There is a new tradition among those living in the Desolation—the exchange of water skins. In any situation where an expression of trust or show of good faith is required, folks living in this region trade drink pouches. A complicated series of requirements and expectations have developed among these folk, and a person's reputation is very closely tied to the quality and quantity of liquid exchanged in this ritual. To hand over an empty skin is not nearly as damning a gesture as presenting one filled with befouled water—it is entirely possible that one drank the last of one's water, but presenting a skin full of unpotable liquid is tantamount to forgery or counterfeiting.
On the island of Southern Ergoth a whole new ecosystem has arisen, brought about by the radical climatic changes initiated by Gellidus the White. More than half the island has been transformed into a great glacier, and over the past twenty years or so many of the creatures found in the Icewall region have migrated to the shores of Southern Ergoth as well. Hunters and trappers can find abundant herds of seals and walruses as well as gigantic schools of cold-water fish. This has had an impact on the diets of not only the elves and humans of Southern Ergoth but also on those living on the western coast of Abanasinia and Qualinesti.
Perhaps the most insidious of changes came at the claws of Onysablet the Black. In her quagmire-covered realm live all manner of transformed, transfigured, or otherwise perverted creatures and plants. Onysablet's greatest joy lies in experimenting with the basic building blocks of life. Of all the dragon overlords, she is the one who most frequently creates spawn—half-human/half-draconian abominations.
The Black also enjoys developing new breeds of plants, insects, and animals whose attacks infect mortals with mutagenic poisons. In most cases, these effects are also transmitted when one ingests meat cut from the creature, so an amazingly stringent set of rules has developed for local hunters and foragers. Because the swamp itself is under the dragon's constant control, the indigenous people refuse to eat anything that grows there, making fresh vegetables and fruits virtually unknown. Furthermore, most hunters will kill only animals they have personally observed for a month or more. In all cases, unknown or abnormal creatures and plants are considered to be poisonous until proven otherwise.
In a situation such as this, with familiarity being the most reliable source of safety, even visitors from other lands are viewed through a veil of mistrust. Most residents of Sable's domain will not accept food from anyone from outside their community. One ought to consider it a sign of great respect and confidence if these folk so much as accept a small drink from one's waterskin, and the surest way to convey that one trusts these people is to eat even a tiny portion of a meal they prepare.
I begin now a series of entries on foods served by the smaller races. [A more extensive version of this researcher's notes are on file in the library's archives.] Each race's culinary tradition has within it a great variety of regional distinction, but it becomes difficult to justify the required time and space necessary to do exhaustive research on, for example, the differences between meals served in Thorbardin, Thoradin, and other smaller dwarf enclaves. To that end, I shall take a fairly typical example of the race and allow it to stand as a cultural representative.
Thus the gnomish conclave in Mt. Nevermind is, by all accounts, considered to be completely representative of gnome culture across Ansalon.
Although one would expect such a diminutive and relatively lean race to partake of proportionally smaller meals that are light on fats and starches, the exact opposite is true of the gnomes. In fact, the only culture that eats greater amounts of fatty meats, thick creams, and heavy starches is the human rural farming community. Every meal in Mt. Nevermind centers around a meat dish. Sausages are often served hot as an evening meal, then commonly show up cold on the breakfast plate. Mutton shanks, legs of game fowl, sliced meat rolled with cheese or bread, and other easily handled foods make up the gnomes' midday meals, which are almost exclusively taken in the midst of whatever experiment or construction the gnomes currently have underway. In fact, the handiness of the food seems to have greater importance than the taste as preoccupied gnomes regularly pass up fresh, hot soup in favor of a three-day old, grease-soaked drumstick with only a few gristly bits of meat clinging to the bone.
The evening meal, however, is a time when most (though not all) gnomes will actually set aside their work in order to partake in a time-honored tradition of stuffing food into one's face while spewing forth conversation at breakneck speeds. Perhaps this commentary seems overly judgmental (or even hyperbolic) to some, but it is the best way this author knows to accurately capture the chaos that is a gnomish dinner. Since the day is spent at separate pursuits, and since any one of these activities might generate information that would be of use in another experiment, the gnomes share all their daily discoveries at the dinner table. However, since there are so many projects going on at any one time, and the researchers are anxious to return to work as soon as possible, they all speak more or less at the same time—and try to get food in between breaths.
As chaotic a scene as this paints, the fact is that quite a lot of meat, cheese, bread, and potato gets consumed at one of these meals. And unlike other communal meals, such as those in Neraka discussed earlier, the quality of the food is considered very important. "You can't have fresh thoughts with a belly full of stale bread!" is an expression often bandied about when a particular meal does not satisfy the discerning palates of the assembled gnomes. These folk prefer heavily seasoned meats, often rolled in crumbs or dipped in batter and fried. Many meals come drenched in thick, floury sauces or gravies that completely disguise the natural color or scent of the meat with their own unique aroma. These sauces are favorites among the gnomes, but most humans find them too overpowering, leading them to wonder what is wrong with the meat underneath.
Interestingly, cooking is considered by the gnomes to be one of the "fine sciences"—particularly because of the many opportunities for improving cooking hardware and developing laborsaving devices. There are those who devote their entire careers to developing improved recipes, experimenting with newly discovered spices and herbs, and creating menus with never before tried combinations. Gnomish cuisine is constantly evolving. Although dishes with the same names have been served for generations, it seems unlikely that any recipe remains fundamentally unchanged for more than a few years, and the food served today bears only superficial resemblance to that eaten before the Second Cataclysm, let alone the First. The only exception to this rule lies in the arena of confections.
Gnomes have long been known for making candies and chocolates that are exquisite to both the eye and the tongue. Unlike with other recipes, the gnomes consider the highest form of confectionery achievement to lie in reproducing exactly the same shape and flavor in a series of treats. Each year the confectionists of Mt. Nevermind create a new batch of their family specialty, and the results are judged against the products of previous years. There are, it is said, vaults throughout the mountain filled from floor to ceiling with ten generations' worth of candy. A chef is judged only against others from his or her own lineage, although in private taste contests they compare their work with those of their peers for the honor of chief confectionist (a title that carries no significance outside the bounds of the candy-making community).
Another area in which gnome chefs constantly experiment is the cooking process itself. Simply baking or frying is not good enough for the gnomes. They feel obligated to find better, more intricate ways to prepare food. Among the relative successes in this field are the "flavor infuser," which uses pressurized steam—always a gnomish favorite—to force spices and marinades into the heart of a roast or other large cut of meat, [With the occasional unfortunate consequence that the entree explodes during dinner.] and the "Solamnic slicer," a metallic cylinder filled with a series of swords, knives, and daggers connected to a gyrating engine. Vegetables or raw meat are thrown into the top of the cylinder and come out the bottom rendered into incredibly finely sliced portions. Both of these devices can be of great use when they function correctly but are dangerous when they malfunction.
Since the gates to the kingdom of Thorbardin have been shut for some years now, it is impossible to say exactly what their current diet consists of. However, in contrast to the gnomish diet, dwarven food has remained substantially unchanged for several centuries—so we will proceed with this entry under the presumption that the last decade has done nothing to alter that situation. (While we certainly could have sent a representative to Thoradin to obtain accurate reports on their eating habits, the fact that the dwarven nation has aligned itself with Neraka and may be preparing for an extended conflict with exiled Zhakar led us to rely on our existing Thorbardin information.)
There is nothing subtle about dwarven cuisine—it is a study in extreme tastes and textures. Since the race is often characterized as dour and grumpy, one would expect dwarves to eat many sour, bitter, and even rancorous foods. This is certainly true. Thorbardin cuisine features many different types of pickled foods, cured in brine and seasoned with vinegar and bitter herbs. They make a foul-smelling brand of pickled cabbage that is chopped thin and served slightly chilled atop nearly any warm meal. (They achieve a chilling effect by sinking watertight sacks of the concoction into deep, bitterly cold, underground rivers.) There is even a pickled meat recipe that the dwarves serve at celebrations and festivals. The dwarves maintain this dish has curative properties and produces a euphoric feeling, but as far as the record indicates, no member of any other race has been able to stomach the smell long enough to taste it.
Sour seasonings, however, do not represent the entire breadth of dwarven cooking. They are equally enamored of salty, tart, and spicy foods as well. In fact, with the sole exception of the Teyrian pepper mentioned earlier, dwarven foods are the most pungent I have ever tasted. The Thorbardinians serve a dish of vegetables and rice, known by the innocuous name of "summer bloom," that is so hot that a single mouthful at once completely numbs the mouth for several hours and sends shooting spears of pain from the center of one's chest to the hollow behind one's eyes. The one time I attempted to eat this dish, at a function for a visiting dwarf ambassador, my sinuses drained, my eyes teared, and I remained bedridden for nearly two full days. That having been said, the aftertaste the meal left when my composure finally returned was quite piquant and enjoyable—of course, that was the only thing I could taste for an entire week.
Even when dwarf chefs eschew overpowering flavors, they still create dishes based on a powerful sensation—texture. Dwarf breads tend to be coarser, harder, and more difficult to chew than even the stalest of hardtack. They enjoy painfully crunchy cakes and tarts and even sprinkle these with incongruous spices. It is reported that the dessert of favor in Thoradin these days is a zesty mustard pastry. The mind boggles.
The most infamous of dwarf culinary excesses, though, is their ale. In fact, all dwarf spirits pack a greater intoxicating effect than their human- or elf-brewed counterparts. They also, however, have a much heavier taste, making them too strong for many social occasions and. allowing the entire category of "dwarven spirits" to be dismissed with a single, uneducated rejection—and preventing the great dwarf distillers from being recognized for the artisans they truly are. The connoisseur will tell you that several Thorbardin and Thoradin vintages can be found on the racks of truly enlightened aficionados across the continent. One Palanthan nobleman of my acquaintance considers the prize of his collection to be a cask of dwarven brandy bottled in Xak Tsaroth in 39 AC—less than a month before the start of the Dwarfgate War.
Why do dwarves enjoy such powerful flavors and sensations? Several colleagues of mine subscribe to the theory that it is a reaction to the race's hardy nature. No one with even the slightest knowledge of physiology can argue with the fact that, on the whole, dwarves are a sturdier race than nearly any other. My colleagues argue that this means the dwarves' senses are blunted to the subtler flavors and sensations enjoyed by humans, elves, kender, and other races. He concludes that our food and drink are practically flavorless to the dwarves. In order to make this bland food more palatable, the dwarves began experimenting with the few spices and other ingredients that they found discernable. Not coincidentally, these are the ones we find most overpowering. Eventually they developed a cuisine based on the premise, "If we can taste it, it must be good." That doctrine dominates dwarf cuisine to this very day.
I cannot say that I wholeheartedly endorse this theory, but I do not have another more likely one to present at this time.
While discussing this essay with some recent initiates to the Order of Aesthetics, I found that several of them were disquieted by the notion of kender cooking. When I pressed them on the subject, they answered that they had always thought kender simply stole whatever they felt like eating and "scarfed it down" as they eluded pursuit.
After a serious discussion regarding the place (or lack thereof) of colloquial phrases in official duties, [Excellent! A conscientious teacher as well as a methodical researcher. Such a thing is rare indeed.] I disabused them of the notion that kender are nothing more than a race of scheming thieves who think of nothing other than ways to separate honest folk from their rightful possessions. Nothing could be further from the truth. Kender have a very highly developed moral code and maintain the utmost respect for personal property.
If kender really were plotting to steal the items they wind up with, why do they forever begin sentences with, "You dropped this?" No, they are as surprised as anyone else that they have wound up in possession of another person's belongings, and they immediately set out to return them to the proper owner. What kender suffer from is not lapse in moral fortitude but rather the inability to focus on a single topic for overlong, coupled with a stunning shortage of what most would call "common sense."
It is this last lapse that is most alarming when it comes to kender in the kitchen. After all, who would want to eat a meal prepared by a chef who might well forget how much of any spice had already been thrown in the stew? It is a constant amazement to some that the entire race has not been eliminated through sheer negligence around the cooking pot. Still, if one walks through the streets of Hylo at evening mealtime all sorts of aromatic and appetizing smells drift past one's nose, and the overwhelming effect is to sharpen hunger rather than drive it away.
Perhaps kender cooking turns out so well because it is based on a series of simple, unrelated steps that can be taken one at a time (often in any order) to build a final meal that cooks all together in one pot. In fact, preparing the evening meal is often a family affair in kender households. Each member of the clan is given a single item to add to the pot—sometimes, when their duty has been fulfilled, they may be entrusted with a second ingredient. When everyone has returned with his or her contribution, the fire can be lit and the meal cooked.
These all-in-one-pot meals usually have a base of noodles or rice, with beef or chicken thrown in along with various fresh vegetables and whatever spices the family prefers. Snobbish gourmets pronounce this barely one step removed from barbarians who immediately eat anything they can kill or forage. Food connoisseurs say that the inexact order of ingredients and variable cooking time mean that the meal is often over- or undercooked. But they miss the point that no matter how long the meal simmers, it still tastes good.
Dinner is served hot out of the pot, and the anxious kender often sit on the floor around the fire rather than carrying their bowls back to the table. Sometimes the one dishing up brings out a fork bearing not meat, vegetable, or rice, but rather some other odd material that one of the overzealous cooks pulled from a pocket and threw in the pot. This propensity to find coins, baubles, and even small items of clothing in the final meal has earned this type of meal the name "kender surprise."
Finally, we have the interesting case of the gully dwarf. These unfortunate and much maligned creatures can be found in almost every nation in Ansalon, though they are most prosperous in abandoned ruins and other places that civilized (and even semi-civilized) folk scrupulously avoid. The truth is that gully dwarves are not some superintelligent form of vermin. They have a unique, long-standing culture and a society based on laws and clear social relationships.
Having said that, one must acknowledge that gully dwarf society is at the very least distasteful and often repugnant to people from more technically advanced civilizations. The diminutive creatures live in eternal squalor, subsist on refuse, and have no hope of coping with situations that do not involve the immediate and concrete world around them. Hypothetical reasoning is possible for gully dwarves, but when the culture has difficulty with numbers greater than two, the quality of such thought falls into grave question.
Much as with kender, it is difficult for people to imagine gully dwarves having any type of recognizable cuisine. Well corroborated stories abound describing how the creatures consider sewer rats a delicacy beyond compare. To tell the truth, even an impartial and thorough commentator such as myself cannot find substantial evidence to argue against such suppositions. The truth is that the vast majority of gully dwarves have not developed the mental acuity necessary to cook a full meal once, let alone repeat the process often enough for it to be considered a tradition.
Why include them in this treatise, then? Because of a widely reported recipe known as "gully dwarf stew."
In Palanthas, gully dwarf stew is made using scraps of beef, pork, and chicken. Butchers gather all their ends, tips, and poorly cut steaks into bundles and sell them as "gully dwarf fixin's," thus converting otherwise unsalable material into a quaint specialty. The recipe also calls for cabbage, celery, and several other vegetables whose abundant growth generally means their supply outstrips the public's demand.
On Northern Ergoth, the gully dwarf stew recipe begins with the pot scrapings of a regionally popular chowder and diced potatoes (of which there are no shortage, in or out of season). It is then bolstered by a few pounds of flitters, a common fish in local waters that often becomes entangled in nets but is generally considered too small to cook.
In Khur the stew most often consists of lizard meat, boiled in broth made from water-trapping roots and cactus shavings. It is garnished with a handful of the local insects.
Let me stress that according to the regional inhabitants, each of these recipes is exactly what "gully dwarf stew" has always been—anything else is a misrepresentation. In the end, it is this researcher's opinion that none of these recipes are any more authentic than another. Were one to task a gully dwarf with choosing the "real" stew from an array of regional recipes, the confused creature would (after much debate and consideration) declare them all to be correct. Real gully dwarf stew, as any gully dwarf can tell you, is made by taking whatever ingredients are at hand and mixing them in as pleasing a combination as possible. Relying on particular ingredients is not in gully dwarf nature. They are the ultimate pragmatists, who happily consider whatever they have to be exactly what they need.
Ansalon would doubtless be a happier and more peaceful place if more of the "intelligent" cultures could adopt that particular mode of thinking.
Writing this particular treatise has been an interesting experience. I am one a very few humans left who can claim to have widely traveled the continent both before and after the Summer of Chaos—and I am quite likely the only one who ever gave any serious scholarly consideration to the foods people ate in either period.
Even so, at least some of my information would have been woefully out of date were it not for the fact that I reside in the city of Palanthas, where one can acquire authentic recipes, ingredients, and prepared meals from nearly every culture in Ansalon. If one seeks to taste the gamut of global culinary experiences without giving up the years such a journey would take, then I heartily recommend a fortnight's stay in our fair city.