Jildarin lowered his whisk and faced the gnome.
“From theLumi Lake Chronicles,” Gniknik said. “I’ve heard of him. Each week, he does an article featuring a different diner or tavern in town. He said he wants a tasting menu and that he’ll write up what he thinks about the food. If he likes it, the diner could get a lot of new people coming to try it. Even if he writes scathing things, it could bring in extra business.”
“Never has such a person come to this diner. What is the protocol? Do I go out and speak with him?” Jildarin curled a lip, as if interacting with a food critic would be beneath him.
Rylana hadn’t seen him go out and schmooze the guests and ask how they were enjoying the meal either. Maybe he wanted people to experience his artistry, not him.
“Put on a shirt or at least an apron if you go out to speak with him,” Rylana said, believing a degree of professionalism would be in order.
“As his bookkeeper, are you allowed to make sartorial suggestions?” Sylin murmured.
“Someonehas to.”
“I can ask if he wants to meet you, Chef,” Gniknik said, “but I don’t think you need to go out there. That might be considered anattempt to influence what he writes, and food critics notoriously resist bribes, coercion, and hands around their throats.”
“I will remain here then. You may prepare tasting dishes for him.”
“Yes, Chef.”
The gnome hurried to the counter, hopping onto the stool again, and grabbed fresh plates as a yawning Rolf walked in, his white hair sticking out in all directions. He grabbed bacon from pans, then headed to where dishes had piled up in the sink.
“Er, Chef?” Gniknik asked. “Shall I stick with the morenormalrecipes or also give him the eel soufflé and the spruce-tree bacon?”
“They are sprucetips,” Jildarin said, “And you will shareallof my excellent creations with this critic. Let him judge the full panoply of my offerings and write of them in this newspaper.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“It’s all good.” Sylin had moved on from the bacon to sampling the egg dishes. She placed her fork in her mouth, only slowly withdrawing it, then chewing thoroughly to savor the bite.
“I think so, too,” Rylana said, “though my palate isn’t the most refined after years of eating Cook’s food.”
“My palate is excellent. I keep it honed by tasting and assessing coffees from around the world.”
“Hence your ability to tell a good spruce tip from a resinous one.”
“Precisely.”
Rylana started to say more but was diverted when Jildarin walked to the kitchen’s exit, donned a white coat, and peered over the top of the swinging door. He shifted and craned his neck.
“Are you trying to see the critic to tell whether he’s enjoying the food?” Rylana asked.
“His enjoyment is of no more consequence than that of any other patron.”
“Of course. You can’t see him from there, can you?”
“He must have seated himself in one of the booths to the side.”
“Want me to go out and spy on him?”
“Certainly not.”
Rylana popped a piece of maple-bourbon bacon into her mouth, then stood. “I’ll go out and help clear dishes then. Next to his table.”
Jildarin pursed his lips in apparent disapproval, but he also stepped aside to let her exit. “See if he wants a beverage. There is cow and goat milk, apple juice, and water.”
“You need to make coffee.”
“I do not care for flavored water, and there is a shop that specializes in it across the street. My serving it would be redundant.”
