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“I’m just saying, old man,” Ben starts, laughing as he talks, “I can make a meal twice this good. I don’t know why you’re wasting the credits.”
Jadzia Dax lightly swats at him from across the table. “Oh hush, Quark is an excellent chef. Besides, you don’t have Tongo.”
“You’re not even playing Tongo.”
“Not yet,” she replies, her eyes glittering with mirth as she spots Quark walking towards them in the crowd.
“Why, if it isn’t the lovely Ms. Jadzia Dax,” he does a half bow and gasps theatrically when he sees Ben. “And the Captain! It’s always such a pleasure to see you in my humble establishment. We all think you’re doing just a fine job of running this place. Excellent really. But if I could just talk to you about these new Federation tariffs–”
“Quark! I’m off duty; you’re welcome to file an official complaint with me for review tomorrow.”
Quark huffs. “You know, Captain, anyone would think that you don’t care about the hard-working business owners that are the lifeblood of this very station!”
Ben rolls his eyes. Yes, he had extorted Quark to force him to stay on the station, and he doesn’t regret it (mostly), but that doesn’t mean he is a fan of self-importance.
“All of the vendors on the promenade are appreciated members of the community,” he allows.
“Then why don’t I see you here more often?”
“Honestly, Quark,” Ben says, “because I’m a better cook than you.”
The bar goes silent as Quark gasps. “Excuse me?”
Ben sighs, “Let’s not do this. Clearly, you have many fans on this station, no need for me.”
“Au contraire!” Quark exclaims. “A good Ferengi never lets a good paying customer pass him by.”
“Quark…”
“I’m just saying! I think you’ll find–”
“I’m just trying to enjoy an evening of peace,” Ben almost begs, a headache forming behind his left eye. Jake had been up late last night playing some game with Nog, and he still has the stupid jingle stuck in his head.
“I have an idea,” Jadzia says, sliding into the conversation with a dangerous smile. Ben looks at her with a warning gaze; he remembers enough of Curzon’s “ideas” to be skeptical of anything she says with a smile like that.
Quark does not have the same concerns. “Well?”
“A good old-fashioned cook-off! If Quark wins,” she says, gesturing towards Quark, “Ben has to come here every night after shift for two weeks.”
“And if I win?” Ben asks.
“And if you win,” she says, “hmm… Quark will have to give you seven free holosuite sessions.”
“Hmmm,” Ben hums. That would be the perfect gift for Jake; his birthday is coming up.
“Seven!? Free!?” Quark squeaks.
“What is the problem, Quark?” Ben asks, a smug smile tugging at his lips, “scared you’ll lose?”
Quark glares at him and then glances around the bar, everyone is looking at him, and Ben holds back the urge to laugh. Quark can’t back down now; it would be bad for business.
“Fine,” Quark huffs, “what are the rules?”
This whole cook-off business seems decidedly hoo-man if you ask Quark. A competition for bragging rights- the ego of the species. Honestly!
Quark has made peace with working with Federation types but never gets used to their arrogance. Everything is about their desire to explore strange new worlds. Well, what about his profits?
But there's no sense in discussing this with any of them, least of all a hoo-man. Quark has known many of them, of course, both in his time on the station and working on freighters. He was a chef then, and most of the crew were Ferengi. But occasionally, the odd hoo-man got mixed up, and Quark learned several important things about them.
The most important to him right now is that they’re competitive and have a capacity for cruelty mostly unmatched in Quark’s limited experience.
He still thinks he has the advantage, though. Namely, he wants it more. He can’t be losing at cooking competitions to Starbase Captains. It’s bad for business. Secondarily, seven free holosuite programs? What is he? Made of money?
But he’s been stuck for days, and the competition date looms ever closer. He has tried making his most extravagant dishes, but nothing yet rises to the level of “obvious winner.” Quark gently curls his fingers around the lobes of his ears to help him concentrate, enjoying the subtle vibrations of station life.
“Brother?”
Prophets, that’s an annoying noise.
“Brother?”
Shrill, and relentless, and–
“Brother?”
“What do you want, Rom!? Can’t you see I’m concentrating?”
“Well,” Rom stutters, twisting a napkin and nearly dropping it before catching it at the last second. “Well! It’s just. It’s about, the um. The uh– the competition. With Sisko?”
“Yes?”
“It’s just… Well, it’s just coming up, isn’t it?”
“You don’t say,” Quark says before slapping the back of his brother’s bulbous head. “Did you disrupt my deep, thoughtful contemplation for that worthless observation?”
Rom shakes his head frantically. “No, brother! It's just… I have an idea.”
“Actually,” Jake Sisko cuts in, seemingly appearing from nowhere. “We have an idea.”
“Jake?” Quark asks. “Rom? Why would you bring an obvious traitor here?”
“I’m not a traitor,” Jake says, rolling his eyes.
“And why, exactly, would you help your father beat me? Don’t you stand to benefit from seven free holosuite programs?”
Jake sighs and collapses his lanky body in a chair at the bar. “He’s just always at home. He’s either at home or at work! Well, I’m a growing boy. I need privacy.”
“For what?” Quark scoffs, imagining all the nonsense a boy like him could get up to.
“For my writing!”
Quark can’t help but exchange a glance with Rom. Siskos are weird.
“Okay, well, what is this brilliant idea then?”
“Okay, yesterday, I went to the Replimat. I was going to grab a raktajino, but Garak and Doctor Bashir were there early. So, I went to say hi, but Doctor Bashir said he and Garak had to leave immediately because of some emergency fitting or something. I went and took their seat, and while I was there, sipping my drink, I overheard something.”
Quark huffs and starts wiping down the bar. This is what he gets for humoring a teenager.
“I said,” Jake repeats, stage whispering, “I overheard something.”
“Yes,” Quark replies. “I heard you.”
“Don’t you know what I overheard?”
“Listen, Jake–”
“He’s got some type of mysterious spice. Apparently, it’s fantastic, the best flavor ever invented. The Galipotans talked about selling some to Garak the night before, and I mean. I don’t want to spread rumors, but Garak had five plates in front of him before he left. That spice must have made things taste pretty good.”
“Is it illegal?”
“I don’t think so! They specifically said it was a flavor enhancer.”
Quark sighs, “Where would I even find–?”
“By the dabo table in the back left,” Jack finished, taking a very smug-looking sip of his root beer.
Quark glances back and is surprised to see Doctor Bashir talking to them quickly before dashing off.
“What was that about?” He asks the Galipotans as he gets closer.
“Nothing,” they reply, smiling. They have five eyes and no ears; Quark can’t help but feel they’re tragically designed. “He was asking us a question about one of our products. It is quite satiating to humans.”
“Oh?” Quark says, trying to sound interested but not too interested.
“Yes, among other species.”
Quark hums. “Do you sell it?”
“Of course! It is one of our most common exports. It’s known as–” here, she breaks into what sounds like three gentle chimes bumping each other.
“Oh! That sounds… Quite lovely.” And that's true enough; the exact pitch of the tune is almost one of the bells in the Sacred Marketplace on Ferenginar. It speaks instantly of comfort and safety; he imagines himself curled in his childhood home, listening to endless rains and polishing a piece of gold-pressed latinum. He can practically taste the fried tube grub mix from the street vendor across from their house and craves it desperately.
“Thank you,” they say, inclining their head.
“And how much?”
They study him thoughtfully for several minutes before they jingle again, leaving shivers of electricity dancing across his skin. “For you? No cost.”
Quark tilts his head, but he’s not the type of guy who talks himself out of a good deal. “Wow! Free! That’s wonderful. You know what? Why don’t you take a free spin at the Dabo table on the house.”
He ushers them gently to the table and then taps the left wrist of the Dabo girl spinning the table. It’s their code for “free spin, make it worthless.”
It’s a good system.
He rushes back to the back bar and looks around. Odo can be anywhere, so he subtly sniffs the herb again, and his mind is instantly stirred with satisfaction.
Oh, he’s so going to win this.
Quark wakes up early on the day of the competition. He goes to Quark's and observes the tables his staff set up before closing the night before. Two long tables where he and Sisko can plate their dishes, and then Morn will go through and judge. (Quark has already bribed Morn, so he’s not worried.)
He spent the morning meditating on the Rules of Acquisition. More specifically, in Rule 22- a wise man can hear profit in the wind. Or, in his case, the smell of profit in the meal. Quark senses his victory and, for once, is glad that his nephew decided to befriend that Jake Sisko. Unlike most humans, he is one with a nose for profit.
After he wins this, he will return to those traders and buy a bundle. He’ll be the wealthiest man in the quadrant by dinner!
He’s contemplating what to call his new specials (Quark’s special, the Kai Winn with a mystery ingredient! Perhaps add it to the couscous?) when he sees a figure.
“Who's there?”
“Relax, Quark. It’s just me,” a gruff voice answers.
Quark sighs. “What do you want, Odo?”
“I’m just here to ensure there’s no funny business.”
“Funny business? You, of all people, should know how seriously I take my business.”
“Humph,” Odo answers. “But so you know, I will check for any sabotage, cheating, or otherwise underhanded behavior. This includes bribing the judge.”
“Why would I ever want to destroy the integrity of this competition, Constable?” Quark asks, his most innocent expression pasted on his face.
Odo rolls his eyes. “You’ve already tried to bribe Morn.”
“It would be an insult for a Ferengi not to try and bribe the judge. I would think Sisko, as part of the Federation, would appreciate diverse cultural practices.”
Odo shakes his head. “Well, I’ve spoken to Morn, and I’m here to tell you that he will no longer be judging the competition.”
“Oh? And who will be?”
“Kaga.”
“Kaga!?” Quark gasps. “The chef from the Klingon restaurant? Oh, this will never work. He’s my competition, Odo! He has every reason to make sure I lose!”
“Should have thought of that before you tried to bribe Morn.”
Quark pouts and kicks a nearby chair slightly too hard. Great. Now his feet hurt too.
Quark is still miserable as he sets up his dishes—even Rom notices.
“No need to be worried, brother,” Rom whispers, “after all, you’ve got a secret ingredient.”
“Don’t talk about it,” Quark hisses back.
Odo looks up from where he’s monitoring the observers with a suspicious grin. Quark responds with a cheerful wave and turns back to Rom.
“Alright, Rom. We can do this. Just do everything I say and do not under any circumstances think for yourself.”
“Okay, brother.”
“Alright,” Jadzia Dax says. “Now, the two of you can take your food out of stasis and begin plating.”
Quark bustles into action. He can barely remember the time starting; when he’s cooking, sometimes his mind leaves his body entirely, and he’s one with the dish. It becomes a series of movements, like music, as he adds spices and bastes meats. Years ago, when he was alone and cooking in the back on those horrid freighters, the peace he got in the kitchen was all he had. His body moves instinctively, he can tell Rom is fluttering around in the back, but his movements are focused on the hear and now. He can hardly believe he’s done, but as he steps back, hiping some stray sauce off the side of the bowl, he finds himself reasonably proud.
“And what do you two have today? Ben, would you like to go first?”
“I have,” Captain Sisko starts, “a bowl of gumbo made from an ancient Sisko family recipe with a side of stewed beets.”
Kaga leans down to pick the entire bowl up and consumes half of it in a single bite. “Good, rich in umami while still having balanced flavors.”
Captain Sisko grins, “Thank you. It's been in the family for generations for a reason.”
“And you, Quark?”
Quark coughs slightly and gestures with one hand to the feast behind him. “The beautiful rolling hills and glistening vistas of the Tozhat Providence in Bajor inspired me to create this updated Tozhat stew. To pair with the light, spicy flavors of the region, I’ve also prepared homemade hasperat with Rhombolian butter. One bite should send you to the beaches of the Tozhat Lake district.”
“That’s enough, Quark,” Sisko says, rolling his eyes, though Quark can see his eyes widen at Quark’s elaborate presentation. He even thinks Sisko looks impressed.
“But I’m not done! And finally, as an exotic twist of the Galipotan highlands, a mysterious herb that will remind you of your most perfect meal.”
Quark begins gently sprinkling the herb over the entire meal before stepping back to admire how the slight blue shimmer contrasts with the other vibrant hues.
“Enjoy!”
Kaga goes to take a bite when a sweaty Doctor Julian Bashir bursts through the front door, his uniform askew.
“Don’t eat that!”
“Excuse–” Quark starts.
“Medical override Bashir- Gamma-Six, quarantine the zone roughly three feet in front of me.”
“Doctor, what is the meaning of this?” Sisko demands.
“Apologies, sir,” Bashir says, straightening up. “It's just the herb that Quark was about to have Kaga eat… I have just had a patient presenting with symptoms I can directly link to that herb. It is an extreme libido enhancer.”
“Excuse me!?” Quark replies, offended. “It is not. I’ve both smelled this and tested it. It was fine.”
“The Ferengi digestive system is a bit less sensitive to it, I’m afraid. But as it turns out, 'satisfaction,' as in 'sexual satisfaction,' and 'satiated,' as in 'satisfy an appetite,' are synonyms in the Galipotan language. I’m afraid Klingons are quite sensitive to it as well. We will beam the dishes directly to sick bay to continue to analyze the compound.”
“But… But! The competition!”
“I’m terribly sorry, Quark,” Doctor Bashir says, sounding genuinely contrite. “This is for everyone’s safety.”
“How did you realize this was such an issue, Doctor?” Sisko asks. “I appreciate how proactive you’ve been.”
Bashir turns lightly pink. “Oh, well, doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Of course,” Sisko nods but smirks a bit before adding, “You’ve got a scale on your collar.”
Doctor Bashir stammers for a second before fleeing as quickly as he came. Quark stares despondently at where his beautiful meal was. He spent hours on it.
“Oh, Quark?”
Quark looks up to see Sisko standing in front of him. He puts a large, warm hand on Quark’s shoulder. “Yes, winner.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sisko comments. “We didn’t even get to try yours. And to be honest… I was impressed. I think I underestimated you. That hasperat looked pretty divine. Any chance I can get an order of that for myself?”
“Of course,” Quark stutters, gesturing with one hand for Rom to go to the back and plate another portion.
“And how did you get the crumb on it so fine?”
“Well,” Quark starts, “what it takes is doing it by hand; machines can never get the moisture precisely right, and the replicator can’t get that slight gluey texture which is the hallmark of a perfect hasperat.”
Sisko looks at him like he’s never seen him before. “Mr. Quark, please sit down. It appears we have more in common than I ever could have imagined.”