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…For a higher class establishment, she's had faster service at various “lesser rated” eateries across Teyvat.
(The issue must lay with how she looks, based upon nothing except stares and whispering.)
(Annoying. Do they expect her to change her appearance in seconds? Her body is not capable of adapting that fast – and there is little use in carrying formal clothing in her supplies.)
(She supposes all that is left to do is leave her hood up.)
Finally, a waitstaff approaches her table, coughing as if she had not already noticed him.
“What may I get you today, er…”
His eyes squint.
“...Monsieur?”
“I am looking for the head chef of this establishment. Is she present?”
She flicks her gaze to him, closing the menu in her hands. For whatever reason, he startles, eyes widening from their previous squint. So interesting, people.
“Ah! My apologies, madame, Head Chef Savanna is not in today. However, I assure you that–”
“That isn't who I'm looking for. This hotel's head chef is a woman with light hair and burns across her body, is it not?”
(He's gone pale. Is she truly that intimidating?)
“I'm…I'm afraid Miss Escoffier has not been Hotel Debord's head chef in quite the while, madame.”
Her lips thin into a line. The information she had caught on the wind was outdated, then.
“I see…disappointing. Are you aware of where she is currently?”
His throat swallows.
“W-Well, Miss Escoffier is actually currently present for one of her monthly evaluations of this establishment, but she is a very…ahem, busy…woman. If I may say, I would not suggest distur–”
“That's fine. Inform her I am present and awaiting her when her duties finish.”
(What is he trying to imply to her? Meaningless scrabble, his words.)
“Ah. And I would also like to request a…Fonta. Whatever that consists of.”
The waitstaff jots down her order despite his nervous disposition – truly, she does not know what the issue is, nor why he swears under his breath when walking away.
How strange.
–
Hmm. Citrus, she believes this world calls the flavour on her tongue. Perhaps the painful sensation it causes in the back of her throat is meant to be a display of strength if you can endure. Or, alterna–
“I swear, this better be important, because one of the trainees just had the audacity to put a damn–”
The chef, unmissable in her appearance, pauses as she finally reaches her table – eyes widened a margin as she stares.
Finally.
“Hello. I would like to request a–”
The chef splutters, almost as if distressed, as she slams her hands onto the table.
(Though not enough to rattle anything despite the apparent strength in the muscles of her arms.)
“You…you can't just…start like that!” She hisses, jabbing a finger forward.
(The chef is missing at least two.)
Skirk blinks.
“...Is there some other way I'm meant to start?”
“You met me! In! The! ABYSS! YOU THREW ME THROUGH. A…PORTAL?”
“You had recovered sufficiently enough to exit. Any other way for you to exit would have been tedious.”
“NOT. THE PROBLEM.” The chef – demon chef, Skirk believes her title is – grits out.
Hm.
(Momentarily, her gaze is drawn to the odd mechanical appendage that whips behind the chef, another feature that had made encountering her memorable. She is…surprised the chef remembers her in turn.)
“...If that's all, I would like to order what you had described to me during our first encounter. Lobber, I believe, was its name.”
“Lobster.”
“Ah. Yes, that is what I wish to try.”
She scans her gaze over the rest of the chef's body next – notably, the sites she had been injured at.
“How are your wounds faring?”
“That was. Six months ago.”
“Time passes differently in the Abyss. I assume they are healed, then?”
The chef laughs.
(...Is something funny?)
Then, she does not stop, drawing the attention of other patrons, as it borders near hysterical and she brings up the collar of her culinary jacket.
…It doesn't do well to muffle her scream.
Her head pops back up a moment later, a tight smile on her features with her eyes closed.
“Sure. Coming. Right up.”
The chef spins around with a flourish, waitstaff clearing the way for her with fear notable in their eyes as she stomps away.
(Are all citizens of this region so…eccentric?)
–
Not an irrelevant amount of time later, a plate covered with a metallic, dome-like lid clatters onto her table past the three glasses of “Fonta” she has had, impressively precise for the mechanical appendage that had orchestrated the movement.
“Lobster Thermidor, a la gruyere and paired with a parmesan gratin dauphinois.”
The same appendage removes the dome-like lid, revealing the red carapace of an insect-like creature with its internal belly meat exposed, a sauce that is perhaps butter drizzled atop with speckles of green within.
She takes both a knife and forked silverware – ah, is that what the chef's appendage is meant to represent? – and begins excising the creature's exposed meat, cracking its external armour with ease.
(The chef aside her narrows her gaze. Like she has done something improper. Of what it could possibly be, Skirk does not know. Perhaps she was meant to use the odd tool set beside her foodware.)
She brings it onto her tongue.
…
(Aching limbs and long nights. Woodsmoke burning her nose, controlled, yet a reminder all the same. The promise of recovery, the scent of aquatic meat roasting over flame. Golden-shelled, internals difficult to extract past carapace yet unspeakably easy to consume. Cuts on her fingers from an appetite too ravenous and a shell meant to protect, cracking of a creature weaker than her rather than the cracking of her wri–)
“So?”
“It is…”
(A past long gone. A reminder of when she'd still been foolish enough to have limbs to break and a stomach that hadn't learned to subsist on nothing.)
“...nice.”
The chef's mechanical appendage flicks. Skirk thinks she may be…proud of herself, perhaps.
(...Her review was barely glowing. What is there to be proud of?)
“Heheh, I can see it in your eyes! Try it with the parmesan gratin, go on!”
(...See what?)
She doesn't resist the ceramic pushed towards her, lowering her fork carefully into the crisped meal below.
The chef looks at her, expectant.
…
“It is…fine.”
(Droops. The mechanical appendage behind her can…droop.)
“There's many…toppings, I believe, that may be a waste. Though I don't doubt that my palate may lack…refinement.”
“...Toppings?”
“The ingredient that stretches when I pull.”
“...Parmesan. Parmesan gratin dauphinois.”
Skirk stares down.
“Hm.”
The chef's own stare is almost amusing, completely aghast yet interwoven with exasperation. Skirk deigns that there is nothing more for her to say – resuming her consumption of the insect in silence.
At some point, the chef seats herself across from her despite lack of any invitation, clearly observing her consumption.
(She does not exactly…care, but the chef's gaze boring into her causes an itch beneath her skin.)
Skirk sighs, heavy, and sets down her silverware.
“You may ask three questions.”
The chef's eyes turn up.
“...Three.” Said flatly.
“Any more would only serve as a waste of time.”
Once more, the chef's tail-like appendage flicks. (She cannot read the meaning of it, this time.)
“...Sure. Alright, first off…why?”
Skirk blinks.
“...Why? What are you questioning?”
The chef raises her brows, gesturing very vaguely, and animatedly, to what just seems like the entirety of Skirk as a whole.
(Unhelpful.)
“...I am here because of your previous description of a meal you brought up as being similar in nature to another I once enjoyed in my past. I found your food…easy to get down, when you cooked prior. So, I made it a point to seek you further in interest of your talents.”
“...Oh.” The chef whispers, eyes a tad wide. She coughs, face a tad darkened, before waving her hand in the air.
“N-Next question. You never told me your name.”
“You may refer to me as Skirk.”
“Escoffier.” The chef replies in equal, soft.
For a moment, it is silent. The che…Escoffier, she supposes, simply seems to be observing her as she was before.
(In a way it's…uncomfortable. New. She detests perception, being remembered – connection. It holds no use to her, will only be inevitably ripped away. But the chef in front of her is…interesting. Weak, unspeakably so. An average human being with slightly above average physical prowess due to her career. Yet…she is enchanting. Perhaps because her talents are not strength. No, rather – she seems to wish solely to be at the top of cooking, to perfect not her power but merely food performan–
“Can I make another meal for you?” The chef blurts, sudden.
Skirk feels her face contort.
“...Is that really your last question?”
Escoffier flushes, staring down at her damaged palms.
“I…have nothing else I care to ask, and I want to make ya a dish that isn't just fine. Or nice, but your face relaxes when you say it. I'll make you something perfect, something that harmonises with you so well you can smile about it!”
Her tone increases by the end, head tilting back up with a fire in her eyes.
(Passion. So very passionate, over such meaningless goals.)
(...)
“...Fine. Do as you wish. But I will not be coming to your beck and call for cuisine. I've already wasted precious time here that could have been better spent on improving.”
(Perhaps she may learn, here.)
The chef nods, determined.
“Got it! I'll try to refine the time it takes to cook the dish down to a precipice point, then. Do you have anything you prefer, besides shellfish?”
“That is four questions.”
“I–!”
“How much do I owe?”
Escoffier's gaze burns into her – yet she deflates, mechanical appendage lashing, huffing instead of speaking aloud what must have been on her tongue. Able to gauge when a battle is fruitless, then. Good.
“Eight thousand.”
Skirk nods, rummaging within the mora pouch at her side and counting through the required coinage.
“Does that look right?”
(She suspects the chef doesn't actually care if it does or not, as she spares barely one glance before inclining her chin in affirmative.)
The chair is noiseless beneath her as she stands – closing her mora pouch and shattering free an entryway in front of her.
“I will bring you any ingredients I find that are of interest. Farewell.”
“...What do you mean you'll–”
The rift closes soundlessly behind her.