Fire is the oldest tool in a chef's aresenal. That charred flavor adds a certain something to every meal. Or every bunker. No worries, I'm sure the smell will come out soon.
In the end, as in the beginning, it was Red Shirt's fault. I told him that brandy was not the proper liquor and that he should not have set the campfire in the middle of the pastry station. Now he's covered in unrisen souffle dough and some strange pie filling that melted onto his skin. I won't go into details, but the incident went something along these lines:
Me: Don't do that.
Red Shirt: What? It's just a little brandy.
Me: But you're not supposed to add it to the fire. You're supposed to--
(sound of liquid hitting metal)
Red Shirt: AUGHHHHHHH
(sound of writhing on the floor in pain)
Me: I'll go get Dr. Foxtrot.
So, dinner was delayed another two hours and fourteen perfect ducks were toasted--I can still hear their last quacks in my dreams. Now that repairs are almost completed in the infirmary, we're gonna need the crew over here.
1 comment:
I met that guy. He seemed...what's the word I want? Not shaky, exactly. Something sort of like chatter, but that isn't what I mean. Jittery. That's the word.
He seemed like an okay sort of guy.
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