“So, you don’t like to talk about where you come from, but about what the people over there. Don’t you have any family still there?” Irene asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Oof. Bit of a hard question, I suppose. Good, good. She was having trouble opening up to me, and this is exactly what we need to have a nice conversation that, hopefully, will warm her enough to open up as well.

“I don’t remember if I told you, but my mother died right before I came here. Me landing on Epretos was mostly an accident, you could say. Well, a serendipitous accident,” I wink at her and faux toast with my chalice of wine.

“I’m very sorry,” Irene bows her head. “I didn’t know. May she return to the soil,” she mutters.

“It’s… okay. I was really tight with her. She used to take care of me even when she was sick,” I swallow, suddenly realizing this is harder than I had imagined. Well, let’s swallow a little bit more wine, then.

I take another slow sip and let the silence linger for a moment, the candles flickering in the dimly lit room.

“She was a fantastic woman. The greatest, really. My parents were always good to me; I don’t have any dark backstories concerning them. My father died when I was a teenager. He wanted me to be a… [Healer], you could say. Same for my mother. I chose to be a Baker instead. They had come from an even farther country, and we didn’t have any family where I used to live beside them.”

Irene nods at my words, staring deeply into her own chalice, seeming to look for a response.

“So, to answer your question: no, I haven’t left much behind. A cat. But he can take care of himself, and the woman who lived in front of me probably took him in. The cat’s name was Fëdor, after a [Writer] I like.”

“That’s an interesting name,” Irene says, taking another sip. “My parents are gone as well.”

Oh, yeah. I remember thinking that. But now that I think about it, I don’t think she told me.

“Well, at least you have your siblings, right?”

Irene doesn’t respond immediately; she just looks at the ceiling for a moment before her eyes focus back on me.

“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “At least I have them.”

This is a step forward. If I had to guess, Irene probably had to help raise her siblings. Wait. Did I think of that, too? Why does it sound familiar? Shoot, I should start keeping notes of this stuff. I can’t trust my memory not to embarrass me.

But again, at the very least, she opened up to me. I don’t know to what degree people in a Middle-Ages-like era are in touch with their emotions. If I had to guess? Not much.

What do I say now? Do I tell her stuff like, ‘Oh, you can always count on me if you need to’? Bleargh. Disgusting. Can’t tell that to a very independent woman—she might throw the wine on my face. Or worse.

“I was an only child,” I say, “but I’m sure that having a big sister like you—”

“Hello!” A booming voice interrupts me.

I turn to look at a rather plump man with a jovial smile on his lips.

Who’s this?

“How’s your lunch going? I am Felix, the owner of Greener.”

“Hum, hello,” I say.

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Irene just frowns.

Damn, are we going to get another racist mess in here?

“So, miss, pardon my interruption. Am I disturbing two young lovers?”

“No!” Irene seems alarmed by the proposition.

Yo, what the—that hurts.

“We are just… colleagues,” she says, not even looking at me.

“Oh, that is actually perfect!” He replies with another hearty laugh. “I was wondering,” he turns to me, “are you the Human working at Happy Bakery?”

“Yes?” I reply, confused.

This might not be about racism, then.

“Oh, that is simply marvelous. I just heard my [Waiter] tell me about a Human who complained about our food.”

Oh, damn. Are we getting booted?

“I mean, I just made a brief comment, really. The food tasted great.”

The owner waves a hand in front of me.

“First, let me apologize if my employee offended you in any way, son. He has served time in the military, and you know what that does to your head,” he pointed at his ear, “puts mold everywhere. But more importantly, Greener takes its bread from Happy Bakery. Rumor has it you are the one behind this.”

“And that rumor might be true,” I reply, still confused.

“Son, if this is just a talk about work between colleagues, could I ask you to tour my kitchen and, perhaps, voice out the concerns you had with your dish? Your lunch will be on me in case you accept.”

“Huh…” I turn to look at Irene, who just shrugs.

“Sure, then. Let’s see it.”

We enter a backroom that brings us to a kitchen that doesn’t look much different from what I saw at the Three Roses. In fact, I would argue it looks almost identical. The front of the restaurant is decorated in a very tasteful and refined manner, but, as you do, the kitchen is pretty plain.

Professional, sure, but plain.

“These are my [Chefs],” he calls out to two rather young guys who snap to attention.

Nice. [Chefs] are sometimes the most spiteful bunch in the entire kitchen. You’d believe that some had a past as great astronauts or seedy lawyers with all the arrogance they hold.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, extending a hand. “I’m Joey Luciani.”

Both shake it in return.

“Licinius.” “Vitus.”

I nod at them, and they look back at Felix, the owner. Irene is just behind me, with both her arms crossed.

Ouch. Is she uncomfortable? What’s up?

“All good there?” I ask Irene.

She nods, not even answering.

Oof.

“Joey, please, would you mind voicing your complaint about the roasted meat you were served? Guys, he’s the Human doing a [Saint]’s job at Happy Bakery. Shut up and listen, ok?”

I look at Felix for a second. If I was in the position these two guys are in, I would probably be feeling my hands itching—as in itching to punch my face.

“I think the specific cut you used had lots of hard parts. I don’t know what they are called around here, but back home, we call them ‘connective tissue.’ It’s the tendons, the sheath that contains the muscle, and so on. When there’s more of that, the meat usually needs a longer than-average cooking time to avoid becoming too chewy. That’s it, really.”

“Joey, could I bother you for a demonstration?” Felix asks as the two [Chefs] simply nod back.

“Huh,” I slowly turn toward Irene.

“Go ahead,” she forces a smile.

“Alright. Vitus, right? Put a pan on maximum heat and be generous with the butter. Licinius, chop me some carrot, onion, and garlic, and then bring me some herbs you usually put in the roasted beef.”

Felix himself brings me a nice-looking piece of meat.

“Alright, bring me a bowl and a wine with a strong body. A thick wine. Or whatever you call it.”

As soon as the two [Chefs] are done, I put the piece of meat in a bowl together with the chopped vegetables, and I pour all the wine until the meat is submerged.

“Usually, you would want this to wait for half a day before cooking it. I’ll just massage the meat a little, and we’ll expedite the process.”

“Half a day?” Irene asks from behind.

“Yeah, it needs to soak and marinate. This process is called braising. It’s a bit different than just pot roasting because you would usually cover the meat with stock or whatever you use. In this case… let me just show you.”

I take the pan from Vitus and put the chunk of meat in it after drying it. I start browning each side for roughly a minute and a half until it forms the slightest crust on it.

God bless Maillard’s reaction.

As soon as I’m done with that, I move the vegetables, herbs, and spices into the pot after filtering the marinade.

“Now, you should add enough marinade to cover half the meat. After you have done that, let the marinade boil and cover it. Come back to it after two hours and turn it. Leave it there for two hours, and that’s it; you are done. Based on the cut of the meat, you might want to let it cook for more. The original recipe would dictate that you only do one hour per side, but I prefer softer, darker meat.”

I wipe some sweat off my forehead.

I’ve really speedrun the whole process, haven’t I?

Weirdest date ever, I suppose.

I’m not in the mood to have any more chats with the owner and the guys, and I simply walk to the front with Irene.

As we're about to leave, I ask her, “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“No, thank you,” she replies firmly.