"We can replicate the body with a concentrated mushroom dashi. Kombu, dried shiitake, a touch of white miso for the salinity."
"Or we use the broth."
"Absolutely not."
"It is objectively better."
"It is objectively made from bones."
"Wyvern bones. Wyverns are barely sentient."
"Wyverns play chess, Boris."
"Badly."
"We're using the dashi."
He stirs the pot. A muscle twitches in his jaw. The wooden spoon scrapes the copper in slow, deliberate circles.
"Split the batch," he says. "Half dashi. Half broth. Let the judges decide."
"That's two dishes. The rules say one."
"Then we layer. Dashi as the primary liquid. A single tablespoon of broth folded in at the finish for depth."
I see the pot. The vegetables swim in the dark, fragrant liquid. One tablespoon. A whisper of the original. Enough to round the edges without betraying the philosophy.
"One tablespoon. Measured. Not your a soup-ladle sized tablespoon."
"Agreed."
Something clicks. Not just in the recipe. In the kitchen itself. The space reshapes around us. His bulk stops being an obstacle and becomes a counterweight. I move fast; he moves steady. I adjust in fractions; he adjusts in whole numbers. The dish deepens.
We add the fire spice. Outdoors this time, on the town hall's back patio, with the rondeau set over a portable burner and nothing flammable within fifteen feet. The spice hits the oil and blooms into a controlled amber glow that hovers an inch above the surface. Cinnamon. Black pepper. Something volcanic.
Back inside. The reduction stage. I'm monitoring viscosity with a spoon, watching the liquid sheet off the back in a slow, even curtain, when Boris reaches across me for the cast iron skillet on the back burner.
"Sear temp is too low. Needs to be screaming."
"It needs to be four-fifty. Controlled. Even."
"Four-fifty won't get a crust on the squash in under ninety seconds. It'll steam. It'll be sad."
"Five hundred will carbonize the sugars and turn the entire sear bitter."
"Orcish squash has twice the sugar density. It can handle the heat."
"This isn't Orcish squash, it's delicata from the farm stand and it will burn at five hundred."
"Four-seventy-five."
"Four-fifty."
His hand closes on the cast iron handle. My hand closes on the same handle. The skillet weighs twelve pounds. It has been sitting on a lit burner for six minutes. The bottom glows a dull, furious red.
"Let go."
"You let go."