Rain had passed in the night.
The air carried that clean smell, sharp at the edges, softened by the heat that lingered from the day before.
I set the board in place before the counter. Yesterday's chalk still marked River Herb Broth at the bottom. I wiped it with the side of my hand. The green stain it had left was almost a shame to erase.
Today's dish was already in my head before the kettle rang.
Flatbread... thin, crisp at the edges, soft at the fold. I had bought a sack of smoke peppers from the spice woman in the east lane two days ago. She had sworn the heat would wake a man faster than any tea, but it would not burn the tongue unless you lied while eating it.
[Kitchen Ledger] Daily Dish Boon (Stall Arc, 1★ cap)
New Dish: Smoke Pepper Flatbread (1★)
Boon: Sweet Truth (1★ · 1 hr) — honest words taste sweeter, lies taste bitter; paid plates only.
I liked the sound of that. Some people needed the nudge.
Dough came first. Flour in the bowl, water just enough to make it hold. My palms turned it, pressed it, folded it. The peppers I sliced thin, their red skin curling as they hit the air. They carried the scent of woodsmoke and far roads.
The stove's red seal caught the heat the moment I set the pan. The dough hissed at the touch, rising in small bubbles. I pressed the peppers into the surface, brushed them with oil, turned the bread once. Crisp edges. Warm middle.
The first customer was a girl in dock worker's stripes. She leaned her elbows on the counter, coins already in hand.
"What's the new one?"
I nodded at the board.
She grinned. "I could use that."
She bit into the flatbread while still standing there. Her eyes closed for half a breath.
"You make it hard to lie," she said, and laughed as she walked off.
A mason's crew came next, three men and a woman, all with dust still on their boots.
Two took Crown Rice, one took Mint Tea, and the foreman pointed at the flatbread.
He ate slow, chewing each bite as if thinking of what to say.
When the cup was empty, he looked at the woman in his crew and said, "I'll be late home. Taking the wall job."
She blinked, then smiled like she already knew.
Between orders, I kept the board tidy. The old dishes moved steady — Moon Salt Rice for a man in festival silks, Fire Crisp Dumplings for the boy from the print shop who claimed he was ahead of schedule again.
The peppers kept drawing people in.
A cloth merchant, his voice worn from bargaining, bought one and told me halfway through that his best work never made him this honest.
An old woman with a small basket took one, sat at the corner stool, and told me more about her late husband than I had asked.
The wind brought other smells from the market... sharp vinegar from the pickle cart, frying fish from the quay road, the faint scent of ink from the sign painter's booth. It also brought a stranger with pale hair and a leather satchel.
"One flatbread," he said.
His coin was true. He ate without speaking, then put the last piece down.
"You keep the truth here," he said. "That's rare."
"Only for an hour," I told him.
"An hour's enough for some things." He left before I could ask what things.
By midmorning, the counter was a tide of faces I knew and faces I didn't.
The river guard who had come for tea last week was back, this time for Fire Crisp Dumplings.
A quiet couple shared a Moon Salt Rice and spoke so low I could barely catch the sound. The steam between them curled once and held.
The peppers were down by half before noon. The flatbreads were turning more golden at the edges, the scent sharper as the last slices hit the heat. I watched people eat them... some leaning in with curiosity, others pausing as the taste pushed them toward words they hadn't planned to share.
A boy no older than twelve came up with a half-mended satchel.
"One flatbread," he said, setting down copper in a neat stack.
He took one bite, looked at me, and said, "I took a book from the guild. I'm bringing it back."
The words seemed to surprise him as much as me.
"That's a good choice," I told him.
He nodded once and left at a run.
The noon rush brought a press of festival crews, sleeves rolled, paint still on their hands. They took anything hot... Crown Rice, Dumplings, River Herb Broth, and more flatbread until the pan stayed hot without rest. The peppers popped faintly as they cooked, adding a hiss to the market's noise.
Some came for the effect, others just for the taste. A coin-counter from the merchant guild told me openly he had been cooking the books and wanted to stop.
A young couple decided they would marry before the month turned.
An apprentice carpenter told his master he had taken extra wood for a project of his own. The master laughed and said he'd help.
Near the back of the line, two street performers waited... a flute player with a red scarf and a juggler with silver rings. They ordered one flatbread to split. Between bites, they began planning their act for the evening, speaking honestly about the mistakes they kept making.
"That turn you do near the end? You drop it half the time," the juggler said.
The flutist laughed and agreed. "Then we'll change the end."
Not long after, a tired mother with a baby on her hip bought a flatbread. She ate standing, the baby reaching for the edges. By the last bite, she sighed and said, "I'm going to tell my sister I can't take her shifts anymore." The relief on her face was almost as warm as the bread.
By midafternoon, I had only a handful of peppers left.
A trader from the northern coast stopped by, his boots leaving wet marks on the stone. He took the last of the dumplings and a flatbread.
"This pepper," he said, after the first bite. "We grow something like it, but ours doesn't make a man speak truth."
"It's the way it's cooked," I said.
He nodded like he believed me, though I could tell he didn't know if that was the truth or not.
The last serving went to the dock worker girl who had bought the first.
"Thought I'd end the day the same way I started it," she said.
She ate in silence, leaning on the counter.
When the last bite was gone, she left a tip without words and walked out into the light.
The pan still held their shadow, a dark print where the heat had touched them.
I cleaned it slow, the scent of smoke still in my hands. Tomorrow would bring another dish, another effect, another mark on the board.
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[Kitchen Ledger] Dish Boon, today: Sweet Truth (1★ · 1 hr) — paid Smoke Pepper Flatbread only.