The air carried that faint bite that comes before rain. Not the heavy promise of a storm, just that cool edge that brushes the skin and makes the stones smell sharper. Lantern light lingered on the street even after dawn, caught in the hanging mist, giving the cobbles a softer shape.
I lifted the stall canvas early. The motion pulled the scent of brine out into the street... clean, sharp, bright against the dull smell of stone and old dust.
The new dish went on the board in the same careful hand as the others, under Moon Salt, Fire Crisp Dumplings, River Herb Broth, and Smoke Pepper Flatbread. No decoration, no marks, just chalk and the truth.
Garden Pickle Bowl.
> [Kitchen Ledger] Daily Dish Boon (Stall Arc, 1★ cap)
New Dish: Garden Pickle Bowl (1★)
Boon: True Taste (1★ · 1 hr) — first bite tells the eater if a food or drink is spoiled, tainted, or false; paid bowls only.
The jars had been ready since before the street woke. I'd packed them at dawn while the kettle hummed low and the dumpling pan warmed slow. Not just cucumber and radish, but carrot cut thin, young ginger with its pale bite, green beans still bright from the blanch, and daikon shaved into coins. Each had their own cure... salted plum for the beans, mustard seed for the carrots, rice vinegar for the cucumber, light brine for the radish, and ginger root steep for the daikon.
Laid in a circle on the rice, each slice sat like a piece of a turning wheel... one spoke sharp, one mellow, one sweet, one bitter, one warm with spice. The colors caught the eye without shouting.
The brine scent sat clean in the morning air, sharp enough to cut through the dumpling smoke and the river-herb steam. The jars felt cool when I lifted them, a weight that promised patience kept well.
The first customers were dock crew, two men with rope marks on their palms and sleeves still damp from the morning haul. They stood together, eyes on the board. One tapped the bottom line with a blunt finger.
"That one," he said. No question about the price.
The Time Kettle gave me perfect rice, loose and steaming. I laid the pickles in their wheel, each wedge touching the next. A pinch of Moon Salt sat at the center like a small sun.
The man ate before stepping away. One chew and he stopped. His eyes shifted, like he was listening to something only he could hear.
"That's fresh," he said at last.
"That's the point," I told him.
The boon was quiet. No glow, no hum, no smoke curling out of nowhere. Just a clean, undeniable truth slipped into the eater's mind... the kind of truth you couldn't forget even if you wanted to.
The second order came from a clerk in a dark waistcoat. Careful shoes, careful voice. He paired the pickle bowl with River Herb Broth. One taste of the broth and his brows pulled together.
Not because I'd spoiled it... the pot was steady, herbs balanced... but because the taste matched the water in his jug at home, and he finally noticed the faint sour at the edge. The boon had pulled the memory into the front of his mouth. He set his spoon down.
"That's not you," he said.
"Then change your water," I said.
He nodded, tight, and left a coin for the tip jar.
Midmorning brought the crate men who had once sworn an Oath Bowl debt over dumplings. Their laughter was easy until the first took a bite of pickles. He glanced at the second.
"You'll be checking every keg now," the second said.
"Better to know," the first replied.
Orders stacked. Dumplings with broth. Flatbread with tea. Moon Salt over rice. Pickle bowls wrapped in wax paper for the road.
The boy from the print shop came with ink still on his fingers. Two days ago he'd tried flatbread. Yesterday, Moon Salt tea. Today, a coin slid across the counter and his eyes went to the new line.
One bite, then stillness. "The milk's bad at home," he said softly. "My sister's been sick all week."
"Don't let her drink it," I told him.
He nodded, wrapping the rest to take with him.
The ledger stayed still in my head. I didn't need it to tell me when a dish worked. The street faces told me enough.
Rain threatened but held off. The crowd shifted in its usual rhythm... dock hands early, shop clerks near midday, market sellers in short breaks, the odd traveler between them.
An older woman came for River Herb Broth and Fire Crisp Dumplings, smiling at the steam as though it were an old friend. The kettle purred, the dumplings hissed.
Then a stranger came... boots clean, coat worn. His eyes took in the jars before the board. He ordered the Garden Pickle Bowl and nothing else.
He ate one bite and watched me. "This is clean," he said. "You'd be surprised how many stalls can't say that."
"I'm not surprised," I said.
He leaned a little closer. "Boil your water twice. And watch the barrels from the east quay." Then he left.
Late afternoon carried the kind of stillness that comes before a change in weather. The light grew thin without dimming, as if the street had been painted in softer colors.
A pair of boatwomen stopped by for dumplings and broth, a pickled carrot wedge shared between them with a grin. A tailor's apprentice bought flatbread for his master and tucked the wrapped bundle under his arm like a parcel.
By closing time, the jars were nearly empty. Twenty-three pickle bowls gone, thirty-four dumpling plates, twelve flatbreads, broth enough to keep the kettle light. Every paid pickle bowl carried its boon, some quietly, some sharp enough to halt a hand mid-bite.
I wiped the board clean except for the names. The Garden Pickle Bowl stayed at the bottom, chalk bright.
> [Kitchen Ledger] Dish Boon, today: True Taste (1★ · 1 hr) — paid Garden Pickle Bowl only.
Tomorrow, another name would join it.
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