The Tales of Minz series is narrated and edited by fictional characters. This short story is set in their whimsical world. Learn more about the series here.
What makes someone a master of their craft?
Common sense would likely direct our attention to the quality of their work. If they’re a woodworker, then the skill with which they carve a figurine with impressive detail—or build a chair, elegant and stylish—determines their mastery. Likewise, if they’re a bard or a storyteller, their performance indicates their mastery (or lack thereof).
This short story flips all of that upside down. It throws common sense out the window and reminds us that the excellent quality of one’s work does not always indicate that individual’s skill or mastery. Sometimes, the master hides behind the subtle guise of mediocrity…
—Barnabas E. Wooldridge
Editor in Chief of the Tales of Minz
Tom’s Tavern is a two-and-a-half-star, hole-in-the-wall eatery found on the Northern Border of Bunlan.
Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to say in the Northern Border of Bunlan instead of on. Prepositions. One needs to use them precisely, otherwise they’ll present the wrong mental picture.
Allow me to help paint the scene for inquisitive minds.
The Northern Border of Bunlan is an impassable, sheer, 1200-foot wall of mountainous stone. It stretches for mile after mile along the eastern coast of Minz, parallel with the rest of the mainland. It’s also several miles thick, and the roots of the mountains run deep into the earthen fold.
Tom’s Tavern was built into the side of that natural, colossal landform after years of sweat, tears, and back-breaking labor. Oh, and plenty of explosives. Those moved the construction process along nicely. Contrary to popular thought, pickaxes only get one so far into a mountain before they can’t be used to delve any deeper.
Now, wait a minute. An observant and cartographically-minded individual might ask themself: If the mountainous wall is on the eastern coast of Minz and it runs parallel with the rest of the central landmass, shouldn’t that make it the Eastern (or Western) Border of Bunlan?
It would be—if the people of Bunlan used the cardinal directions in the same way as the rest of the world. (They’ve got them all backwards but insist that we’ve been making maps improperly since the dawning of the First Age.) Don’t ask a Bunlander for directions unless you know you’ll be talking past each other. Left is right, right is left. What’s up is down and what’s down is up.
Furthermore, the wall of sheer, impassable, mountainous stone forms something of a geological horseshoe around the small but proud nation of Bunlan, protecting it from invaders and tourists alike. Just don’t ask which they dislike more. I’m not sure Bunlanders differentiate the two.
It’s not that the people of Bunlan were historically a nation of isolationists, they simply saw what was going on with the rest of Minz and quietly decided amongst themselves that if anyone—such as the Warlords of Minz—came knocking on their metaphorical door, they’d just pretend they weren’t home.
But this isn’t a story about the fine people of Bunlan or their questionable understanding of the cardinal directions. At least, not directly. It’s a story about a really, really bad sandwich. Inedibly bad for pretty much everyone on the face of Minz.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
This story began by focusing on Tom’s Tavern. Let’s go back there, shall we?
As the sole two-and-a-half-star, hole-in-the-wall eatery found in the Northern Border of Bunlan, Tom’s Tavern had the unique and vitally-important position of being the sole entrance into Bunlan from the north (west). Bunlan can be accessed by the route of the sea and by passage through the air. But there’s only one way into and out of Bunlan through the impassable wall of mountainous stone. That’s by going through Tom’s Tavern.
You see, when the small nation of Bunlan was established in 1232 of the Third Age, the founders realized they needed a way in and out of Bunlan that wasn’t by sea or air from the south (east). They didn’t want to be caught between an impassable wall of mountainous stone and the unforgiving waters of the Serpent Sea.
And so, they tunneled deep into the mountain range surrounding their small nation. They tunneled until their pickaxes gave out, and they had to use explosives and magic to keep going, for miles and miles on end. Until—at last—a way through the mountain was made.
Only problem was, a secret entrance and exit into a rather antisocial, anti-tourism society isn’t so secret if it’s a gaping hole in the side of an impassable mountain range. That’d defeat the purpose altogether. And the people of Bunlan needed to keep their border secure—especially since several warlords were determined to claim Bunlan for themselves.
Their solution? Disguise the only entrance and exit into and out of Bunlan by land as a two-and-a-half-star, hole-in-the-wall eatery: Tom’s Tavern.
Pretty clever, right? Who would think that a tavern with somewhat decent ale and truly terrible food would be the sole gateway to an entire nation? Who would stay past their welcome and snoop around the small tavern to find a trapdoor in the back room leading downa long tunnel of rough hewn-stone—especially after a round of particularly greasy sliders?
Aside from Tom, his cook, and the wait staff, there were always fifteen or so patrons in Tom’s Tavern on any given day. You might think these brave individuals would be steadfast regulars with iron stomachs, but you’d be wrong.
They were the elite members of the Bunlander Guard, sworn to defend the Northern Border of Bunlan at all costs.
Tom, his cook, and, and the wait staff weren’t members of the Bunlander Guard. However, they were sworn to secrecy and were well aware of the risks they ran operating their—er—fine establishment. If one of the Warlords of Minz were to discover what Tom’s Tavern actually was, they’d descend upon it and attempt to kill everyone inside before invading the proud nation of Bunlan.
Of course, at the time of writing this, we’re far removed from the threat of warlords, and Bunlan has opened its borders to trade—and established other eateries within their Northern Border—with the rest of Minz. Tom’s Tavern is no longer a secret entrance, it’s a historically preserved site. (Tourists aren’t allowed there, but patrons can still buy a good, cold ale and get a truly awful meal.)
But this wouldn’t be much of a story if it were told in a time removed from the threat of warlords.
So…
It was a day like any other in 1247 of the Third Age. Practically indistinguishable from the eighty-seven days that came before it in the month of Coland.
Tom stood behind the bar, wiping it down with a slightly dirtied rag. He prided himself on the fact that if he had opened this tavern in a reputable city, the local Health Administration would probably have shut it down almost immediately for multiple, blatantly obvious violations:
Perpetually dirty tables. Mostly unwashed dishes. All food cooked on the same grill top, regardless of a customer’s potential food allergies. Cats not chasing rats away but actually—shockingly—inviting the rodents into the establishment.
It wasn’t that Tom was a slob who didn’t care about appearances. He was actually rather neat and orderly outside of work. Nor was he a horrible business owner. He possessed a brilliant entrepreneurial mind. Nor was he simply a bad cook. He had actually once been the greatest cook in all of Bunlan, lauded as a master culinarian. Once. But no more.
Tom gave all of that up because he was a patriot. He was proud to be a Bunlander. He bled Bunlander purple and orange, and he was proud of the fact that he had owned and operated Tom’s Tavern for the past fifteen years without anyone suspecting what it actually was.
Sure, the scathing reviews left by food critics in the Minz Times were disappointing and rather hurtful, especially for a cook of his caliber, and few people ever patronized the tavern twice, but Tom wasn’t supposed to be looking for regulars to grow his business and turn a profit. He was supposed to look for the ambiguous invisibility of mediocrity and go largely unnoticed.
See, Tom had to walk the fine line between running an establishment that was bad enough for people not to come back again, but not so memorably or noticeably bad that people would be intrigued by the eatery and drawn to it in an oddly fascinated sort of way. Tom walked that line with all the skill of a classically trained tightrope walker.
But even classically trained tightrope walkers can waver and lose their balance. All it takes is one misstep to fall.
If Tom was being honest with himself, he was slipping. A little more positive recognition for his tavern couldn’t hurt, right? Maybe one or two favorable reviews? He knew what was doing, but that didn’t make it any easier when Tom’s Tavern was review-bombed as, and I quote, “one of the worst two-and-a-half-star, hole-in-the-wall eateries in the eastern hemisphere of Minz—don’t go there unless you want food poisoning.”
Wanting good reviews for his business seemed harmless enough, but Tom was beginning to forget that the reviews needed to be bad. Otherwise, someone might find out what the small eatery was hiding. Namely, the sole entrance to an entire nation.
The eighty-eighth day in the month of Coland was nearly in the books—Tom was about to write it in and then close the ledger—when the door to Tom’s Tavern opened, and one of the Forty-Seven Warlords of Minz tromped inside.
The warlord was bald, save for a braided ponytail. Dark tattoos of sigils and arcane symbols adorned the rest of her skull like an inky helmet. Her glowering expression could have killed her foes and saved her the trouble of doing it herself. More tattoos covered the woman’s upper arms, and a jagged greatsword was strapped to the back of her dented black-and-red plate armor. As she strode toward the bar, her heavy boots made crunching noises against the stone floor (which was littered with peanut shells that Tom had yet to sweep up).
Now, how did Tom know that this woman was one of the Forty-Seven Warlords? Couldn’t she have been just another random sellsword trying to make her way through the land?
Tom knew because the nation of Bunlan had a network of spies and an intelligence system that put the storied spies of legend who reputedly belonged to the High King’s Eyes, Ears, and Nose to shame. Of course, Minz no longer had a High King, so that particular spy network had allegedly disbanded centuries ago. But perhaps some of their descendants made their way over to Bunlan…
Regardless, the Bunlan spy network kept tabs on the Forty-Seven Warlords of Minz at all times—which was no small feat, what with the constant fighting, backstabbing, and assassinations. Updated sketches of the warlords were distributed to the “patrons” and staff of Tom’s Tavern regularly and were memorized promptly.
So,Tom knew, even though the warlord didn’t bother to introduce herself to him, that she was Shayleigh of the Jagged Keep (the Jagged Keep being a bastion not too far away from which she sent out roving bands of bandits to terrorize, pillage, and plunder the nearby towns and villages). She had a fearsome reputation—a dangerous, dangerous woman, not known for her patient and compassionate disposition. Like many of the warlords, she was known for… other characteristics instead. What she was doing out here all by herself with none of her vanguard, Tom hadn’t the faintest idea.
He later found out that she considered herself something of a food connoisseur and was going around to the local establishments to decide which ones were worth extorting money from.
“A cold ale and a hot meal, barkeep,” the woman barked. She glanced over at the other patrons in the tavern, paused, and then dismissed them. “I’ve heard the food here can be terrible. For your sake, I hope that’s not true. Give me something good or I’ll kill you and everyone in this sorry place. And make it quick—I’m starving.”
“Certainly.” To his credit, Tom didn’t immediately break a sweat under the threat of possible disembodiment, potential disembowelment, and certain death. He threw the towel over his shoulder, grabbed a tankard, and turned to fill it from one of the kegs behind the bar, angling the tankard to keep the ale from foaming too much. He put the warlord’s drink in front of her and began making his way over to the kitchen. “The first round is on the house while you wait,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll bring out your meal shortly.”
Tom had already sent Clarence (the cook) home for the night. And the wait staff too. The tavern had been dead all night, and Tom hadn’t thought anyone else from the nearby city of Grelagma would stop by. Clarence and his coworkers were likely already halfway home to Grelagma. Farther if they were walking quickly. But it wasn’t as if Tom could run and get them to come back. He would have to do this himself.
Now, Tom had once been the best cook in all of Bunlan. But ever since he opened his eatery, he had forced himself to be a bad cook. Atrocious, even. Worse than Clarence. And Clarence had no sense of taste whatsoever and used exorbitant amounts of spices and seasonings whimsically.
The only problem was, if Tom cooked a terrible meal, Shayleigh of the Jagged Keep would add him to her lengthy list of brutally murdered victims. Tom very much preferred to stay off that list. But if he cooked too good a meal, rumors might start to spread. Maybe Tom’s Tavern was turning itself around. Maybe people would start showing up in droves to try the food for themselves. That would be a very, very bad thing.
To be honest, Tom wasn’t even sure he had it in him to cook a good meal. Terrible was the only type of meal he knew how anymore. Once an artist has practiced their style so often it becomes second nature, it can be next to impossible for them to create something in any other form—even if they were once a virtuoso in that art form.
Well, Tom would have to attempt the impossible. He would have to remember what he had forced himself to forget. There was only one critic’s review that mattered tonight, and her hopefully lukewarm reaction to his cooking would be a matter of life and death. The stakes didn’t get much higher than that.
Tom was sweating even before he stoked the embers in the grill and added more kindling to feed their flames.
He had been in dangerous situations before; he’d had a few close calls at Tom’s Tavern over the past fifteen years. That was simple statistics. Things were bound to happen. But this was something else entirely. The meal he was preparing right now would change… everything. Tom wasn’t an intuitive or superstitious man, but he felt that in his bones. He was about to cook a somewhat decent, good meal with skills long abandoned. Intentionally abandoned. And he had to do it with rather abysmal ingredients and utensils.
Tom grabbed a handful of moderately fresh ground beef from the back room and plopped it on the grill top. He then dumped a heap of salt and pepper on the beef before pressing it into a sizzling oval-shaped disk. Taking a hunk of stale bread from the counter, Tom halved it and slathered the pieces with heavily unsalted butter. The two halves soon joined the beef on the grill.
Next, Tom gagged as he carved a thin slice of somewhat moldy cheese from a large wheel that he’d had since opening Tom’s Tavern, scraped off the mold, and threw that on the beef, which was just beginning to brown on one side.
Clarence had forgotten to wash his dishes before leaving for the night—again—but Tom wasn’t upset. He never was, but especially not tonight. One of the bowls still had some sweet-and-sour-smelling sauce in it. Tom could use that.
Tom found some mushrooms in a drawer, chopped them up with a knife he thought might be clean, and then tossed them into the sauce bowl. Once all of the mushrooms were coated with the sauce, Tom put them on the grill too. That might have been a mistake. He immediately started coughing as the sauce reacted chemically with the heat and created a steamy, greenish vapor that burned his eyes and lungs when he breathed it in.
A few minutes later, Tom woke up on the floor with a pounding headache and a large bump on the back of his head. Sitting up, seeing stars, he glanced at the assorted food cooking on the grill and decided the warlord’s supper was ready. More or less. He nearly passed out again when he smelled the sandwich.
Would it be both good and bad enough? It’d have to be. It was now or never.
Tom put the toasted bread—slightly burned—on a plate. Next went the medium-rare beef and molten cheese before topping the sandwich off with the caramelized mushroom concoction. A little pickle wedge on the side really tied the meal’s presentation together nicely, in Tom’s opinion.
He brought out the warlord’s supper and placed it on the bar in front of her with a nonchalant grunt (which was really just him trying not to breathe in the noxious fumes). “Here. The Tom’s Tavern special.”
A perceptive individual might have noticed that the fifteen or so other patrons in Tom’s Tavern that night were doing a very good job of pretending not to be interested in what was happening at the bar. An even more perceptive individual might have even noticed that several of them were already holding sharp and wicked throwing knives underneath tables, ready to hurl them at a moment’s notice. Shayleigh of the Jagged Keep wouldn’t be the first—nor last—warlord to die at the end of a Bunlan blade.
But killing warlords was a messy business, and no one in Tom’s Tavern wanted to shed blood unnecessarily. They’d wait and see what the warlord thought of Tom’s cooking. Then they’d act accordingly.
Shayleigh had already finished her first mug of ale, so Tom filled it up again. (He later learned from one of the Bunlander Guard that she had gone behind the bar and filled it up eight times whilst he was passed out in the kitchen.) Maybe she wouldn’t taste the sandwich as much if she had another ale or two.
The warlord eyed the sandwich like she was getting ready to attack it in a dark alleyway. She sniffed it experimentally, wrinkled her nose, and then, without a word, dug in with terrifying gusto.
Tom gaped. He watched with a horrified expression as Shayleigh of the Jagged Keep ate her supper in three gigantic bites and then washed it all down with her tankard of ale. Tom didn’t even have time to fear for his life.
Did the warlord look green, or was that just Tom’s imagination?
Shayleigh slammed the empty tankard on the bar top and smacked her lips appreciatively. There was a moment of silence, then she stood, slapped a few silver Coppers down, and slid them over to Tom. “Thanks,” she grunted as she headed for the tavern door. “You can keep the change—and your life.”
“Uh, wait,” Tom stammered before he realized he was pushing his luck. “How was it?”
The warlord paused in the open doorway, letting in the Coland night. She didn’t turn back. “I’ve had worse, but I’ve also had better. I won’t be back again,” she said. Without another word, she disappeared into the darkness of the night, leaving Tom standing there, dumbfounded.
Then, when the warlord did not return with her greatsword drawn, ready to turn Tom’s Tavern into a bloodbath, the humble proprietor of the tavern breathed a sigh of relief. His fifteen or so patrons did the same, sheathing their weapons and relaxing at last.
After a round of nervous laughter and another round of drinks, the disguised members of the Bunlander Guard left the tavern, heading back to their homes in the nearby town of Grelagma. They’d return tomorrow morning when the tavern reopened.
Tom closed up, locking the door and snuffing out the candles. He left the floor unswept and the tables uncleared. That was a job for tomorrow—or some other day. While Tom worked, he reflected on the warlord’s parting words. They rang in his ears. I’ve had worse, but I’ve also had better… I won’t be back again.
The fearsome warlord wouldn’t be a regular. That was a blessed relief. Nor would she go around telling anyone to get the special at Tom’s Tavern. Instead, she’d likely never give the small two-and-a-half-star, hole-in-the-wall eatery a second thought.
And Tom? Well, Tom now remembered the vital importance of his many years of hard work. He remembered that good reviews didn’t matter. Bad ones were far more preferable, even if they tarnished his reputation. Because that meant the tavern—and its secret tunnel—remained hidden in the ambiguous invisibility of mediocrity. The Northern Border of Bunlan remained secure. His people remained safe—free of tourists and invaders alike.
Little did Shayleigh of the Jagged Keep know, her lukewarm review was the best she could have possibly given for the two-and-a-half-star, hole-in-the-wall eatery. Not great; not terrible. Mediocre at best.
Just as the proprietor of Tom’s Tavern intended it to be. If that’s not the work of a master culinarian, I don’t know what is.
