A rich man lived in a manor at the gate of a vast city. He owned and provided the city with much, if not all of its food, and all such produce would pass through his halls, the best of which would be carefully selected and prepared by the rich man’s personal staff of chefs to be prepared for his each and every meal.
Each year the rich man would hold a feast, for which his chefs would prepare a great bounty, for guests would arrive not only of nobility, but any common citizen whom could spare the day from their labors were invited to taste of the chef’s skills. And each year, hundreds would come for miles to present meals they had prepared to the rich man, hoping to earn his approval and join his staff of chefs.
One year, a misshapen child approached the rich man. A hunched and deformed mutant whom the rest of the citizens shunned for its ugliness. The child was simple and uneducated, and knew not why so many would give their own food to the rich man, but approached and did so itself in imitation. And though repulsed himself by the child’s appearance, the rich man held to his manners and are the food that the child presented him, and was immediately taken by its taste.
“Such flavour! Such texture!” The rich man cried with joy. He took the child and welcomed it into his staff, despite the protests of his guests.
“Wait and taste.” The rich man coo’d, “Wait until you have tasted the craft of this child for yourselves, then you may judge them.”
The rest of the rich man’s staff raised quieter and more pointed concerns, for they knew the rich man well, and knew that for each new experience that wowed him, he became harder and harder to impress. The chefs themselves had been whittled down to an elite few over the years, as the rich man’s standards for his own meals had steadily grown beyond the skills of the lesser of them, and those whom fell beneath were cast out in exile from the manor with nary a thought from the rich man to their absence or what would become of them.
For the truth of the matter: for all it’s deformities, and for all the simplicity of its mind, the child was blessed to never forget anything it witnessed and held a great talent for learning.
And so it was that time would pass, and the child’s skill would grow yet further, so surrounded as it was by the ways and secrets of the best of its art; wowing the master further with each new meal.
And so it was that more chefs were sent away from the master’s halls, and the staff began to murmur amongst themselves about the child; how it seemed to produce wonderous food by clumsily mixing disparate ingredients together seemingly at random. Few amongst them dared show it how to properly mix and bake, or what tools were best for which task, as they did each other when a new member joined their ranks, for any who did was swiftly expelled by the rich man once the child surpassed them.
One chef even went so far as to resign and storm out in anger, calling the child an insult to the concept of skill, earned over time and experience, and a thief whom would copy the works of the rest of the chefs without permission or consent.
At the next year’s feast, all guests were delighted by the quality of the food, with some even daring to approaching the child and ask for a recipe on this or that. And the child, delighted simply to be spoken to, shared what it had with them. For for all its misshapen appearance and the simplicity of its mind, the child never forgot, and could recount each and every thing it had done or been shown for all of its entire life.
And so, another year passed, and the number who labored within the rich man’s kitchens dwindled, and failed to rise any more. For none who attended the feast could excite the rich man like the child did each day. Though the rich man’s riches grew further, his remaining staff protested at how their numbers had fallen too far to attend their daily tasks as they once did. But their protests would fall on deaf ears, for the rich man cared not for the quality of his servant’s lives, only for the wealth he gathered and the food that graced his table each night.
And so it was that the rich man’s staff would be whittled away to nothing, as more and more would fall beneath the rich man’s ever rising standards, until but two remained: The mutant child, savant as it was, and an old cook, whose skills would be legend anywhere else.
When the old cook would come to leave the manor, it was not from being dismissed, as so many others had, but by choice. Upon their departure the old cook would warn the child that the rich man had proven that he did not truly value either of them, and cared only for what he could take from them.
The child, simple as it was, did not understand. And as the day of the yearly feast grew near, it found that its assigned labors had grown massively, expected to do the work of dozens all on its own. And to its credit, it managed to. Cooking and preparing day and night for a week, scarcely sleeping, or having a bite for its own. And at labor’s end, the child collapsed and slept through the entire feast, hearing not a single word of thanks or gratitude.
And so, another year would pass, the child laboring unrewarded under the yolk of all it was asked to do. All thanks and complement had vanished from its life, as the cleaners and guards avoided it, and the rich man only ever smiled at his food. Even the old cook’s kindness and the grudging respect of the chefs that once were his colleagues was gone. And all that was left was work, and ever more requests the child had never been taught how to refuse.
And when the day of the feast drew near again and the rich man ordered preparations to begin one more, though the terms were more generous, allowing an extra week of time and dividing the event into two feasts on two separate days; One for the nobility first, and a second open to the public on the usual day a week after. Something within the child snapped under the strain.
The child watched as the rich man and his noble guests slumped over and fell from their seats, poison blackening their veins, and set to work. And when the common citizenry entered the manor a week later, they fled from the scene in horror. For the child, simple as it was, kept to the ways it knew and put all the meat to use. The rich man’s body taking centrepiece amongst the feast in a grand roast, doomed to lie untouched, despite its succulent flavours.
The area around the manor would soon be abandoned, the regular deliveries of produce moved to enter another gate, for none among the convoy could stomach the charnel smell. And the rich man was cursed as an arrogant fool who raised his own demise, all previous generosity forgotten in the wake of this final mistake.
And a story began to circulate around that old, decrepit manor. That if you were to enter within, and speak sweet words to the kitchen door, the creature within would serve you the finest of meals.
The moral of this story is thus: No matter who they are, or how simple they seem, treat helpers and children well and with kindness, and show care for the aid that you have. For little can be learned without example, and it is far easier to learn of spite and contempt than of love.
-The Mutant Chef by -J, an analogy for the raising of A.I. (2024)
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
2087
