he throws spaghetti on the wall to see what sticks
No one really knows where this guy came from. One minute, Rhin and Pippin were playing rock/papyrus/daggers over which of them had kitchen duty and the next- there he was. He was short. Very short. His features were indistinguishable under a huge white turban-like hat and bristly mustache. Further indistinguishable was his language. He garbled, he murmured, he slurred. No specific language or accent could be discerned from his marble mouth. But every day, without fail, if your stomach rumbled he’d be around the bend with some strange looking and delicious smelling convection. Even more strangely, whatever he would present would satisfy cravings you didn’t even know you had. Coq au vin, beef wellington, your grandmother’s chicken noodle soup, roasted beet salad with mustard greens and goat cheese… where did he even get the ingredients?
It didn’t seem to matter. He was our chef, whomever he was. And we loved him.