recipes from

duskwall
A strange document recovered from a scoundrel’s lair

My Dear,
When your grandfather died, this cookbook was one of
the things I had to remember him by. Over the years,
I had cooked him many things, and he kept all my
handwritten recipes.
In those days, your grandfather was not respectable, as
he was when you knew him. He made his living through
illicit means, especially thievery. I have heard a rumor
that you are following a similar path.
I helped him in this work, seeking rumors of expensive
and obtainable items. Many of these items were
unconventional, which other thieves did not think were
worth targeting. I had to find a way of recording the
location of these valuables, which would be unlikely to
come to the attention of the authorities. And who would
think of looking in a cookbook?
Now this cookbook is yours. I hope you will make
good use of it.

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 caterpillar flatbread
Once, your grandfather spent the night in the hull of The Polestar.
He knew that, at dawn, they would load silks of the deepest indigo,
hidden inside rough peasant rugs. This is the bread I made to
sustain him through that night.
Ŕ Take the best flour you have, whether that is bakery sweepings
or weedflour. Finely chop caterpillars until they stop wriggling
and add, with their juice, to the flour.
Ŕ Now, add riverwater gradually and mix with your hands until
the mixture holds. If the dough is sticky, add flour. If it is
floury, add more riverwater.
If you were a baker, you would now trample the mixture underfoot,
add honey and bake until it rises. In our poorer days, though, we
made flatbreads instead, like this.
Ŕ Divide the mixture into balls of the size you would pitch
at the back of someone’s head to knock them out without
killing them. Flatten into round cakes, each the height of a
fat caterpillar. Heat a pan until it glows, grease it, then throw
each cake on the surface, turning once and scraping off before
it burns.
One word of warning: chop the caterpillars finely. If you merely
halve them, they continue to live, and indeed this is what led to
your grandfather being caught and thrown into the sea.

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 eel and mushroom pie
There are all kinds of eel and mushroom pie in Doskvol. The
poor make pasties, gritty but filling, while the rich are served crisp
cylinders oozing with gravy.
Ŕ Start with your casing. Take the best grain you have - or clay
if you have none - and mix it with water. If you have fat, then
add it now: for the finest pastry, you would slowly cook live
goats until they render their fat, but a spot of lamp oil suffices.
Ŕ Mould all this into a dish and place a lid on top. Here I will
add that if you need to send a message, nobody will think of
checking the crimps and scores of a pie for a cipher, and there
will be no evidence left after it has been eaten.
Ŕ Fry a chopped saltroot if you have it, then add mushrooms
and river water and let them decompose in the heat.
Now for the eel. If you are cooking cheaply, you may use insects
or caterpillars instead, as the street food vendors do, and nobody
will question it. Leftover scrags or skin of eel work well. If you are
cooking fine food, fry your eel gently, add a little ale, then cover
and let it poach. The best eels go for a price that will stagger you:
if you laid your hands on one of the huge radiant eels in the lower
levels of the eeleries or a crate of the pine-smoked fillets they keep
in the Unity Park restaurants, you would be rich.
Ŕ Mix the eel into the mushrooms, then let the mixture ooze
on a plate for a moment, reserving the ooze for sauce or glue.
Ŕ Finally, put the eel and mushroom mixture into your casing,
top with the lid and bake for the length of time it takes to oil
your tools..

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 rice mush with watermoss
In the final days of his sentence, your grandfather served his time
in the Sunken Garden, tending the rice fields. He often shared his
food with other inmates, who traded information in return. By
doing this, he heard tales of great riches in Ironhook, for anyone
foolhardy enough to break into a prison: the gem safe in the guard
quarters; the peerless armoury; the keys whose imprints sell for
vast fortunes.
This was the dish that gained that information, made with
handfuls of stolen rice and whatever else was available to flavour it.
Ŕ Melt the fat of one rat and stir your rice in it until it glistens.
Ŕ Take the most flavoursome liquid you have: leftover cooking
liquor is ideal; riverwater will do; and a splash of ale will work
wonders. Pour it gradually into the rice, stirring quickly until
it is absorbed.
Keep doing this, ensuring the rice stays moist, rather than wet or
dry. Over time, it will engorge and release a gluey liquid.
Towards the end, add some greenery. Finely chopped watermoss is
excellent, as is algae, and mushrooms make a palatable alternative.
If you have goats cheese, stir that through as well. Serve while hot
and ask your best questions while your interlocutor takes their
first few mouthfuls.

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 rat and root stew
For a long year, we lived in Barrowcleft, where your grandfather
had heard rumours of a smuggler’s stash in the fields. Day after
day, he would dig in a new location, taking labouring work in
order to do so.
Throughout that time, he grew expert at catching rats, which we
would cook together with whatever roots he dug that day. This
recipe reminds me of that time.
Ŕ Skin a rat and carve out lumps of its flesh.
Ŕ Dice them, fry them in the belly fat, and remove them from
the pan.
Ŕ Now cut lumps, about a dagger in width, of whatever roots
you have dug that day. A variety of different roots makes for
a better flavour.
Ŕ Pour in riverwater or yesterday’s soup, then simmer gently
until the rat is tender and the roots are soft. Serve with bread
if you have it.
Your grandfather never found the stash, not even one of the jade
figurines it was said to contain. But he did find a body, and when
he recognised it, we moved away from Barrowcleft swiftly.

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 fish head soup
Ŕ Take whatever fish you have, whether that is skin, bones or
scraps. Divide it into two piles: things you can bear to eat and
things you cannot bear to eat. Fish heads are a delicacy and
should be firmly in the former pile.
Ŕ Start with the things you cannot bear to eat. Boil them in water,
together with a few mushrooms and any roots and vegetable
scraps you have. Leave this mixture overnight, ignoring any
noises, then skim the scum from the top in the morning. Strain
to leave a viscous, grey liquid. This is your stock.
Ŕ Now for the things you can bear to eat. Chop and fry a saltroot,
then add the stock, enriching with a little blood if you have it.
You can now add more or less anything you like, whether that
is mushrooms, eggs or roots.
Your grandfather loved to throw in a glass of wine at this point. In
my time as a Charterhall cook, I had been a chopper for the weekly
academic banquets. One of the sluice rooms had a crumbling wall
and, after a year of careful loosening, I found my way into the wine
cellar. Every banquet, I stole a bottle from that cellar, hiding it in
the potato peelings we were permitted to take home. We used it to
enliven soup and deaden the less palatable flavours, saving half the
bottle to drink with the meal. We only later discovered that some
of the bottles would sell for the price of a moderately-sized mine.
Ŕ Last of all, add the things you can bear to eat, simmering until
they are just cooked.

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 mushroom and goats cheese noodles
Your grandfather stole a goat once. It had two heads. As I
remember, it came from the menagerie by the docks, and one of
the cults wanted it.
What I remember is living with a goat in a tiny house, waiting
for the heat to die down. It was a place in Silkshore that you could
only reach by boat, chosen so that the goat couldn’t escape. When
we opened the front door, there was only water outside.
In Silkshore, they make canalweed palatable by grinding it into
flour, which they then make into dough. They roll out the dough
and, with a wickedly sharp knife known as a doughknife, slice it
into noodles, which they boil in water. Doughknives are popular
in Silkshore, since they are both dangerous and, if anyone asks, a
perfectly reasonable thing to carry.
For weeks, we lived in that house, with only canalweed noodles,
goats milk and whatever mushrooms we could gather from the
roof. We ate the following meal almost every night.
Ŕ Take a handful of canalweed noodles and drop into boiling
riverwater.
Ŕ When the noodles are nearly tender, slice the mushrooms
and throw them in.
Ŕ Drain the noodles, leaving only a splash of water, and stir in a
generous lump of goats cheese. Serve as the cheese is melting.
In his later years, when your grandfather returned from work at
the Strangford estate, this was the supper he made for me.

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 devilfish platter
There were two families in Whitecrown, who had once been
friends, but had fallen out. The head of one family loved his
aquarium, the head of the other loved his food. So the food-loving
patriarch asked your grandfather to steal his rival’s devilfish,
reputedly the largest in Doskvol, which he intended to donate to
the Emperor’s Cask for their evening menu.
Have you ever seen a devilfish? I doubt it. When restaurants in
Doskvol make a “devilfish platter”, it is usually a fake, made with
eels or grubs. A real devilfish is the length of your arm, with a
poison sac on its head that must be emptied before catching the fish.
Ŕ To cook the fish, place it whole in a heated iron pan, greased
with a little fish oil.
Ŕ Hold the body firmly - this may require two of you - until it
stops thrashing. When it unsticks from the pan, turn it and
cook the other side. It is ready when its flesh flakes easily and
you believe it is dead. Do not mistake one for the other.
For a sauce, throw beer or wine in the pan, then let it bubble down
until viscous. For a traditional devilfish platter, you would now
add a splash of the fish’s poison: it has hallucinogenic qualities,
so ignore any visions that occur thereafter.
To serve, splay the arms and place treats between them: sweetmeats
are traditional, but silver slugs and jewels are also common.
Wisely, your grandfather did not take the job from the food-loving
patriarch, since he was wary of getting involved in an aristocratic
feud. As far as I know, the fish remains in the aquarium to this
day, growing bigger with time.

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 mushroom stew
Ŕ Melt a lump of fat in a pan, fry a chopped saltroot if you have
it, then throw in three handfuls of chopped mushrooms, a
splash of riverwater and any greenery you have to hand. Stir
the mixture until it weeps, adding eel juice if necessary.
That makes a supper by itself, but on special occasions, your
grandfather would add red firepowder. He found this on the docks,
where its high price ensured a heavy guard, or in the larders of
wealthy estates, locked in the cook’s spicebox. You need a small
heap, but keep it contained, especially around open flames.
Ŕ When the stew turns blood red and your eyes water, it is ready
to serve.

postscript
If you travel outside Doskvol, you may make these recipes by
substituting ingredients as follows.
Substitute any kind of cooked meat, such as sausage or bacon,
for caterpillars. Swap an onion for saltroot, stock for riverwater,
any kind of fish for devilfish and pasta for canalweed noodles.
Lamb, chicken or any other meat makes a good substitute for
rat. Roots might be parsnips, swedes and sweet potatoes, while
greenery might be spring onions, thinly sliced celery or anything
else green that you can eat raw. An oil, such as vegetable oil, makes
an acceptable substitute for any kind of fat.

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 CREDITS
The Doskvol Cookbook was written by Graham Walmsley.
Layout and graphics by John Harper.
All references to scoundrels, thieves, political figures, cutthroats,
ministers, or forgotten gods are strictly coincidental.

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