Most people in town don’t ask Dolce for much of anything beyond whatever’s cooking. That’s just how it works. There’s what’s on the stove, or in the pot, and he’ll see to whatever little ones and elderly you’ve got who need something a little different. But Mayor Kaspar now, he’s very good at asking for his finest, probably because he practices asking everyone in Beri once a month. And everybody in Beri is very good at bringing him their finest, because if they try to bring their second finest, then the soldiers will come and take their first and third finest as punishment. Their fourth too, if they give them trouble. 

When Mayor Kaspar decides to ask more than once a month, you have to get creative about it.

“Of course, sir. Just a moment…” A bow of the head, a straightening of the apron, and off he goes. There’s more to a chef’s finest than raw ingredients, you see. There is time. There is attention. There is [i]presentation.[/i] The same ingredients that make a serviceable breakfast pile can also make an omelet. The same honey that you toss your fruit salad in can be artfully drizzled atop it in a flowing cursive K. On the proper setting of plates and bowls, with shiny plated utensils, a folded napkin, and a chef hand-delivering the lot, even the humblest of meals can seem a feast.

And Mayor Kaspar has a little more practice asking than appraising. 

Once he is served, his guards are next. Each will get a hearty breakfast pile, served in fine crabshell bowls. Light enough not to dent anything when thrown, sturdy enough to add a few chips to their swords.

Then, there is waiting. With no waiter, a chef will have to make do.