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[Academy RP] A Resturant in Metztli

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(Note: This short story is written as though Mētztlitlalio is a country on Earth, not Eurth/Europans, as this is a non-canon story. Also the ending’s quality is not as good as the beginning quality because I've been working on this single post on and off for literal weeks and I just lost the passion to work on it, y’know? So I'd rather just be declined and work on a new submission then be unhappy continuously with this submission.)


There was a faint whisper coming from the family sitting at the table besides us. We knew they were murmuring about us in their hushed tone. So was every other Metztli at the restaurant. Our guide, who simply went by Soa, attempted to put us to ease stating that we are most likely the first foreigners to these hermit mountains they had ever seen.


“The closest to a foreigner had seen is a Tapelt, and they do not count much” Soa told us in his broken English. “It is best to be polite and ignore bad comments.”.


We all saw the beads of sweat that had trickled from the man’s forehead, screwing up this close to a contract agreement would most certainly loose him his job. Nonetheless the whispers and quiet tones stung harder and for far longer then any nasty comment could ever achieve. Besides the hushed voices of the Metztlikatl around us, I heard the chattering and laughter of those outside the restaurant, children, adults, any age, with a backtrack of the nearby market place, barterers and sellers in their informal attire of cyan and magenta-red clothing, offering to sell their smoked popoatli to any who heeded their shouting, the pale green colour desecrated by dark greys and light browns from the smoking process. Crimson colour skinned sweet potatoes sold in large mesh nets along with blood brown ceramic bowls of pickled fruits and vegetables ordained by Crescent Bird feathers and talons. Those same Crescent Birds wander the streets outside, most but not all accompanied by their owner, with large similar mesh nets storing recently purchased food in one, and greyish silver coins in another.


My attention was brought back to the restaurant by my boss, who gestured with her hands over the food that had been brought to us. I do not remember ordering anything at that time and was about to interject before Soa spoke once more: “it is good beginning food, before you order!” The man stated, a gleeful smile had formed across his face, a similar one imitated back on my own face.


“Thank you.” I responded, to both Soa and the waitress, who stuck around and spoke with Soa, both appeared casual, as if friends. It was only until after the visit did Soa tell us she was his sister, to which I should’ve noticed, if it was not for the colourful display in front of us. A basket large enough to fit a head inside filled to the top with flat maize bread, with three brown ceramic bowls the size of the palm of my hand each filled with a different, unique topping.


The first bowl was filled with a pale white sauce with grated ripe popoatli, the dark pinkish slices’ colour bled over onto the sauce, making it slightly pinkish around each cut and slice. The texture was that of cream and the taste reminded me of blue cheese, albeit sweeter due to the popoatli.


The second bowl was topped with what I could only describe as a generic salsa that vaguely reminded me of Spain, or Mexico. However as I had spread some onto the bread and took a bite, I immediately had regrets, as it was sickly sweet and yet had the coughing spice of black pepper. As I had reflexively pulled the bread away from my mouth, I saw Soa in the corner of my eye subtly smile. After the ordeal of flavour, he spoke to me again


“Small amounts.” He stated, still with a faint smile.


The third bowl was simple thin slices of ripe and smoked popoatli, which the texture reminded me of raisins. The taste also reminding me of raisins.


The rest of the meal went fairly the same as any other foreign restaurant. I had ordered a mixed dish and so had my co-workers so we could experience more for less. Just as colourful and rich tasting as the pre-starter. And despite being a many course meal, the price was only a handful of Iztaks for each person. We thanked the chefs along with Soa’s sister, and left the smoke-smelling restaurant, with Soa continuing to tag us along as our guide and to continue to convince our boss for his own manager. As they two spoke, one of my co-workers pointed towards a specific building within the market place. It was built out of light greyish wood and basalt rock, initially I had thought that it might have been a fanciful market stool, but upon closer inspected, once they had dragged me closer to the building, I had realised it was a small temple. I attempted to stop them from bursting in, but it was all in futile as they had dashed through the door. Looking back to my boss and Soa, my mind blared to me this was a stupid idea, but nonetheless I ventured inside after my co-worker.

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