Order #66, Your Sandwich is Ready!

[The Deli Moff]

His was not an establishment built on puffery. Indeed, the small prefabricated eatery was adorned with a utilitary sign that read only SANDWICHES. Inside, there were two tables, capable of seating four people each. There would be no seat saving. It was rule #11 in The Manifesto, a simple and efficient addendum inserted into each menu holoflimsy that he expected each patron to read and understand fully before agreeing to place an order. He did not have time for seat saving. He did not have time for substitutions (rule #23). There were no gluten free products served in his establishment (rule #14).

He was a hard man. Misunderstood. Some called him cruel. Nevertheless, the results of his dedication to order were unassailable. His customers were rational actors, people coming to a place of business to exchange credits for a product and service rendered. That product was a sandwich. The service rendered was placing the wrapped sandwich into the hands of a customer. It did not include cutting off the crusts (rule #58) or adding extra meat (rule #40) or extra cheese (rule #41).

He had once been a prince. Of the culinary arts, that is. The personal chef of none other than Mitth'raw'nuruodo himself. Like all Chiss, he knew above all else how to win through preparation, planning, and dedication to the task. Other chefs tried, and they all failed. It was he who had the strength of will to create a Flavor Revolution that began in the Ascendancy and conquered Coruscant itself!

But that was long ago. Even Thrawn, as the humans called him, had betrayed him. Oh yes, he remembered it well. A nerf pastrami sandwich on rye, and the so-called Grand Admiral dared to put a schmear of mayonnaise on it. Oh, not in his presence. Thrawn was more careful than that. But he found him out. It was a sin unforgivable. And with that, the Cook was outcast.

Cast down from his pedestal, he sought new, more fertile ground. Naboo, Mandalore, and Bothawui alike all failed to understand his vision, and he again moved on. Until he at last discovered a world that time itself nearly forgot. Ossus. The revived sanctuary of the Jedi Knights. Guardians of Peace and Justice. But were they also Guardians of Good Taste?

He would see. Oh yes. He would begin his empire anew here, in this humble world. He would blaze new trails without bourgeois side items (rule #7) or the prattling of holocomms while eating (rule #1).

For he was Chu'ado'ruomasy.

The Cook.

And he served sandwiches.

[Akasha Khan]

Akasha stepped into the sandwich shop that had just opened next to the commissary and was immediately assaulted by a colorful melange of scents - sweet, salty, savory, cured, corned, roasted, starchy, pungent, and spicy, all of it rolled up into one olfactory stampede that ran riot through her sinuses and fired her gustatory imagination in ways she had never dreamed possible. When she'd been introduced to the sandwich as a concept aboard the Whaladon, she honestly hadn't understood what the big deal was: putting meat between two slices of bread only meant there was an added barrier between you and the meat. But this wasn't pressed and salted meat product in rubbery, slimy discs, or questionable nut pastes smeared over dry bits of edible styrofoam. This was something altogether new and beautiful.

She vowed to herself, the highest of all possible vows for an Orryxian, that she would have one.

The feline Padawan cautiously approached the counter, where a blue-skinned humanoid stood with arms crossed like the imposing idol of a vengeful, mustachioed god. At the edge of the counter was a red plastic ticket dispenser with a small paper tag hanging out the end like a wayward tongue, and standing next to it was a small sign that read "PLEASE TAKE A NUMBER." Akasha looked at the sign, and then at the empty shop around her.

"Um... Excuse me? Sir?"

[The Deli Moff]

The Cook's mouth began to pull downwards into more of a severe frown than usual. The furry alien at the counter was treading dangerously close to breaking protocol. His eyes met Akasha's, and followed to the number dispenser at the far end of the counter.

He waited for her to follow instructions, returning to steel his 14 inch beskar chef's knife. Mandalorian craftsmanship such as it would only yield to another piece of their famous iron, and his steel was likewise comprised of the precious alloy. Metal sang across metal in sing-songy snips and zings as he drew the cutting edge to perfection, before cutting against the grain at a hunk of honey and juniper glazed shaak ham on the counter. The ham, still warm from the oven, nonetheless shaved beautifully in a single graceful swipe, cleaving in such a thin section that you could almost see the beskar blade that worked just beneath the surface.

[Akasha Khan]

She followed his eyes, read the sign, and said, "Oh," even though she really didn't understand any better than when she'd walked in. But, not wanting to upset whatever mystical procedures went into creating the heavenly bouquet all around her, she stepped over to the dispenser and took the first ticket, which read #001.

Akasha returned to the blue-skinned man and showed him the ticket. "Does this mean anything to you?" she asked.

[The Deli Moff]

The Cook's stern eyes rose, again disturbed from his work, to the ticket in Akasha's paw. If he could, he would burn a hole through the ticket with his eyes.

"Yes, place your order."

This should not be a difficult proposal. The menu varied by day of the week, each day offering three different sandwiches. Today featured the aforementioned honey-roasted shaak with Alderaanian cheese on a toasted Emperor's roll with well-carmelized peppers and onions and a Naboo mustard. Also featured was nuna salad on ten-grain bread. The last was the sinfully decadent Croque Mando'a, griddled with cave-aged hams and cheeses and wine-sauteed mushrooms.

[Akasha Khan]

Akasha batted an ear at the man's brusque demeanor, but she soldiered on. She didn't entirely understand the selections listed on the menu board, but the meat he'd been slicing looked and smelled delicious. She decided she'd start from the top and see how things went.

"I'll have the first one," she said. "That is, the... honey-roasted shaak. Oh, wait..." Akasha frowned, remembering a night spent in the toilet after trying Kala's homemade grilled cheese for dinner. "Probably better leave the cheese off that one."

[The Deli Moff]

"Cheese is mandatory."

Of all the hubris! A ham sandwich without cheese? This cat was trying to bend the laws of sandwiches with her impudence. The Cook's grip tightened on his chef's knife as he waited for Akasha to correct her mistake.

[Akasha Khan]

Akasha batted one ear, oblivious to the gathering doom that stood before her.

"Oooookay," she said. "Well, cheese's effects on my digestive tract are mandatory, too, so maybe today you could make an exception?"

[The Deli Moff]

"No exceptions. No special orders."

Irritated, the Cook turned to the board behind him that displayed today's three specials, and threw his chef's knife into it. The grip quivered as the tip speared into selection #2 - the Nuna Salad.

"No cheese. Order now!"

[Akasha Khan]

Akasha sprang backwards as the knife flew, claws unsheathed and tail a black explosion of puffed fur. Her eyes darted to the quivering knife in the menu board, then back to the chef to see if he was hiding any more knives in his powder-white jacket.

"Okay, okay, fine!" she blurted, "I'll have the nuna salad!"

She waited until hestarted looking marginally less murderous before she added, "But could you leave off the salad?"

[The Deli Moff]

The Cook turned to face her slowly, the frown of his mouth almost inscrutable against normal downward turn of his moustache. When he moved, it was with a quickness that was startling, plucking the order ticket from Akasha's paw and crushing it within a fist in front of her before letting it fall to the floor.

"No sandwich! Come back - one week!"

The Chiss's red eyes turned to a fixture on the far wall. What appeared to be a bit of the deli's decor suddenly came alive as a Magnaguard droid spun to life, twirling an electrostaff with an evil buzz as it prodded the Orryxian towards the exit without any hope of finding lunch today.

[Akasha Khan]

The Orryxian laid her ears flat as the metal executioner came clanking toward her. She considered reaching for her lightstaff, but between the chef's fiery glare, the still-humming knife, and the crackling fury of the droid's weapon, she lost her nerve. Lunch wasn't worth this aggravation.

Akasha spun away just as the electrostaff singed the tip of her tail, and with a yowl she sprinted out of the establishment on all fours and didn't stop until she was up the nearest tree.

[Jamis Kerr]

He'd heard that there was a new establishment set up for food, and Jamis - always happy to skip the offerings of the mess hall - had decided to see what exactly was up with the 'sandwich shop'.

Trudging down the narrow sideroad leading to the shop, he caught sight of a familiar black form, sequestered up in the limbs of a tree. It brought a strange look to his face, and the boy stopped to cast his eyes upward.

"What are you doing up there?"

[Kazahan]

Kazahan was hungry. This was an accepted fact throughout the Jedi encampment. He would also eat anything. Insects? Sure. Slimy worms? Extra fancy Trianii dish made out of them. Meat? Make sure there's enough for everyone else, because Kazahan will not stop until it's gone.

So when he saw the sign above the door, then, he hummed brightly and bounced inside. Instead of going directly to the counter though, he stopped immediately upon entering and stared at everything. The utilitarian decor. The laminated menu. The lack of sitting space. But the cook didn't seem to be wanting for anything.

Why cook for people when you don't like them?

But Kazahan wasn't one for prolonged introspection. He took two steps up to the counter and glanced at the rules.

"This one would like to know the special of today," he rumbled.

[Akasha Khan]

Akasha started again at the sound of Jamis's voice, then attempted to preen herself into an air of utter nonchalance. She was delayed only slightly by the problem of unsticking her claws from the flesh of the tree branch she was perched on.

"I'm... admiring the view," she said, with conviction. "What are you doing down there?"

[The Deli Moff]

The magnaguard returned to its place at the wall, stiffening as its ocular receptors dimmed and it went into inert mode once more. The Cook retrieved his knife from the menu board with a sharp yank, drawing a kitchen towel along the blade's backstrap to each carefully beveled edge before turning his attention to an onion, which fell apart on his cutting board in a flurry of precise slices.

"Three specials. Choose one."

A timer beeped, and the Cook looked up at the Trianii with malevolent red eyes before bounding towards the nearest wall to retrieve a wooden peel from a peg board. Twirling it in his gasp like a battle axe, the Cook turned to the oven, pulling the door free and using the peel to remove two aromatic boullés from within. The crust on the fresh-baked bread crackled and sheened, and with a wrist flick, the Cook tossed both breads in the air, where they landed squarely on a cooling rack in front of the counter. Only then did he acknowledge Kazahan's crime.

"No shirt. Come back - one day!"

Again, the Magnaguard came to life, raising its staff with inexorable intent.

[Jamis Kerr]

He made a funny face at Akasha's answer, and with an inclination of his head, Jamis gestured to the sandwhich shop.

"Going for some lunch."

And against his better judgement, he mentally shrugged.

"Wanna come with? Whatever is served in there has to be better than what's in the mess."

[Akasha Khan]

Akasha pushed with her forearms against the branch to stretch out her spine and coax out the nervous tension pooling there. "Mmm. Oh, lunch? What, you mean in there?"

She spotted the great furry bulk of Kazahan through the shopfront window and smirked.

"Thanks, but bread doesn't appeal to me right now. Go on and give it a try, though. Let me know if it's any good."

Her sensitive ears caught the buzz of the magnaguard waking, and she flinched and flattened to the branch once more.

[Kazahan]

The large Trianii glanced down at himself before looking back up at the cook. He, for all it would seem, ignored the magnaguard.

"Trianii do not wear clothing. Cannot, as fur makes clothing uncomfortable and often redundant. But to kick Kazahan out... Is this establishment... prejudiced?"

The big felinoid's eyes widened as he took in the place with a new perspective. He'd heard of prejudiced establishments, but to enter one on the Jedi homeworld? Amazing!

"Kazahan will have to tell everyone about this!"

[The Deli Moff]

Judgment was already passed, and the Magnaguard brusquely prodded the Trianii along. The Cook was harsh, but he was fair. No special treatment!

[Kazahan]

Kazahan sighed, feeling his stomach rumble slightly, and turned to give the Magnaguard his full attention, ears upright and tail flicking playfully.

The Magnaguard prodded him again and he swiped at its head, batting it roughly from one hand to the next. The next, even more forceful thrust of the staff was caught in one hand and the Trianii growled in happiness. A droid to play with! He didn't have to worry about being too rough!

With that thought, he gripped the droid's staff tightly (but carefully; he'd seen these used in battle) as it tugged on it, and tugged back, tail waving slowly back and forth as he waited to see what it would do.

[The Deli Moff]

The magnaguard was frustrated in his attempt to battle the Trianii who was too busy being amused by the effort, and it buzzed in frustration trying to wrench free its electrostaff. Defeat seemed inevitable when from over the droid's shoulder, a blur of motion flung past, striking Kazahan in the face and throat. A twisting portion of rye dough slapped over the felinoid's nose and mouth, wrapping around his neck, requiring the cat man to flee and pry away the dough so that he might fight another day.

[Morgan Evanar]

A sandwich shop? On Ossus?

Spacefaring made Morgan hungry. Everything made Morgan hungry. The stern Chiss behind the counter had bright red eyes. Morgan took a ticket.

[The Deli Moff]

"Order Two."

He'd seen the human enter after Kazahan beat a hasty exit. The Cook waited to see if this one actually knew how to follow protocol. None had bothered to pick up a menu, nor to read the Manifesto inside. He was not hopeful at the human's chances.

[Morgan Evanar]

Morgan looked over the menu. He gave the sandwich maker a quizzical look, looked back at the menu. He couldn't make up his mind. He wanted to eat the entire contents of the shop in one glorious outburst of gluttony.

"One Honey-roasted shaak with Alderaanian cheese, one nuna salad on ten-grain and two Croque Mando'a." When you can't make up your mind, ordering everything was the simplest solution.

[Jamis Kerr]

Having failed to coax Akasha in for lunch, Jamis sauntered in through the door, taking up position behind the tall... tall man in front of him.

Peeking to the side though, he spotted the ticked dispenser, and never one to completely cause trouble before knowing what he could get away with, the boy pulled a ticket stub from the perched contraption.

Three.

Well, that made things relatively easy enough.

Of course, as the man in front set about ordering everything on the special's menu, Jamis made a face. It smelles amazing in here, and he hoped that he wouldn't have to wait too long before getting his own slice of...

Oh dear maker, waas that the gentle scent of nuna salad wafting through to tickle his nose?!

[The Deli Moff]

Finally.

The Cook regarded the tall human with a severe expression, and nodded.

"Four credits."

He was a fair man. Harsh, but fair. His prices were not intended to fleece his customers. They were quite reasonable. This was no simple get-rich scheme. It was a labor of love. The Cook lived simply. Lived by the Code of Cooking. He demanded perfection from his technique, his ingredients, and his customers. In return, he would not ask for much else. Once the fee was paid, the Cook began to work. A beskar bread knife was wrenched from a magnetic strip on the wall, expertly drawing each portion of bread into the perfect thickness. The Croque Mando'a were first, slathered with speck along the outside to take to their trial by fire on the griddle. The greased bread sizzled, brought into happy union with aged ham and cheese, and a special assortment of ingredients before being combined under a weighted press. Next came the ham and cheese, assembled with care with only the thinnest slices of ham acceptable. The portion was generous, but the shavings sublime, mingling in a way with the mustard, cheese, and vegetables to maximize the ham's flavor. Last came the nuna salad, scooped generously from the heaping bowl nestled in a bed of ice before the Cook, and splayed across a bed of lettuce arranged onto multi-grain bread.

In time, all four sandwiches came together, a fusion of technique, quality ingredients, and indefatigable will. The Cook cradled each creation in wax paper, creating a parcel that he split diagonally with a careful swipe of a knife. Each masterpiece was placed on a tray, and at last, placed in the hands of Morgan Evanar.

He would not say thank you. There was no need. There was only an understanding. The Cook nodded.

[The Deli Moff]

"Next!"

The third ticket was brandished to the Cook, and he inspected it. This customer, a young human, seemed to have eyes for only one sandwich. He would wait for the boy to make up his mind, however. He was a Cook, and not a Mind Reader.

[Jamis Kerr]

With wonder in his eyes and heaven scents in his nostrils, Jamis had handed his ticket over with eagerness.

"Nuna salad," he intoned, his brain already telling him what his tastebuds had foretold.

"Make it like your menu says."

It didn't really need clarifying, but Jamis felt a need to intone that last bit regardless as a confirmation, a glowing remark to the culinary artistry that the chef before him seemed to radiate.

[The Deli Moff]

A stern nod.

"One credit."

With payment rendered, the Cook plied the mysteries of nuna salad, exacting the perfect amount of sweet and savory melange onto crisp and flavorful lettuce. Ten grain bread covered over top, pressed just enough to marry the ingredients together, without overzealously pressing the bread flat and causing the nuna salad to flee along the periphery. Careful hands sealed the sandwich in wax paper, and a precise swipe of the bread knife across the top allowed for a seam to eat both halves of the sandwich. A tray was extended to Jamis with his prize.

[Jamis Kerr]

With his prize in hand, Jamis made his way quickly to one of the two tables in the shop, his tray coming down on the surface with a clack as he slid into his seat. Eyes went to the other patron, and he had to think for a moment before remembering his name. Morgan.

Seemed his appetite hadn't changed, at the very least.

Lifting his own sandwich up, Jamis took his first bite.

His eyes promptly rolled back as he chewed, suddenly lost in a torrent of delighted tastebuds.