I'd commissioned a set of hourglasses from a dwarven glassblower named Kargan. Four of them — one, three, five, and ten minutes, each with different colored sand so Al could tell them apart at a glance. The dwarf had looked at me like I was insane when I described the precision I needed.
"Down to the grain?" he'd asked.
"Down to the grain."
He'd grunted and named a price. I paid it without arguing.
They arrived three days later, wrapped in oilcloth and packed in straw. The glass was flawless — clear as spring water, the sand flowing smoothly through the neck without a single grain catching. I set them on the shelf above the prep table and watched Al's face light up.
I'd catch him in the kitchen after hours, one of the timers in his hand, watching the sand trickle through while he muttered under his breath. He was trying to internalize the timing. Ninety seconds for a basic Margherita. Two minutes for something thicker. He had the numbers memorized, but memorization wasn't the same as instinct.
"You'll get it," I told him one evening.
"It is a matter of practice, sir."
"It's a matter of burning enough pizzas that you learn what burnt smells like."
He gave me a look. That look. The one that said he was too proper to roll his eyes but not too proper to imply it.
Today was the day. I'd decided last night. He'd shadowed me for long enough, watched me stretch dough and ladle sauce and slide pizzas onto the peel a hundred times. If he was going to learn, he had to actually do it.
"You're up," I said, stepping away from the prep table.
Al's eyes widened. "Sir?"
"First pizza of the day. All yours. I'm just watching."
"Today?"
"Unless you need another week."
He straightened his apron. His jaw tightened. "I do not require another week."
"Good. Go."
He stepped up to the table like he was approaching a wild animal. Careful, measured, ready to bolt. His hands hovered over the dough ball, twitching. I could see him running through the steps in his head — his lips moved slightly, counting or reciting. Flour the board. Press the dough. Stretch from the center.
It was the same thing I did every morning, but watching someone else do it for the first time felt like watching a tightrope walker who'd never seen a rope.
"Flour the surface first," I said.
"I know, sir."
"Just saying."
He floured the board. Too much flour, but that was fine. He'd learn. He pressed the dough ball down, working it into a disk, and I watched his fingers. Stiff. Hesitant. He was thinking too hard.
"Relax your hands."
"My hands are relaxed."
"Your hands are so tense they'd snap a twig."
He took a breath. Shook his arms out like he was shaking off water. Then he tried again, and this time the dough flattened more evenly. Not perfect. But better.
He lifted it, letting gravity stretch it over his knuckles. The dough sagged in the middle, thinner on one side, thicker on the other. He tried to correct it and almost tore a hole.
"Shit," he muttered.
"Patch it. Press the tear together. It'll hold."
He patched it. It held. The shape was wrong — more of a lopsided oval than a circle — but it was a shape. He laid it on the peel, spooned sauce into the center, and spread it with the back of the ladle. Too much sauce on the left. Not enough on the right.
I kept my mouth shut.
He sprinkled the mozzarella. Some parts got a thick blanket, other parts got a sprinkle. One corner of the pizza had almost no cheese at all.
"Cheese distribution," I said.
"I am aware, sir."
"Just checking."
He slid the pizza onto the oven floor. It landed crooked, the edge folding slightly. Al stared at it, his face a mask of concentration, the hourglass clutched in his sweaty palm.
Ninety seconds later, he pulled it out.
It was... not beautiful. The crust was uneven — puffy on one side, flat on the other. The cheese had browned in patches, leaving white spots where it hadn't melted through. The fold at the edge had baked into a thick, doughy lump. It looked like a pizza that had been in a fight and lost.
"It is not satisfactory," Al said quietly. His voice was flat, the kind of flat that covered disappointment. I'd heard that tone before — in my own voice, after the first dozen pizzas I'd made in this world that came out looking like deflated footballs.
"Cut it."
"Sir?"
"Cut it. Let's see the inside."
He sliced it with the wheel. The crust was cooked through. The cheese was melted, mostly. The sauce had bubbled up in places. It looked like pizza. Imperfect, ugly pizza, but pizza nonetheless.
I picked up a slice. Took a bite. The crust was a little dense. The seasoning was uneven. One bite was perfect, the next was bland.
But it was edible. It was pizza.
"Not bad," I said. And I meant it. The first bite had a little give, then a little crunch. The sauce was tart, the cheese was salty. It wasn't perfect, but it was pizza.
Al stared at me. "Truly?"
"Truly. It's rough. The shape is garbage. The cheese distribution looks like a toddler did it. But it's cooked right. The crust has flavor. You didn't burn it. That's a win."
He didn't say anything. But his shoulders dropped about an inch. I watched the tension leave his neck, his jaw, his hands. He'd been holding himself so tight I was surprised his spine hadn't snapped. Now he looked almost human again — tired, relieved, maybe a little proud.
We ate the pizza for lunch. Split it down the middle, standing at the counter. It was gone in ten minutes.
"I never imagined I would be a chef," Al said, wiping his fingers on a napkin.
"Neither did I."
"Funny how the world works."
He picked up his plate and carried it to the washbasin. I watched him dip his hands into the soapy water, his fingers moving slowly, almost carefully. He was smiling. Just a little. A small, private smile that he probably didn't know I could see.
I turned back to the oven and started prepping for the afternoon.