The early hours of dawn had arrived. It had been nearly two weeks since Gershom returned to Chesapeake, and as he rubbed his eyes and sat up, the world outside was still draped in shadows. It was clearly far too early to be awake, a fact punctuated by the rhythmic, low snoring drifting through the thin walls and windows of the tightly packed houses neighboring his own.
Gershom stepped outside and stood before the door of the house directly adjacent to his. Just as he raised a hand to knock, the door swung open with a heavy thud.
“Gah! You scared me!” Gershom yelped, clutching his chest.
“A fine morning to you!” Manasseh boomed, looking far too energetic for the hour.
“······.”
“It seems the other Christians are still deep in their slumber,” Manasseh noted, lowering his voice slightly. “We should be careful in the kitchen. Are you still feeling the pull of sleep?”
“······I’ll manage,” Gershom muttered.
Since arriving in Chesapeake, Gershom and Manasseh had been staying in a communal lodging typically reserved for sailors. It consisted of several small houses clustered together, sharing facilities like a central kitchen and a bathhouse.
They slipped quietly into the kitchen, finding the basket they had prepared the night before. Gershom gently lifted the cloth covering it to reveal the dough they had left to rest. Nearby, Manasseh had already placed a pot over the fire, the water beginning to bubble. After a quick wash of his hands, Gershom began shaping the dough into neat, circular rings. He handed them to Manasseh, who quickly parboiled them before pulling them out.
From there, the boiled rings were slid into the oven. As the radiant heat from the hearth began to chase away the morning chill, Manasseh let out a wide yawn. They had been repeating this ritual for two weeks now, for the simple reason that there wasn’t a single loaf of bread in this town that a Jew could eat.
“Bring the best of the firstfruits of your soil to the house of the Lord your God. Do not cook a young goat in its mother’s milk.”
This was the command from Exodus 23:19. While the specific reason remained a divine mystery, the prohibition against boiling a kid in its mother’s milk was absolute. However, the Jewish people had taken it a step further. Over time, precepts evolved to forbid the consumption of any meat with any dairy product, regardless of whether the milk came from the animal’s own mother.
By extension, butter was a dairy product. Therefore, any bread containing butter could not be eaten alongside meat.
And for some reason, there isn’t a single scrap of bread in this town that doesn’t have butter in it…
In some ways, life had been easier when they were traveling to the distant lands of Salem and sharing meals with the American Indians. Those tribes traditionally did not raise livestock, so dairy was almost non-existent in their diet. As long as they ensured the meat was properly drained of blood, they could eat without fear of violating the Law.
But Chesapeake, despite its staggering abundance of food, was a culinary minefield. Butter was in every loaf of bread, and it was nearly impossible to find a dish that didn’t utilize milk, cheese, butter, or various meats in a forbidden combination. To make matters worse, their dietary laws restricted them to fish with both fins and scales, meaning the succulent lobsters served year-round in this region were strictly off-limits.
Ultimately, if a Jew wanted to eat according to the Law, there was only one solution.
“The bread is ready,” Manasseh announced. “I’ve just finished slicing the beef. What’s the plan?”
“······I’ll drain the blood and roast it myself,” Gershom sighed.
They had to take matters into their own hands. In the entire Continental Covenant, they were likely the only two practicing Jews. Had it not been for the fact that a member of Gershom’s family was a butcher, they might have been forced to survive on nothing but fish, given the lack of anyone trained to prepare meat in the kosher fashion. Even so, the process of preparing every single ingredient was an exhausting ordeal.
“Ugh… I traveled all this way just to suffer like this…!” Gershom groaned, wiping sweat from his brow.
“But in exchange, we have been permitted to stand by the Messiah’s side,” Manasseh countered. “Surely any true follower of the faith should be willing to endure this much.”
“He isn’t the Mess—”
“······.”
“······Let’s just roast the meat,” Gershom finished, defeated.
Truly, the greatest hardship wasn’t the cooking; it was having to listen to Manasseh’s endless prattle about the Messiah. Gershom let out another long sigh as he began slicing the hot, freshly baked bread.
By the time they finished the laborious task of baking, preparing the meat, and cleaning up the mess, the sun had fully risen. The sailors who shared their lodgings usually preferred to buy their meals elsewhere to avoid the hassle of cooking, effectively leaving the kitchen as the two men’s private sanctuary.
Thud.
“I’m here. Is the food ready?”
“······.”
“······.”
Actually, make that three people. Without fail, Oitotan would arrive exactly as the cooking finished, helping himself to their meal. When asked why, his excuse was always the same: “Greasy food doesn’t agree with me these days.”
Finally, after an arduous morning, they offered their prayers and prepared to sandwich the beef between the bread.
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
Oitotan was staring at them, his eyes fixed on the food. Gershom tried to ignore the gaze, turning away to take a bite, but Oitotan simply shifted his position to stay in Gershom’s line of sight.
“Eat up,” Oitotan said. “Unlike impoverished Europe, meat is as common as dirt here.”
“······We will eat well,” they muttered.
Gershom couldn’t understand why the man insisted on acting so smug about food he hadn’t even helped prepare. The meal itself felt insultingly short compared to the hours of preparation it had required. Fortunately, the servants Oitotan had summoned took care of the cleaning.
But despite the heavy meal, the sheer physical exertion of the morning left them feeling hungry again far too soon. Moreover, they were becoming sick of it. Eating the same cycle of meat, greens, and bagels every single day made them want to gag at the mere sight of it. As previously noted, Chesapeake’s abundance of meat and dairy was simply too much. Even if they tried to be “flexible” with the Law, the second they combined the two, they were in clear violation, which weighed heavily on their consciences. Yet, in Chesapeake, a dish that utilized neither meat nor dairy was a rarity.
They were simply too exhausted to keep cooking for themselves. It wasn’t just the cooking; it was the entire process of sourcing ingredients. If they wanted beef, they had to slaughter a cow; if they wanted lamb, they had to slaughter a sheep.
“That was a good meal,” Oitotan said, leaning back. “Now, tell me when dinner will be served.”
“······I think we’ll just skip the next meal,” Gershom replied flatly. He had reached his limit with Oitotan’s “you should cook the evening meal too” attitude.
Gershom let out a sigh and set his spoon down. He was just about to tell Oitotan to leave when the native man spoke up.
“Come with me. Both of you.”
Oitotan’s sudden proposal was unusual. Before they could even ask where they were going, he stood and gestured for them to follow, leaving them with no choice but to trail awkwardly behind him.
“Lord Oitotan? Where are we going?”
“Follow me. We’re eating out.”
“Pardon? But the dietary laws······”
“There is a place that doesn’t break them.” Oitotan offered them a broad, knowing grin. “It’s time I paid you back for all those free meals.”
Gershom and Manasseh were skeptical. In a Chesapeake filled with Christians and spirit-worshippers, they found it hard to believe there was a restaurant that followed Jewish law. Yet, Oitotan’s sheer confidence was infectious, and they found themselves following him like men possessed.
They trailed behind his brisk, confident stride until they reached a bustling main street teeming with people. In the center of the crowd, one establishment stood out, its entrance marked by a large plaque written in both Powhatan and English:
—HALL OF THE SACRED HEART
“That plaque,” Oitotan noted, pride swelling in his chest, “was written by ‘Him’ personally.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bakers were hand-picked from the finest craftsmen coming out of England and Scotland. He interviewed them himself. This is the shop he established.”
“······.”
If the Prince had a hand in it, the crowd made perfect sense. As Oitotan approached, an employee hurried forward, bypassing the long queue to lead them through a private back entrance. The moment they stepped inside, Oitotan gave his order.
“The grape one, for all of us. Serve it in three hours.”
The employee nodded and retreated quickly, returning moments later with coffee. As the two Jews sipped the precious brew to clear their groggy minds, Oitotan continued his lecture.
“We have many sugar plantations in Asia,” he said.
“······.”
“That is why our desserts are so highly developed.”
Desserts! Gershom’s heart skipped a beat. Desserts likely wouldn’t contain meat, meaning they could eat them without worry. Furthermore, since Oitotan had specifically ordered the food to be served in three hours, there would be no risk of dairy and meat mixing in their stomachs.
“Th-thank you…!”
“It’s nothing. I ordered something humble, so eat your fill. It’s quite cheap, as well.”
Given the sheer volume of bread people were carrying out of the shop, Gershom assumed the order wouldn’t be anything too extravagant. They waited, sipping their coffee, until the employee returned with three large bowls.
“It is served. Shine Muscat Siru.”
“······.”
“Wh—you said this was ‘humble’?” Gershom stammered, staring at the massive portions.
“It is. I pre-paid about one Othello, so we can eat this ten more times.”
“······.”
Good heavens. One Othello was worth a hundred livres, which was sixty florins. And sixty florins was the annual salary of a mercenary. This was a dessert that cost as much as a month’s wages.
But looking at it, the price seemed justified.
“This is another dish he developed,” Oitotan said.
“······.”
The dessert consisted of a wide base of bread piled so high with Shine Muscat grapes that they looked ready to tumble over. It was a dish that simply couldn’t exist without massive Shine Muscat vineyards. In Europe, one would have to be as wealthy as a Duke to even dream of such a thing.
With trembling hands, Gershom began to devour the grapes, bread, and cream. It was exquisite. It was the first time in a long while he had eaten something prepared by someone else’s hands—something made with true craftsmanship. Watching Oitotan’s smug, satisfied expression was irritating, but Gershom found he couldn’t stop his fork.
As he finished the last bite, tears of frustration and relief threatened to spill over. He turned to Oitotan. “Does beef and cheese just grow on its own in this land? How is it that every single dish uses both meat and dairy?”
His hands were shaking, perhaps from the sugar rush or the weeks of accumulated stress. Oitotan tilted his head and looked at him.
“Don’t be so consumed by your inferiority complex. Europe is a fine place, too. Aside from being impoverished, having almost no meat, and being incredibly cramped. Oh, and I suppose it lacks Shine Muscat Siru, as well.”
“······.”
As usual, Oitotan’s attempt at “consolation” was anything but. Manasseh found himself wondering how the King of France ever managed to restrain himself from punching the man.
“Anyway, if you’re so curious about the reason, I’ll show you. Come with me tomorrow.”
“Pardon…?”
“Tomorrow, the Crown Prince’s lessons are scheduled······”
As the two men hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden invitation, Oitotan grinned again. “In that case, I’ll just bring you back to the Sacred Heart.”
In an instant, all of their plans for the next day evaporated.
“But… where exactly are we going?”
“To a small, humble ranch in Northern Virginia.”
“Isn’t that quite far? Virginia alone is larger than England…”
“It won’t take long. Trust me.”
“······.”
With a lingering sense of unease, they nodded.
The following day, they traveled by high-speed carriage, reaching their destination in just half a day.
“······.”
“······.”
“This,” Oitotan announced, “is one of the more modest ranches in the area.”
Gershom and Manasseh were speechless.
“There are about five thousand head of cattle here. The dairy cows alone make up······”
By now, they had realized that when Oitotan used words like “humble,” “small,” or “unimpressive,” they meant exactly the opposite. They also understood exactly why he had brought them here.
“I doubt you would find a ranch like this in all of Europe. But as I said, Europe is a fine place. Even if it lacks such ranches, remains impoverished, has tiny chickens, and is generally a place where everything is small.”
It was a display of pure, unadulterated boasting.
“Now, we shall head to a similarly ‘small’ and ‘modest’ cave used for storing cheese.” Oitotan’s lips curled into a smirk.
It was the smile of a netizen posting a “humble-brag” to a forum, basking in a dark sense of petty satisfaction. Gershom turned away in disgust, only to find Manasseh staring at the ranch with his mouth agape, muttering to himself.
“A land… a land flowing with milk and honey… Truly, everything is exactly as it was written in the Scriptures…!”
Everywhere he looked, Gershom found himself surrounded by people who were, in their own unique ways, utterly insane.