Робин Слоун - Sourdough

“This is my bioreactor,” she said, accents of pride evident on both my and bioreactor . She looked at me, ready to make a point. “As you might know, Slurry is assembled from various organic precursors. Basically thrown together in a blender.” Her voice made it clear she did not respect mere blending. “My Lembas cakes are manufactured whole by living microorganisms.”

I pointed to the shiny cylinder. “Right there in that tank?”

“Bioreactor. Yes. I grow the cultures here, and they assemble the cakes here.”

She opened one of her huge cabinets, which was populated by racks that looked like shallow muffin trays. In each one, a Lembas cake was blooming: the light, airy structure rising like scaffolding. Around their edges, they glistened wetly.

“The form recalls a Breton cake,” Horace mused. “It almost has the finesse of a kouign-amann.”

“I think of them as microbial cathedrals,” Jaina Mitra said.

I wondered if that comparison made her the architect or the deity.

“Why not just leave it liquid like Slurry?” I asked.

Jaina Mitra ticked off the reasons: “Mouthfeel. Dental health. Market research indicates people associate liquid superfood with pessimistic science fiction.” That was a good point. “And, I should clarify, I don’t want people to eat Lembas all day, every day,” she said. “It’s your quick lunch. It’s what you eat in the car. It solves food security, because once I get the microbial community stabilized, we’ll be able to produce it literally anywhere . Trust me, I have no desire to replace all of this.” She lifted her hands to encompass the Marrow Fair. “It’s fast food I want to replace, and all the other terrible stuff people eat when they get impatient.”

“Starbucks breakfast sandwiches,” I said ruefully.

“ Curse those breakfast sandwiches,” Horace muttered.

Jaina Mitra offered the platter again. “Another one?”

I ran my tongue around my teeth, found bits of cathedral still stuck there. “I’m fine for now.”

“Come back for the next batch,” she said. “I’m going to get those enzymes dialed in. It’s almost ready. Almost, almost, almost ready.”

RIGHT NOW, I’M MAKING SPICY SOUP, the kind you like. Chaiman brought his laptop into the kitchen (Shehrieh told him he was being a weird hermit) and he’s hunched over the table, composing. I can hear the oonce-oonce in his headphones. As for my mother, she’s rolling noodles on the countertop, humming while she does it.

It always begins with the humming. Chaiman and I joke about this. It sneaks up on her. In another minute, she’ll be singing with her full voice. She can’t help herself. Right now, she’s humming her favorite song, which is about leaving places behind, and how it’s sad but also happy.

It’s very Mazg.

Lois, the picture you sent—the robot with the mixing bowl—it inspired me. I think I’ve gotten complacent with my cooking. I need to experiment more! This morning I separated a bit of my starter and mixed some Fresno chili into its food.

It died instantly.

But I’m not giving up! If you want to experiment, too, we could compare notes. For one thing, I recommend feeding your starter better flour. It’s hard to get good flour in the U.S., but it makes a big difference.

My stockpile of Fresno chilies is dwindling, by the way.

THIS NEW DARKNESS

THE NEXT WEDNESDAY, I was ready. When the preview customers streamed in, their eyes snapped onto the Vitruvian, and they murmured appreciative sounds to one another. Not many stopped; there were stranger delights than sourdough bread waiting within. But this is what they wanted to see. This is where they wanted to be.

I understood Belasco’s objective now. I was a mascot. I was the pizzazz.

I saw faces I vaguely recognized from the world of General Dexterity. A young tech CEO; several well-known investors; a programmer with a wine blog.

Two men stopped to assess the Vitruvian. It was, in fact, a pair of the cold-eyed wraiths I worked with at General Dexterity. I knew them by their sneakers.

“Oh, sweet ,” hooted one. “Didn’t expect to see a V3 here.”

“Look at that beast,” said the other.

“It’s so clunky, dude! The old motors were super slow.”

“Actually,” I said—oh, it felt good—“the Vitruvian 3’s motors are exactly the same as the V4’s. They’re all PKD 2891s. It’s just that the V4’s chassis is lighter.”

The wraiths noticed me for the first time. “Wait,” said the first. “I know you, right? You’re … one of our marketing people?”

My face burned hot, but through force of will, I cooled my gaze to absolute zero kelvin. “Actually.” Yes. It felt very good. “I work on Control.”

The wraiths pulled knives from their waistbands and committed ritual suicide.

Actually, they backed slowly away, and I never saw them again.

A pear-shaped, plaid-shirted customer stopped to admire first the Vitruvian and then the loaves with their merry faces. “What’s, uh, going on with these, exactly?” he asked.

I explained to the pear-shaped man in plaid that I was offering sourdough bread made from a starter strange and potent that had come into my possession unexpectedly. I explained that I found the bread delicious and also mood-stabilizing. I explained that the faces were a trade secret.

Oh, and a robot mixed the dough.

He lifted a loaf, tapped it on its back with his finger, listened to the sound, and for a moment, his expression matched the loaf’s. He dug for his wallet. I was officially in business.

By nine a.m., the loaves were gone. I had to turn away a customer, and in her eyes I saw a glint of covetousness. She would be back next Wednesday, I understood suddenly. She would be here earlier.

I darkened my workstation and walked, buzzed on commerce. Did I need another Faustofen? How much bread could one morning market absorb? Could this grow into a real business, a real bakery? Would I have my nineteen million dollars?

Up and down the concourse, the Marrow Fair had been sucked dry. Orli’s table was bare, her gemlike cheeses all claimed for various hoards. The pink-light farmers had retreated into their grow rooms to tend their crops. The fishmonger’s cooler was empty, and only crumbs remained at the bug bakery. Even Naz’s stock was depleted. He’d run out of milk and could offer only unadulterated espresso.

The only person with anything left was Jaina Mitra. She stood beside the yellow-tape road with her platter of Lembas cakes, smiling at the last straggling customers as they skirted her lab on their way toward the exit. Her cathedrals were fascinating … but not yet appealing.

After that, my days were cleaved in two.

I rose earlier than ever before and experienced a portion of the morning that was new to me. I heard the chirping of unfamiliar bird species—negotiations that had, until now, been concluded long before I woke. The bus didn’t run that early, so I bought a used bicycle, paying $50 cash to a woman outside Velo Rouge Cafe, and pedaled my new route: cutting south from Cabrillo Street to ride through Golden Gate Park on my way to the Wiggle, which would take me to Market Street and, at its terminus, the Ferry Building, locked tight.

In this new darkness, I pushed my bicycle to the pier where the Omebushi waited. Carl offered me coffee from a family-size thermos. It was just the two of us crossing the bay, and when the fat little boat puttered below the bulk of the Bay Bridge, I felt like we were astronauts in transit across the back side of the moon.

In this new darkness, the Marrow Fair welcomed me. The computerized STILL — TOO — SKINNY became rote and comforting. Naz’s morning playlist echoed through the concourse, lazy and hopeful. Even in those hours, the depot was never empty. There was always someone—multiple someones—who had spent the night working. Aromas wafted. Timers beeped. Crickets chirped.