Jar of Hollandaise Sauce

A squat glass jar sits on the marketplace counter, dusty from a long afternoon of bargaining. The lid is brass and warm to the touch, stamped with a tiny sunburst that seems to wink in the lamplight. The label is parchment-thin, edged in gold, and at its center a lemon crest curls around a ribbon of script that reads Hollandaise Sauce. Inside, the sauce glows pale and glossy, a buttery river suspended in amber. When you swirl it, it clings to the sides in slow, velvet ribbons, as if keeping a secret for the moment you lift your spoon. The texture is silken and dense, not shy about its heft, and the aroma—rich butter, a sharp lemon brightness, a whisper of egg—bakes the memory of old kitchens into the air. Tales etched into the jar speak of a royal banquet and a fearless chef who tempered heat with patience, forging a seal that marks this jar as not merely sustenance but a keepsake from a vanished wing of the city’s culinary lore. In hands, the jar becomes a small instrument of the road. Players, cooks, traders all know it's more than a garnish. In the kitchen, a spoonful can thicken a sauce that steadies a rebel cook during a siege, or brighten a mire of rations for a caravan crossing a desert of ash and smoke. In practical terms, it elevates a dish, granting a fleeting boost to morale and recovery—enough to keep a line of skirmishers steady as banners snap in a gale. Folks trade it for a napkin of luck or a whispered favor, and the aroma follows the bearer like a bright tailwind. The jar is coveted not just for what it does to a plate, but for what it suggests: that care and craft can turn a simple meal into a moment of grace, a pause in the chaos where a group remembers why they fight together. On a recent pass through the docks, I watched a seller tuck one into a saddlebag with the same reverence as a letter from an old friend. The price, he said, would run about two silver and a few copper, depending on how well the buyer could haggle and how many mouths the jar might feed that week. It’s not a price charged to a stranger, but a pact—Saddlebag Exchange knows the long game: a jar bought for a festival kitchen becomes a memory that sells seven more jars in the next market. And so the Hollandaise becomes more than a sauce; it’s currency of comfort, a signal to allies that nourishment is a pledge, not a luxury. By dusk, the jar sits between my map and the kettle, a quiet beacon of warmth in a world that loves to roam. The city may be loud, but in this small, glossy bottle lies the quiet courage of cooks who refuse to let flavor fade, even when the road grows cold and the day’s work is only half done. I carry it as a promise, a flame and a flavor.