Her fur was a cross between pale grey and magenta. She had a poorly defined jawbone and a sizable girth, kept underneath her overcoat. Her mane had streaks of pink-grey and raspberry-grey. But her eyes were still a clear bright raspberry and lost none of their fire. The years were slowly but surely catching up to her.
The War Chest was a beautifully minimalist-decorated establishment in Manehattan, just peeking out through the Bronclyn Bridge. Though the tilework was a simple checkerboard look in pale greenish-grey and yellowish white, she did not disregard the colorful swords and shields mounted on the walls.
Kind of like the Smoked Oat, the elderly unicorn thought, only not so overpowering. The owner must have been in the Neighlanders Infoaltry.
The menu was well and varied, but three particular elements interested her.
First, portion sizes. Being in Manehattan, the restaurateurs had to be familiar with a wide range of appetites. Most hors d’oeuvres might easily feed a foal. Many main courses would barely satisfy a full-grown stallion.
Second, ingredient range. If a cut of meat or seafood or even plant were smoked on wood, it might not need any spices. Even a hearty liquor could make a huge difference in the taste of a cut.
And three, only recently, and to her utter surprise, did she find out that she had hypersensitive receptors. What other ponies described as tasty was toxic to her. And what other ponies described as bland and tasteless was perfection to her. How was she going to respond to, let alone work around, that?
Adjusting her muted green tuque so it would fully cover her horn, the unicorn decided on her meal.
The waitress, an Earth pony with deep blue fur and a bright cyan mane and coiled tail – which resembled Rarity’s – came over to the table. “Are you ready, madam?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I am,” the unicorn answered. “Start me off with a glass of House of Bridlerick Natural Stout?”
“OK.”
“And these potato skins with smoke-roasted cucumbers and red onions?”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Your smoke-broiled steak and hay sounds great. And this roasted red-pepper combo soup should do it.”
“Very well.”
While the waitress headed into the kitchen to deal with the order, the unicorn fidgeted with her aqua jacket and teal blouse. Can’t let them see my cutie mark, she thought nervously. But I’ll show all of Canterlot I’ve got what it takes.
In a few minutes, the waitress returned with a pitcher of ice water. There was also a tall bottle bearing the red and silver House of Bridlerick label, accompanied by a tinted pint glass.
“Here you go, ma’am,” the waitress announced. “One Bridlerick Natural Stout.”
“Thank you,” replied the customer. “Say, did the owner serve in the military?”
“Matter of fact, he did. Ser War Hammer the Sharp. Two decades in the 59th Neighlanders of Yorksire. Those are some of his old weapons and shields.”
“Lot of different crests there. Which one’s actually his?”
“Wall to your right.” With that, the waitress left.
The unicorn gazed at the far right wall. Among the swords and rapiers lining it, she spotted a huge cast-iron shield at the center left. The emblem was a large pine green escutcheon, with the silhouette of a rearing pony gracing the honor point and a serpent across the nombril point, each in a slightly different saffron tint. Green and gold were definitely his division colors, she thought.
Sharp contrast to the somewhat bland tilework. But then again, that must have been the point. A rich dramatic accent on the weaponry gives the place a truly historical feel. Wouldn’t be out of place in a proper museum, either, especially those with their own eateries.
The waitress returned, carrying the first course. “Your soup, ma’am.”
The unicorn glanced at the bright red stock and specks of black. Inviting scent, not too intense. “Black beans,” she marveled. “Does War Hammer have his own bean patch?”
“He does,” the waitress replied. “Same for the rest of his plant crops. This is his own recipe. Trade secret, but he almost always had this as the appetizer for his company feasts.”
“He did well here, then. With only a bit of salt and pepper, this is definitely a keeper.”
“Pleased to hear that.” The waitress headed back to the kitchen for the main course.
The customer wasn’t putting on a front. She liked this serving. An excellent lunch option on a brisk day, if not in the dead of summer. No matter it was a trade secret; it wasn’t overly spicy and didn’t require a lot of seasoning. The Smoked Oat with training wheels.
She never was particularly good at creating her own soups. The last time she tried, she burned her hoof so badly she was hobbling for a good week. And that was her better work! Another time, it was so spicy hot she had spent most of the afternoon relieving herself in the pot — to say nothing of her companion, who was also giving off runny pony manure like no one’s business. Gross.
“Your steak and hay, and potatoes, madam,” she heard the waitress page her as the tray was neatly slid onto the table. “All your sides.”
“Deep and smoky,” the unicorn shot back, catching a glimpse of the waitress’s serving tray cutie mark underneath her gamboge uniform. “I wonder, how did War Hammer usually take his cuts of meat?”
“Medium to well-done. Ever since a fellow lieutenant died of salmonella poisoning, he never went rare. He always had his cuts checked to make sure there was just the faintest trace of red inside.”
“Ah, good to know. Not all bright colors are worth having here.” The unicorn did one good cut, across the grain, to verify; yes, it was well-done. “And the ale is excellent. The Canterlot royal class would have loved it.”
The waitress raised one eyebrow at this last answer but said nothing else. She left the customer quietly to her meal.
The unicorn took a bite of the cucumber. There was a deep smoke flavor, but not much by way of other seasonings. If this is how Massive Bottles made his smoke-roasted sandwiches, it was a fantastic job. Most residents of Manehattan wouldn’t care about the difference… even if it was everwood.
Next, the potato. She took a piece of onion, which looked like it was smoked in the same breath as the cucumber. Mmmmm, tender. Perfect pairing here. No need for more than salt and pepper, and not the mushy jelly-like mess some places had.
This wouldn’t be everypony’s cup of tea, but that was fine by her. The strip had plenty of other stuff to offer. She’d get to that another time.
“Anything else?” she heard the waitress ask.
“Uh… no,” replied the unicorn with a slight falter. “Just the bill.”
Having paid for her meal, the unicorn felt her horn and cutie mark light up. She headed outside and surveyed the other shops on the restaurant strip: Jai Hoof, Slice Castle, Yin and Yan, The Coast, Alohay, Bread Basket… Bread Basket!
Pop in for some baked goods!
Oh, great, now I’m acting like the ruler of the Sun! Wonder what it was that had Celestia acting like a kid in a candy store again?
The tilework on the inside walls was a dramatic mustard, not all that different than a white bread crust. There were a few crimson tiles randomly positioned among them. At the top of the wall was a listing and cost of available items, in colored ink, on whiteboard.
On either side of her was a clear plexiglass casing that displayed the current wares – brownies, scones, muffins, rolls of all sorts – and a few colorful flags indicating each individual load in text. There was still a faint smell to each of them, a sign that they’d been there for quite a while. And some were perfectly plain but for the butter and sugar mixtures. Definitely not overbearing.
“Hello, madam,” announced the server, a portly Tyrian purple pegasus with a bushy sepia moustache and mane. His cutie mark wasn’t clearly visible underneath the amber jacket extending to his flank.
“Hello, sir,” the unicorn replied. “Marshmallow brownie?”
“Coming up. Drink?”
“Tall iced vanilla cream coffee.”
“That it?”
“Yeah.”
“Eight bits.”
Having paid for the order, the unicorn levitated the cup and brownie toward one of the wall tables. She didn’t really want to soil her outfit — besides, kind of hard to hold onto a cup walking on all fours, let alone with a hoof. And no proper eatery owner would ever want to dirty their hooves needlessly. Not even that Pinkie Pie kid.
This brownie was really good. A simple marshmallow mixture, a simple cocoa blend — no need for any more flavoring. And this was the perfect serving size for almost anypony — hearty enough for a foal, a nice light kiss for a stallion. Something a supertaster like herself could be happy with.
So was the coffee. Fairly dark in color, a sign of its intensity. The cream and sweetener didn’t dilute it to the point that it didn’t taste or smell like coffee anymore. And you could taste the vanilla clearly — I wonder if this is Madagascolt?
She felt her horn and cutie mark lighting up underneath her clothes. Fortunately, she’d learned pretty fast how to avoid letting it show — not the time for publicity. She’d go home and write up her review and rating first. But the message was clear: her goal was accomplished. Time to scram.
Two days later, the Neigh Yoke Times published its review of the War Chest and the Bread Basket. Each had been rated two out of three hooves. Suitable for most palates; avoid if taste buds are overly sensitive or underdeveloped. The article was signed “Subtle Hint.”
Zesty Gourmand was reading the article happily in the solitude of her living room on the Manehattan Coast. “The plainer the dish, the easier it is to upgrade,” she stated. “Sometimes, a subtle hint is all it takes to make it work. One day, Canterlot… one day… I will be making my way back. Egolus Antonius will be proud of me again.”
Author's Note
These events are a response to the aftermath of the Royal Review, itself a response to the aftermath of Spice Up Your Life, in which Zesty is disgraced for her refusal to consider anything except her own standards.
This is only my first MLP fanfic attempt; as such, I decided to work with a one-shot that in trope-speak is classified as a Hate Sink and almost nopony else. The trick was to avoid having her come off as Mary Sue-ish in the process. 
I also used some actual heraldry terminology to describe War Hammer's crest (referred to here as an escutcheon); the honor point rests just below the absolute top of the shield, or its chief, while the nombril point sits just below the center, or fess point. There are at least a dozen terms for just this element, along with at least 11 different confirmed shapes of escutcheons.
