Escape from Flavortown

“Everyone knows the legend of Flavortown. Serving as the main cafe for the Nine Hells, it’s location leaves something to be desired, but all who have ever sampled it’s bounty warn that while the food is the best that has ever been crafted, it is comes at the cost of one’s sanity and possibly soul. The brisk trade in the escaped spirits of diners too weak-stomached to keep themselves from perishing, along with the stupendous food, has made Flavortown a premier stop on any Planeswalker’s travel through the multiverse looking to round out the Michelin Guide. If you want to stop in, just remember to have an empty stomach, a few dead chickens to bribe the door man and a search party waiting to come after you. When you’re here, you’re family.”

That was the surviving text on the mysterious pamphlet printed on the oddly glossy paper. It had been found by the ever curious servants of the Duke’s Wizard. Demanding an explanation, and a sample of their wares, the Duke has sent the players upon a journey to plumb the secrets of Flavortown. Little do they know that Flavortown often comes to those who look for it.

Only a few hours after leaving in search of the legendary eatery, the Party comes across a group of flagellants, whipping themselves with the remains of aprons and scourging their flesh with rusted kitchen knives. They bellow their anguish at their rejection at the top of their lungs, beseeching the heavens that if given one more chance that their cooking could be “Out of Bounds”, or “Gangster” in the manner of the Great Fieri. They curse the flame-wreathed tyrant and their own lack of skills. If pressed or waylaid, the cultists will mention they were pressed out of the restaurant only hours ago and that another set of “Stars” was destined to arise to attempt to challenge the prowess of the Great Fieri once more.

Racing to where the Cultists indicated, the party finds a free-standing door made of oak and decorated with a checkerboard pattern, wreathed in unholy flames. The door is unlocked, but the handle is so hot that if grabbed with an unprotected hand the flesh will be burned to the metal and must be torn free, leaving a coating of charred and still sizzling skin. A source less voice whispers to them, “Shut the front door behind you Boss, you’re on the bus to Flavortown!” Before they’re able to retreat or even consider the import of the words, the door flies open and begins to pull any nearby in by means of a powerful gust of wind, ridden by the heady and delicious scent of barbecuing meat. The world steadily shrinks as darkness descends around them, falling into the abyss, the whole world going black.

They awaken in a strange place. The walls are crafted of a finely wrought silver metal with slots placed along the top edge, near to edge of the hole that they’re apparently at the bottom of. They’re placed in a mesh cage, suspended a few inches above the floor. The cage is made of steel, with small 2” squares placed equidistant from another along the entire surface. Before long a thick and viscous liquid begins to pump in from the floor. A casual sniff or taste will reveal that it is lard, and that it is starting to rapidly heat as it rises. They only have a few moments to grasp the edges of the mesh and desperately climb before the temperature climbs high enough that they begin to cook. Only two successful check per character need be made, but they only have times for a total of six before they’re deep-fried.

Scrambling up the edge of the fry-reservoir, the players crawl into a scene of surreal horror. Devils of all ranks, Imps, Lemures, Abishai and Bearded Devils all slave over a dozen rows of huge stoves, ovens and cauldrons, all of which are fed by the racks of hanging humanoid meat & exotic looking vegetables. A steady stream of dishes are prepared and then channeled down the line to a set of windows, where Erinyes can be seen retrieving them and flying off to some unknown location. They only have a few moments to gape before an Imp, holding a huge cook pot bubbling with some unknown sauce barks at them to get out of the way. If they make a nuisance out of themselves, or if they simply refuse to move, the imp will simply fling some of the sauce at them. If the devil hits, the sauce splats on to one of the PCs and begins to visibly crawl up from their body and attempting to insert itself into their mouth. It is delicious, but also hot enough that it scalds the flesh where it sticks. If it misses, the Donkey Sauce Elemental begins to rush towards the nearest player, flowing up their legs and trying to do the same. The PC affected must roll against Will or Magic to avoid opening their mouth once they’ve tasted of the Elemental, but they will otherwise not attempt to hinder their rescuers.

Whether successful or not in their attempt to save their friend, the rest of the party soon notices that they’ve attracted the attentions of a particularly overweight Bearded Devil clad in a tight white apron. The fiend bellows at them, asking what they’re doing in the back and stating that customers aren’t allowed back here. If they resist or otherwise talk back, the Devil will shake a massive cleaver at them and shout for security; moments later a dozen lemures fall upon them, dragging them from the floor of the kitchen back into the restaurant itself.

The floor of the cafe is packed with Devils and petitioners from the Nine Hells. There are seemingly hundreds of tables, stretching off into the distance in each direction. One of the fury waitresses quickly flies by, grasping a few plates, placing them on a platter and flying off to one of their tables. A few more furies are waiting nearby for their orders when one spots the PCs. Giving a huff, she flies up to them and begins to chide them for their tardiness, urging them to go back to their job of collecting the endless stream of plates and bowls full of half-finished food. The fury points a bus cart, only half full. The PCs may be tired, but the dinner rush is just beginning. The DM can run this part of the scenario as long as they’d like, they’re encouraged to come up with various scenarios to vex their players, but here are a few suggestions:

• A Fury is arguing with a pair of White Abishai patrons over the quality of the fare and the price of the bill. They’re refusing to pay, and noticing the PCs, the Fury asks for their help to make them pony up.
• One of the PCs is flagged down by a Lemure, who wishes to complain about the poor service that they’ve been receiving. They’ve mistaken them for a server and they demand increasingly more bizarre and specific dishes in rec=ompense.
• The plates that they’re supposed to put into their cart are on fire, covered in acidic saliva or covered in hoar-frost so cold that it can freeze skin off of bones in moments.

Players will only put up with being infernal bussers for so long before they attempt to escape. When they try they meet the guardian of the door, the Maitre D’emon. A Tanar’ri who betrayed their own kind due to the lure of the fare of Flavortown, the Maitre D’emon is a Balor dressed in an impeccably fitted tuxedo with a thick and somewhat haughty french accent. He politely, if brusquely, informs them that not only are they not allowed to leave Flavortown without the permission of the Great Fieri. If pressed, they will be directed to an office a full day’s travel across the restaurant.

The PCs, having had repast on nothing but heavily fried food and flavored syrups, running on minimal sleep, find themselves in front of a huge oak door, patterned identically to the one that led them to this place. It has a sign hanging off of a nail which reads, “Off The Hook Cookin’ Inside!” The little noise that escapes the edges of the door are of the occasional muffled, but still exuberant exclamations. When they finally gather enough courage to knock they only have to wait a few moments before the door is thrown wide open, an obese humanoid figure of red and black flames which change color to white at the approximation of the head, formed into the shape of a rough square, two piercingly blue orbs of fire floating in place of any eyes. The flaming figure regards them silently for a few moments before belting out a hearty, “Hey there friendos! How can the great Fieri help your day be as radical as possible?” The Great Fieri is more than happy to answer any questions to do with the restaurant, it’s patrons or it’s menu. When the topic shift to that of leaving, the flaming figure sadly shakes their ‘head’ and states that only patrons and Stars may leave. If asked to elaborate, the Great Fieri explains that his Stars are those chefs that manage to stand out from the rest of his rank-and-file staff, to really change the level and pull out all the stops. They become his representatives across the planes. The Great Fieri is more than willing to allow any of his staff to become stars, but they have to best him in culinary combat. He warns that losers are set permanently at the bottom of the hierarchy, and then cast out from the restaurant on a plane far away from their home if they shirk their duties.

The entire bounty of the restaurant is laid before them for their test. They will rise or fall as a team, allowed any ingredients that the formidably broad kitchen contains. They are directed to the seemingly endless shelves of the walk-in cupboard to gather elements for their recipes. If the players simply slap together a basic dish, they lose. The Great Fieri has seen every conventional dish that has ever been conceived of by mortal minds.Searching the cupboards reveals exotic ingredients like salt made from evaporated orphan tears, axiomatic Gruyere, negative energy infused beef or grain harvested from the far realm. Coming up with a strange and thematically united dish of these ingredients is much better, but it still must partially down to the skill of the chefs. Persistent searching of the shelves for days or weeks eventually reveals the presence of some sort of spirit. They make themselves known by subtly pushing them towards certain ingredients, away from others. If they repeatedly listen to her, she will lead them to a rough volume, the title partially scoured away by the ages, Clas 30-Minu Mea Fo All Occasio. The book is filled with transcendent, yet simple recipes, all of which can be made in a half-hour or less. Equipped with the book, the party’s victory over the great Fieri is assured.

If they succeed, the Great Fieri congratulates them heartily as he devours the rest of their dish, repeatedly exclaiming, “Bosssss!” or “Off the Chain holmies!” as he leads them towards his office. He hands them each a huge bag of food from his kitchen, and then pats each of them on the back as he throws open the door to his office and kicks them out into the clearing where they first found the door, shouting behind them, “Alright kids, we’ll see you later. You go out and shine on you crazy diamonds!”