Alright, listen up, 'cause this story ain't an easy one to tell. It's about the day I learned that my cookin' could do more than just fill bellies - it could change minds.
I was younger then, still full of anger at a world that judged me for my tusks and my size. I'd managed to land a job at this mid-range restaurant in a decent part of town. The owner, a human named Mack, took a chance on me, but I could tell he was nervous about having a troll in his kitchen.
One night, this group comes in. Corporate types, all polished chrome and designer suits. I could hear them from the kitchen, laughing and joking. Then one of them spots me through the service window.
"Hey," he calls out, loud enough for the whole place to hear, "since when do they let trogs handle food? I thought they were only good for bouncing or breaking things!"
The whole restaurant goes quiet. I could feel every eye on me, waiting to see what the big, dumb troll would do. Part of me wanted to storm out there and show him exactly how good I was at breaking things.
But Mack, he puts a hand on my arm. "Show 'em what you can do, kid," he says quietly. "Your way."
So I take a deep breath, and I get to work. I pour everything I've got into making the best damn meal of my life. Every technique I'd learned, every flavor I'd discovered - I put it all on those plates.
When the food goes out, I can hear the corp's mocking tone. "Well, let's see what the troll's slop tastes like."
I wait, my heart pounding. The kitchen's dead silent, all of us listening.
Then I hear it. A gasp. Then another. Then, "Holy shit, this is amazing!"
I peek out the window. The corp who'd insulted me is staring at his plate in disbelief. His friends are all digging in, making sounds of surprise and pleasure.
Next thing I know, the corp is asking to see the chef. Mack looks at me, and I nod. Time to face the music.
I step out into the dining room, all seven and a half feet of me. The corp looks up, and I see the moment of realization hit him.
"You... you made this?" he asks, his voice quiet.
I nod, bracing myself for more insults. But then he does something I never expected. He stands up and offers his hand.
"I... I owe you an apology," he says. "This is the best meal I've had in years. I was an ass, and I was wrong."
I shake his hand, too stunned to speak. And as I look around the restaurant, I see something changing in people's eyes. They're not seeing a troll anymore. They're seeing... me.
From that day on, things were different. Word spread about the troll chef who could cook like a dream. People started coming to the restaurant specifically asking for my dishes.
But more importantly, I saw how my food was changing perceptions. People who'd never looked a troll in the eye before were now chatting with me about recipes and flavors.
That's when I realized the true power of what I could do. My cooking could bridge gaps that words alone couldn't. It could make people see past their prejudices, even if just for the length of a meal.
'Cause when someone's enjoying your food, they're not thinking about your tusks or your size. They're just experiencing the gift you've given them. And in that moment, barriers break down.
So yeah, chummer, that's why I believe cooking can defy prejudice. 'Cause I've seen it happen, one plate at a time. And every time I step into a kitchen, I'm not just making food - I'm making change.