On the Supposed Inedibility of Dwarven Bread

Dwarven bread can be eaten by other peoples. I have answered the question at lectures and in correspondence, and even at meals where my own consumption of the disputed article ought to have answered it for me. The difficulty begins with the expression “Dwarven bread”, which is made to cover everything from a fresh household loaf to provisions prepared for long storage underground. A traveller who meets the latter first may reasonably find it hard; his conclusion that the entire race bakes exclusively for jaws unlike his own requires rather more investigation than it usually receives.

Some keeping breads are exceptionally dense and dry, and for good reason: less moisture means longer preservation, and a compact loaf takes up little room among a worker’s provisions. Neither quality is asked of a breakfast roll. Bread made to be broken into broth will disappoint a visitor who tries to eat it dry, particularly if he assumes his hosts are doing the same. Dwarven bakers produce softer loaves for immediate eating as well, but these travel badly, which is why so few of them reach the drawing rooms where the reputation of Dwarven baking is chiefly discussed.

Minerals are a separate question: Dwarves need larger quantities of certain minerals than we do, and some traditional preparations contain mineral-rich salts or other additions. Such ingredients may alter the flavour of a loaf, or make it unsuitable for a particular diner, without rendering everything a Dwarf bakes indigestible to a Human, an Elf, or anyone else. The recipe is the relevant evidence. By the same reasoning, my having eaten one variety in comfort does not vouch for every other, a distinction that ought to satisfy both the anxious traveller and the unusually literal reader of medical prose.

At an inn in 1848 I was served a portion of keeping bread beside a bowl of broth, and spent some time contemplating the inadequacy of the knife before the innkeeper explained that the bread was meant to go into the bowl. Several minutes later it yielded to a spoon, and I ate it without difficulty. My notes record neither exceptional digestive exertion nor any subsequent complaint, although they do contain an unnecessarily severe assessment of the cutlery. I have asked how an unfamiliar food is served before offering any opinion on its manufacture ever since, and I recommend the habit to travellers troubled by Dwarven bread, who will find that the baker can usually settle the matter without a physician’s correspondence.