Hot dog or hamburger? by fawsley, blue cortina with Sam and Gene
Title: Hot dog or hamburger?
Author: fawsley
Characters: Gene/Sam!not if you squint squintily
Rating: blue cortina for angst
Word Count: 722
Disclaimer: All the property of BBC and Kudos
Note: Another one for Geneuary and sort of GOAH too, if only for the angst.
Hot dog or hamburger?
‘Hot dog or hamburger?’
‘Blimey Gladys! Don’t go spoiling me for choice now will you?’
‘It’s a hot dog and hamburger stall, it’s all he sells. You said you were hungry. So do you want one or not?’
‘They’re both recipes for certain death by internal followed by external explosion if you ask me. Hot dog.’
‘Hot dog, okay. Onions? Mustard? Ketchup?’
‘Mustard, though it looks more like dog sick. No onions. And none for you either. Don’t want your stinky breath committing chemical warfare in my motor all day.’
‘Right then, here you go. One hot dog with mustard, no onions, no ketchup. Happy now?’
‘No.’
‘Why am I so not surprised?’
‘Flaming Nora! He needs arresting under the Trades Descriptions Act. This isn’t mustard. It’s the scrapings out of his granny’s crusty piccalilli jar. Bloody well have to wipe it off before I can eat the damned thing. Where’s me paper hankie?’
‘It’s American mustard. It’s what you get with hot dogs.’
‘No bite, no heat, no kick. Fuckin’ nancy poofter mustard.’
‘I never thought I’d live to see the day when you got picky about what you ate.’
‘You saying I don’t appreciate good food, Tyler?’
‘You’ve not exactly displayed a discerning palate whenever I’ve been honoured as your dining companion.’
‘Just goes to show how little you know, doesn’t it?’
‘Go on then, surprise me. If this fine and upstanding hot dog is not to your exacting tastes, tell me what is.’
‘Okay. What I really fancy, what I could really get me chops around, is a nice bit of spicy chicken in a buttie.’
‘You want a McChicken Sandwich?’
‘A what? What you on about? Nah. What I could go for right now is a big helping of musakhkhan wrapped in fresh marquq bread, all washed down with a cup of mint tea.’
‘What?!’
‘Bought off the street from some sack-wearing scrote with no teeth and only half an eye who lives in a drain and is shagging his sister.’
‘What the…? Where…?’
‘See Sammy-boy, if there’s something decent to be had then I’m more than appreciative. But it just so happens that this city, and this country come to that, serves up shite so I don’t have much choice. Have to go with what you get given, whether you like it or not.’
‘It’s a hangover from the War and the fact that rationing went on for so long afterwards, you know that. Believe me, another thirty years and everything’ll have changed beyond recognition. Britain’ll be a great culinary capital, a world-leader, a melting pot of styles and influences and flavours. You’ll get....’
‘Spare me the home economics lecture, Tyler. But you can have me hot dog if you want. Lost all its appeal, somehow.’
‘Oh. Ta. Erm… That whatsitsname, muski… muska… Whatever it was you were talking about…’
‘What about it?’
‘Well… What is it? And where…?’
‘Told you. Spicy chicken in a buttie. From Palestine. Did part of me National Service there. Bloody odd place. All stones and donkeys and stinking poverty. But it gave me a taste for certain things.’
‘Go on.’
‘On where?’
‘Tell me more about Palestine.’
‘Told you already, haven’t I?’
‘Not much, no. We’ve got time to kill so tell me. What else was there that was good, apart from the musky-whatever?’
‘Musakhkhan.’
‘Apart from that. What were the other things, the other tastes you got a liking for?’
‘Ah, wouldn’t you like to know, Sammy-boy?’
‘Yeah. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Yeah and that’s why I’m not telling, okay?’
‘Why not? Won’t go any further than these four wheels. Promise.’
‘Leave it, Tyler.’
‘It’ll just be between you and me, whatever it is. You have my word as a copper, believe me.’
‘And you’d better believe me when I say that it won’t. Ever.’
‘Won’t what?’
‘Be between you and me.’
‘What won't?’
‘Nothing Tyler, nothing. Forget it, okay? Forget I ever said anything. Forget Palestine. Forget everything. Shut up and eat yer hot dog.’
‘Sorry, I don’t understand…’
‘Nor do I Sam, nor do I. Been trying for over twenty years and I still don’t understand. Still don’t forget, neither.’
‘Guv…’
‘Be a good boy, Tyler, and do as you’re told. That’s all. That’s all there is. All there ever is. All there ever will be.’
###
AN: This sort of grew out of discussions with dock_leaf and farothiel about whether Gene could or could not cook and the conclusion that having done National Service he certainly would be able to - and sew and iron too - but just might not choose to do so. I can't remember who first sent Gene to Palestine for his NS so my apologies for nicking the idea but it was so what was needed here that I hope you'll forgive me. *makes puppy-dog!Sammy eyes*
Author: fawsley
Characters: Gene/Sam!not if you squint squintily
Rating: blue cortina for angst
Word Count: 722
Disclaimer: All the property of BBC and Kudos
Note: Another one for Geneuary and sort of GOAH too, if only for the angst.
Hot dog or hamburger?
‘Hot dog or hamburger?’
‘Blimey Gladys! Don’t go spoiling me for choice now will you?’
‘It’s a hot dog and hamburger stall, it’s all he sells. You said you were hungry. So do you want one or not?’
‘They’re both recipes for certain death by internal followed by external explosion if you ask me. Hot dog.’
‘Hot dog, okay. Onions? Mustard? Ketchup?’
‘Mustard, though it looks more like dog sick. No onions. And none for you either. Don’t want your stinky breath committing chemical warfare in my motor all day.’
‘Right then, here you go. One hot dog with mustard, no onions, no ketchup. Happy now?’
‘No.’
‘Why am I so not surprised?’
‘Flaming Nora! He needs arresting under the Trades Descriptions Act. This isn’t mustard. It’s the scrapings out of his granny’s crusty piccalilli jar. Bloody well have to wipe it off before I can eat the damned thing. Where’s me paper hankie?’
‘It’s American mustard. It’s what you get with hot dogs.’
‘No bite, no heat, no kick. Fuckin’ nancy poofter mustard.’
‘I never thought I’d live to see the day when you got picky about what you ate.’
‘You saying I don’t appreciate good food, Tyler?’
‘You’ve not exactly displayed a discerning palate whenever I’ve been honoured as your dining companion.’
‘Just goes to show how little you know, doesn’t it?’
‘Go on then, surprise me. If this fine and upstanding hot dog is not to your exacting tastes, tell me what is.’
‘Okay. What I really fancy, what I could really get me chops around, is a nice bit of spicy chicken in a buttie.’
‘You want a McChicken Sandwich?’
‘A what? What you on about? Nah. What I could go for right now is a big helping of musakhkhan wrapped in fresh marquq bread, all washed down with a cup of mint tea.’
‘What?!’
‘Bought off the street from some sack-wearing scrote with no teeth and only half an eye who lives in a drain and is shagging his sister.’
‘What the…? Where…?’
‘See Sammy-boy, if there’s something decent to be had then I’m more than appreciative. But it just so happens that this city, and this country come to that, serves up shite so I don’t have much choice. Have to go with what you get given, whether you like it or not.’
‘It’s a hangover from the War and the fact that rationing went on for so long afterwards, you know that. Believe me, another thirty years and everything’ll have changed beyond recognition. Britain’ll be a great culinary capital, a world-leader, a melting pot of styles and influences and flavours. You’ll get....’
‘Spare me the home economics lecture, Tyler. But you can have me hot dog if you want. Lost all its appeal, somehow.’
‘Oh. Ta. Erm… That whatsitsname, muski… muska… Whatever it was you were talking about…’
‘What about it?’
‘Well… What is it? And where…?’
‘Told you. Spicy chicken in a buttie. From Palestine. Did part of me National Service there. Bloody odd place. All stones and donkeys and stinking poverty. But it gave me a taste for certain things.’
‘Go on.’
‘On where?’
‘Tell me more about Palestine.’
‘Told you already, haven’t I?’
‘Not much, no. We’ve got time to kill so tell me. What else was there that was good, apart from the musky-whatever?’
‘Musakhkhan.’
‘Apart from that. What were the other things, the other tastes you got a liking for?’
‘Ah, wouldn’t you like to know, Sammy-boy?’
‘Yeah. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Yeah and that’s why I’m not telling, okay?’
‘Why not? Won’t go any further than these four wheels. Promise.’
‘Leave it, Tyler.’
‘It’ll just be between you and me, whatever it is. You have my word as a copper, believe me.’
‘And you’d better believe me when I say that it won’t. Ever.’
‘Won’t what?’
‘Be between you and me.’
‘What won't?’
‘Nothing Tyler, nothing. Forget it, okay? Forget I ever said anything. Forget Palestine. Forget everything. Shut up and eat yer hot dog.’
‘Sorry, I don’t understand…’
‘Nor do I Sam, nor do I. Been trying for over twenty years and I still don’t understand. Still don’t forget, neither.’
‘Guv…’
‘Be a good boy, Tyler, and do as you’re told. That’s all. That’s all there is. All there ever is. All there ever will be.’
###
AN: This sort of grew out of discussions with dock_leaf and farothiel about whether Gene could or could not cook and the conclusion that having done National Service he certainly would be able to - and sew and iron too - but just might not choose to do so. I can't remember who first sent Gene to Palestine for his NS so my apologies for nicking the idea but it was so what was needed here that I hope you'll forgive me. *makes puppy-dog!Sammy eyes*