Fic: Basil; Shallots; Almonds; Dill
Basil; Shallots; Almonds; Dill
~745 words, G. Ronon introduces Rodney to his latest culinary find.
Sateda's dining room is quiet at nine in the morning, tables bare and dark against the soft, exposed brick of the restaurant's walls. In the kitchen the prep cooks are already at work - washing, dicing, weighing, butchering - but the din of their efforts is mere faint, white noise to Rodney's ear. He sits at the bar, fresh-brewed coffee at his elbow, reports of what's harvest-ready at six local farms beneath his fingertips, corners already dog-eared from the worry-work of his hands. Lettuce is done, bolting into flower, and while he's trained most of his diners to follow his lead and bend to the seasons, there are those who come to Portland for the summer and wander into his restaurant untutored in the art of local food. He hates their confusion, their hesitancy at the prospect of roasted beets, their slow, begrudging acceptance of fresh corn bisque. "Lemmings," he mumbles, scribbling notes to himself - basil; shallots; almond stuffing; cancel dill. He barely remembers to sip his coffee before it gets cold.
When the front door opens he doesn't turn around, just throws down his pencil and says, "No one's scheduled a crisis before ten today? How polite of your clients to plan their nervous breakdowns for after lunch."
"McKay," says Dex, sounding amused, and Rodney turns to see him amble across the restaurant in his wholly unhurried, lacksadaisical way. He nods a greeting as he sets a paper sack at Rodney's elbow, and with discomfiting grace he settles on a stool.
"We're closed, you know," Rodney offers.
"Mmmmhmm."
"And you look ridiculous." The statement's completely untrue, since Ronon Dex, Ph.D. (Psychology) has never looked ridiculous in his open-collared, bespoke-tailored life, but Rodney likes to keep things acerbic, particularly before he's begun cup-of-coffee-number-two.
"Brought you something," Ronon says, nudging the sack closer to Rodney's elbow, and Rodney sighs as though he's being asked to give up his soul. It's a sad and trying consequence of Ronon's owning most of Sateda that he feels he can wander into the establishment whenever he chooses, bringing bottles of wine from god-only-knows where, or cheeses from hippy artisans who live up the coast, or bread baked by some neighbor's mother, and worst of all, his picks are usually sublime.
Rodney picks at the sack with two fingers. "What is it?"
Ronon keeps his own counsel, a small, content smile on his face.
"God," Rodney muffs. "Of all the partners - oh, I'm sorry, majority shareholders - I could be forced to . . . " But he opens the sack in favor of finishing the sentence, curiosity overcoming his inclination to throw further insults at Ronon's head, and pulls out a jar of honey with a moose's ass printed clean across the front. "Moosebutt Honey," Rodney says, articulating every consonant. "A client then?" he asks.
Ronon hitches a shoulder. "Try it," he says.
"You want me to consume something transported in a jar with an animal's ass affixed to the label?" Rodney asks. "Touchingly rendered in charcoal though it is . . ."
"Try it," Ronon says again, and Rodney only manages to bite back a retort because the memory of the sheep's milk and rosemary cheese Ronon brought in a week-ago-Sunday is still fresh in his mind. He unscrews the jar and dips his a finger inside.
His hands are clean, his nails newly trimmed, so the taste of the honey has nothing to do with qualities carried in from other climes - but it's stunningly complex, a heady concoction with a hint of lavender at the nose, a touch of apple blossom that warms the back of Rodney's throat. "Shit," he says forcefully, setting down the jar and staring at the moose's ass. "What genius pissant made this?"
"You could meet him," Ronon suggests casually. "Friday."
"As though I'm leaving the restaurant on a Friday to the machinations of Zelenka's quail fantasies and Cadman's urge to infuse every dessert with spice enough to nickname it 'bomb'."
"We could lock in his supply. This guy," Ronon says, nodding at the honey jar. "No one else gets in."
Rodney clenches his fist and manfully doesn't swear in Czech, substituting a strangled vowel sound in its place. "If we don't come back from whatever corner of creation supports the livelihood of this idiot and his bees, a gold-written contract written in my pocket, tied with a bow and - "
"We'll come back with a contract," Ronon says, smirking. "I got a feeling."
"Feelings," Rodney says deadpan. "Oh goody. My favorite." And he sticks his finger in the jar again.
~745 words, G. Ronon introduces Rodney to his latest culinary find.
Sateda's dining room is quiet at nine in the morning, tables bare and dark against the soft, exposed brick of the restaurant's walls. In the kitchen the prep cooks are already at work - washing, dicing, weighing, butchering - but the din of their efforts is mere faint, white noise to Rodney's ear. He sits at the bar, fresh-brewed coffee at his elbow, reports of what's harvest-ready at six local farms beneath his fingertips, corners already dog-eared from the worry-work of his hands. Lettuce is done, bolting into flower, and while he's trained most of his diners to follow his lead and bend to the seasons, there are those who come to Portland for the summer and wander into his restaurant untutored in the art of local food. He hates their confusion, their hesitancy at the prospect of roasted beets, their slow, begrudging acceptance of fresh corn bisque. "Lemmings," he mumbles, scribbling notes to himself - basil; shallots; almond stuffing; cancel dill. He barely remembers to sip his coffee before it gets cold.
When the front door opens he doesn't turn around, just throws down his pencil and says, "No one's scheduled a crisis before ten today? How polite of your clients to plan their nervous breakdowns for after lunch."
"McKay," says Dex, sounding amused, and Rodney turns to see him amble across the restaurant in his wholly unhurried, lacksadaisical way. He nods a greeting as he sets a paper sack at Rodney's elbow, and with discomfiting grace he settles on a stool.
"We're closed, you know," Rodney offers.
"Mmmmhmm."
"And you look ridiculous." The statement's completely untrue, since Ronon Dex, Ph.D. (Psychology) has never looked ridiculous in his open-collared, bespoke-tailored life, but Rodney likes to keep things acerbic, particularly before he's begun cup-of-coffee-number-two.
"Brought you something," Ronon says, nudging the sack closer to Rodney's elbow, and Rodney sighs as though he's being asked to give up his soul. It's a sad and trying consequence of Ronon's owning most of Sateda that he feels he can wander into the establishment whenever he chooses, bringing bottles of wine from god-only-knows where, or cheeses from hippy artisans who live up the coast, or bread baked by some neighbor's mother, and worst of all, his picks are usually sublime.
Rodney picks at the sack with two fingers. "What is it?"
Ronon keeps his own counsel, a small, content smile on his face.
"God," Rodney muffs. "Of all the partners - oh, I'm sorry, majority shareholders - I could be forced to . . . " But he opens the sack in favor of finishing the sentence, curiosity overcoming his inclination to throw further insults at Ronon's head, and pulls out a jar of honey with a moose's ass printed clean across the front. "Moosebutt Honey," Rodney says, articulating every consonant. "A client then?" he asks.
Ronon hitches a shoulder. "Try it," he says.
"You want me to consume something transported in a jar with an animal's ass affixed to the label?" Rodney asks. "Touchingly rendered in charcoal though it is . . ."
"Try it," Ronon says again, and Rodney only manages to bite back a retort because the memory of the sheep's milk and rosemary cheese Ronon brought in a week-ago-Sunday is still fresh in his mind. He unscrews the jar and dips his a finger inside.
His hands are clean, his nails newly trimmed, so the taste of the honey has nothing to do with qualities carried in from other climes - but it's stunningly complex, a heady concoction with a hint of lavender at the nose, a touch of apple blossom that warms the back of Rodney's throat. "Shit," he says forcefully, setting down the jar and staring at the moose's ass. "What genius pissant made this?"
"You could meet him," Ronon suggests casually. "Friday."
"As though I'm leaving the restaurant on a Friday to the machinations of Zelenka's quail fantasies and Cadman's urge to infuse every dessert with spice enough to nickname it 'bomb'."
"We could lock in his supply. This guy," Ronon says, nodding at the honey jar. "No one else gets in."
Rodney clenches his fist and manfully doesn't swear in Czech, substituting a strangled vowel sound in its place. "If we don't come back from whatever corner of creation supports the livelihood of this idiot and his bees, a gold-written contract written in my pocket, tied with a bow and - "
"We'll come back with a contract," Ronon says, smirking. "I got a feeling."
"Feelings," Rodney says deadpan. "Oh goody. My favorite." And he sticks his finger in the jar again.