White Collar Fic: Small Plates, or Five Times Neal Enjoyed the Food in Prison
Title: Small Plates, or Five Times Neal Enjoyed the Food in Prison
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neal, OMC, gen
Spoilers: Diminishing Returns
Content Notice: Pre-series
Word Count: 2,500
Summary: What it says on the tin.
A/N: Neal's comment in “Diminishing Returns” that he’d enjoyed fresh-poached (?) duck confit while in prison got me to thinking about how and why that might have happened.
----
November, 2005
”Whatcha got there, Milo?”
“Aw, not more ‘a that fruity food you’re always bringin’ in?”
“Don’t insult it unless you’ve tried it.”
“You couldn’t PAY me to try any of that, yo. Looks like CAT FOOD.”
The derisive laughter and jokes of the guards receded, and Neal looked up briefly from his work to spot another guard he’d never seen before wander into the kitchen prep room looking dejected. He carried a small, blue plastic container in his hands with a paper bag under his arm, and was muttering something under his breath that became more understandable the closer he got to Neal.
“…stupid idiots wouldn’t know braciole from a Big Mac… big dummies…”
“What was that?” Neal said to the young man curiously. He was big, at least 6-foot-4 and built like a linebacker, with dark blonde, wavy hair he kept combed back from his forehead, large brown eyes set beneath bushy brows that made him look perpetually surprised, high cheekbones and an upturned nose that was almost, but not quite, pig-like in its aspect.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, coming up short in front of Neal. “I didn’t think anyone was in here.”
“Nah, man, it’s cool.” Neal stepped back from his station where he’d been peeling potatoes and spread his hands; it wouldn’t do to have a guard think he might pose a threat, and being relatively new to the prison, he didn’t yet know all of the ins and outs.
“Do YOU think this looks like cat food?” the young man said, pushing the small container at Neal, who had to scramble to grab it, lest it fall to the floor.
The concoction inside was of some sort of minced meat product, finely chopped, an odd pinkish-brownish color. If it weren’t for the delicate scent of shallot and cognac that wafted up to his nose, he could see how it might be likened to cat food. But as Neal realized what it was, he smiled and breathed in even more of its enticing aroma. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, amazed, his tone almost reverential. He didn’t think he’d ever taste rillettes de canard again in his life.
“Made it,” the young man answered diffidently.
“What? Seriously? Can - can I try some?”
“Sure.”
Neal looked around the kitchen for something appropriate to eat the rillettes with, though all he could find was a loaf of old white bread left over from breakfast. Well, maybe he could toast some…
“I brought some crostini,” the young man said, offering the bag he carried to Neal.
Neal took the proffered bag from him, found a clean, plastic spoon and spread a generous helping of the mixture onto the bread. Pausing only to smell it again, he took a hearty bite and nearly moaned with delight. “What I wouldn’t give for a glass of Languedoc right about now,” he said appreciatively, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the rich flavors.
“Or maybe a glass of dry sherry,” the young man suggested shyly, and Neal's eyes popped open with amazement.
“Yes! Yes, of course. You’re a genius.”
The young man beamed and handed him another piece of toasted baguette, and then another after Neal inhaled the second one. When he’d finished, Neal looked up at the guard with a wide and friendly smile. “Well, I must say, thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing this little bit of heaven with me.”
“You really liked my food?”
“Liked it? I loved it! For a second, I almost believed I wasn’t here anymore. I’m Neal, by the way, Neal Caffrey.”
“Glad to know you, Neal. I’m Milo Girard.” Milo held his hand out and Neal shook it with gusto.
“You’ve got a real talent, Milo Girard. You render your own duck fat?”
“Of course! It’s the only way to know it’s fresh. My grandmère would flay me alive if I used the commercial stuff.”
“Good man.”
“Caffrey! Those potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves, and I’ve got these chickens for you to break down next!” Louie the prep cook yelled around his cigarette from where he was standing inside the reefer.
“I shudder to think what that cigarette does to his palate,” Neal commented.
“Not to mention where the ashes must wind up - now you know why I bring my lunch,” Milo said seriously.
Neal would have laughed if it weren’t so true - prison food was as awful as he’d expected. “I should get back to it, then,” he said, handing the container of duck rillettes back to Milo.
“Keep it,” Milo said, and handed Neal the bag of bread. “I’ve got more at home, and at least you’ll enjoy it.”
“Hey, thanks,” Neal said with true appreciation, sealing the container and resolving to get back to it when he had another break. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yep,” Milo said and backed away, a proud smile on his face.
----
February, 2007
“Here, Neal, taste this one again.”
“Milo! No mas!” Neal said, holding his hands palms-out in front of him.
Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey turned away gourmet fare, but he was absolutely stuffed to the gills. Milo had dragged him to a corner of the prison’s kitchen where he’d brought a cooler filled with perhaps eight different dishes.
“I need to know what’s the best, Neal, come on. It’s important.”
“Why’s it so important?” Neal said, contemplating the shaved beet salad with a raised eyebrow and wondering if he could fit just one more bite.
Milo squeezed the back of his own neck with one massive hand and winced. “I’m asking my girl to marry me on Valentine’s.”
A sudden warmth filled Neal at the news - and, he would not lie, a twinge of jealousy, as he wished he could do the same with Kate. “Milo, that - that’s terrific. Congratulations. How long have you two been going out?”
“Since high school.”
“Then it’s high time you took the plunge,” Neal said and proffered his hand for the guard to shake. “So, OK, menu choices. You want to be sure it’s not something too fiddly, so you won’t spend all your time in the kitchen. And maybe no garlic, you know what I’m saying? And those beets - they’re terrific, but they stain, you know? No, I think the tuna carpaccio as a starter, then the porcini-dusted lamb chops with the celery root puree - very earthy, shows you’ve got depth as well as sophistication. And for dessert… hmm…”
“She likes chocolate,” Milo supplied.
“Then by all means, go with the chocolate covered strawberry; simple yet elegant. And rest the ring right on top of it, you know? Maybe write ‘will you marry me’ on the plate with chocolate or something equally corny.”
“You think?” Milo was biting his lip, unsure.
“Trust me, no girl could resist.”
“Thanks, Neal!” Milo said happily and wrapped the convict in his large arms for a second. “You’re such a good friend - I don’t know what I’d do without you!”
“Now, now, don’t get all mushy on me. You’ve got some planning to do. But hey, leave those beets, will ya?”
Neal watched his friend leave, a spring in his step as he set off to get started on yet another chapter of his life, and wished he didn’t feel like his own story had stalled out.
----
June, 2009
“Neal?”
Neal lay on his bare mattress, facing the bare wall of his bare cell, and did not move.
“Come on, Neal, you gotta snap out of it, man.”
“Lea’ me alone, Milo,” he mumbled and wrapped his arms tighter around himself.
“I know you’re bummin’ out, man, but at least you tried, huh?”
“Four more years, Milo. I’ll be in here four more years, and I don’t know where she is or why she left.”
He could hear Milo’s shoes shuffle against the floor as he shifted his weight. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help, or get word to her.”
Neal sat up and looked at Milo; over the years of his imprisonment, one of the few bright spots had been his friendship with the younger man, who continued to bring him gourmet treats on a weekly basis as he invented new recipes, tried out new techniques, or worked out the menu for his imaginary, dream restaurant. Lacking a certain level of confidence, Milo was convinced his restaurant would never happen, but Neal repeatedly encouraged him to consider going to culinary school to at least hone his skills and get some training, if he was ever going to make it a reality.
“Thanks for the offer, but you shouldn’t.” Neal had very deliberately scheduled his prison break for the week of Milo’s wedding - he didn’t want anyone to suspect his friend was aiding and abetting him in any way.
“She had to have her reasons, you know?”
“But I’ll never find them out if I don’t find her,” Neal said fatalistically, and ran his hands through his hair.
“I brought you lunch,” Milo said, holding out a cardboard container and entering Neal's cell.
“Really?” Despite his misery over Kate’s disappearance and his extended sentence, the thought of Milo’s food brought him a small comfort.
“It’s an herbed goat cheese and heirloom tomato tartine,” Milo explained. He held up another box. “And blueberry tartlets, in case you want dessert.”
Neal was unspeakably touched by the gesture, by his friend trying to comfort him the only way he knew how - with food, and he was so grateful. “Thanks, Milo,” he said, tears pricking at his eyelids. “You don’t know what this means.”
“I do, Neal, I do.”
He took the box from Milo and opened it up. Inside, covering the sandwich, was an opened envelope lying face-down. Neal balanced the box on his lap and picked up the envelope - it was from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. “Milo -“ he began, looking up with a grin.
“I got in!” Milo said.
“You got in?” Neal put the box on his bunk and jumped to his feet. “Congratulations! That’s terrific!”
Milo blushed proudly and accepted Neal's proffered hand, shaking it. “I know! I start in September. Annie’s so excited to move to Paris.”
“I’ll bet she is,” Neal said; he’d never met Milo’s new wife, but she sounded like a good person, encouraging Milo in his ambitions even more than Neal.
Feeling his mood improve with happiness for his friend, Neal picked up the open-faced sandwich Milo had brought and took a hearty bite. Seeing that some things could work out for the better filled him with a hope that good things could happen. And who knew - maybe Agent Burke would take him up on his offer to talk about that Dutchman case.
----
September, 2009
“Hi, Neal.”
Neal looked up from the pot he was scrubbing in the kitchen and smiled at Milo, who stood wringing his hands along the folded-down top of a brown paper bag he held. “Last day, huh? You and Annie all packed for Paris?”
“Yeah, we leave day after tomorrow.” A look of trepidation passed over Milo’s face and Neal shut off the water in the sink, dried his hands on his apron.
“What’s wrong?”
Milo wrung the bag some more until it seemed on the verge of being torn in half. “What if this is a mistake? What I’m not good enough, or they hate me, or I flunk out?”
Neal rescued the bag from Milo and set it aside, then put his hands on Milo’s upper arms and squeezed. “Listen, you’ll do great. You were born to do this, and you will - I have faith.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Oh, I never said it would be easy, but you’ll still do well, Milo. You’re destined for great things. No one could make the food you make and not be. Just promise me one thing, huh?”
“Anything, Neal.”
“Look me up when you’re ready to open your restaurant, OK? At the very least, I’ll help choose the wine list, eh?”
Milo laughed and pulled Neal in for a hug, the air rushing out of Neal's lungs with an “OOF!”
“Thanks, Neal, I’ll never forget all you’ve done to boost my confidence, never. You’re a really good friend, and I’ll really miss you. Now here,” he pushed the bag he’d brought closer to Neal. “I made you an apple galette - you can take it to your cell to eat later.”
“Milo, I will definitely miss you more than you will miss me.” Neal said peeking into the bag. “If I had some wine, we could toast to your new beginnings.”
“Yeah,” Milo said with a grin and turned to go. He paused in the doorway and turned back to Neal. “You know, you’ll have a new beginning soon too, Neal. It’ll all work out, you know? I have faith. In you.”
“Thanks, that means a lot, Milo. Take care, man.”
Neal smiled as he watched Milo leave the kitchen, found a seat and opened up the bag he’d brought, reaching in for the pastry lying inside. Before he had a chance to take a bite though, another guard came and yelled for him from the doorway.
“Caffrey! Come on, you’ve got a visitor!”
Neal rose and went to him. “Who is it - it’s past visiting hours today,” he asked.
The guard rolled his eyes and gave him an annoyed look. “I don’t know, some FBI Agent Baines or Burnes or -“
“Burke?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Neal smiled and handed the guard Milo’s pastry bag. Maybe his new beginning had arrived earlier than expected.
----
January, 2013
ZAGAT GUIDE
The Lambshank Redemption
“Sure, you gotta wait a year” for a reservation (or you might try “greasing the palms” of the “bizarre, bald, and bespectacled” maître d’) at Neal Caffrey’s companion to his “ode to the art of confectionery” The Greatest Cake, but prison guard-turned-chef Milo Girard’s country-French cuisine “like no one’s grandmère ever made” is both “worth it” for the eight-course tasting menu, and “criminally decadent” desserts that make it a “must-visit” for special occasions or just a leisurely glass of wine after work. Famous for its “colorfully criminal” and “Brooks Brothers suit” clientele alike, this “comfortable yet elegant” spot provides a “culinary adventure” that’ll “con” even hard-core gourmands out of their hard-earned cash.
----
"Thank you for your time."
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neal, OMC, gen
Spoilers: Diminishing Returns
Content Notice: Pre-series
Word Count: 2,500
Summary: What it says on the tin.
A/N: Neal's comment in “Diminishing Returns” that he’d enjoyed fresh-poached (?) duck confit while in prison got me to thinking about how and why that might have happened.
----
November, 2005
”Whatcha got there, Milo?”
“Aw, not more ‘a that fruity food you’re always bringin’ in?”
“Don’t insult it unless you’ve tried it.”
“You couldn’t PAY me to try any of that, yo. Looks like CAT FOOD.”
The derisive laughter and jokes of the guards receded, and Neal looked up briefly from his work to spot another guard he’d never seen before wander into the kitchen prep room looking dejected. He carried a small, blue plastic container in his hands with a paper bag under his arm, and was muttering something under his breath that became more understandable the closer he got to Neal.
“…stupid idiots wouldn’t know braciole from a Big Mac… big dummies…”
“What was that?” Neal said to the young man curiously. He was big, at least 6-foot-4 and built like a linebacker, with dark blonde, wavy hair he kept combed back from his forehead, large brown eyes set beneath bushy brows that made him look perpetually surprised, high cheekbones and an upturned nose that was almost, but not quite, pig-like in its aspect.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, coming up short in front of Neal. “I didn’t think anyone was in here.”
“Nah, man, it’s cool.” Neal stepped back from his station where he’d been peeling potatoes and spread his hands; it wouldn’t do to have a guard think he might pose a threat, and being relatively new to the prison, he didn’t yet know all of the ins and outs.
“Do YOU think this looks like cat food?” the young man said, pushing the small container at Neal, who had to scramble to grab it, lest it fall to the floor.
The concoction inside was of some sort of minced meat product, finely chopped, an odd pinkish-brownish color. If it weren’t for the delicate scent of shallot and cognac that wafted up to his nose, he could see how it might be likened to cat food. But as Neal realized what it was, he smiled and breathed in even more of its enticing aroma. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, amazed, his tone almost reverential. He didn’t think he’d ever taste rillettes de canard again in his life.
“Made it,” the young man answered diffidently.
“What? Seriously? Can - can I try some?”
“Sure.”
Neal looked around the kitchen for something appropriate to eat the rillettes with, though all he could find was a loaf of old white bread left over from breakfast. Well, maybe he could toast some…
“I brought some crostini,” the young man said, offering the bag he carried to Neal.
Neal took the proffered bag from him, found a clean, plastic spoon and spread a generous helping of the mixture onto the bread. Pausing only to smell it again, he took a hearty bite and nearly moaned with delight. “What I wouldn’t give for a glass of Languedoc right about now,” he said appreciatively, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the rich flavors.
“Or maybe a glass of dry sherry,” the young man suggested shyly, and Neal's eyes popped open with amazement.
“Yes! Yes, of course. You’re a genius.”
The young man beamed and handed him another piece of toasted baguette, and then another after Neal inhaled the second one. When he’d finished, Neal looked up at the guard with a wide and friendly smile. “Well, I must say, thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing this little bit of heaven with me.”
“You really liked my food?”
“Liked it? I loved it! For a second, I almost believed I wasn’t here anymore. I’m Neal, by the way, Neal Caffrey.”
“Glad to know you, Neal. I’m Milo Girard.” Milo held his hand out and Neal shook it with gusto.
“You’ve got a real talent, Milo Girard. You render your own duck fat?”
“Of course! It’s the only way to know it’s fresh. My grandmère would flay me alive if I used the commercial stuff.”
“Good man.”
“Caffrey! Those potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves, and I’ve got these chickens for you to break down next!” Louie the prep cook yelled around his cigarette from where he was standing inside the reefer.
“I shudder to think what that cigarette does to his palate,” Neal commented.
“Not to mention where the ashes must wind up - now you know why I bring my lunch,” Milo said seriously.
Neal would have laughed if it weren’t so true - prison food was as awful as he’d expected. “I should get back to it, then,” he said, handing the container of duck rillettes back to Milo.
“Keep it,” Milo said, and handed Neal the bag of bread. “I’ve got more at home, and at least you’ll enjoy it.”
“Hey, thanks,” Neal said with true appreciation, sealing the container and resolving to get back to it when he had another break. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yep,” Milo said and backed away, a proud smile on his face.
----
February, 2007
“Here, Neal, taste this one again.”
“Milo! No mas!” Neal said, holding his hands palms-out in front of him.
Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey turned away gourmet fare, but he was absolutely stuffed to the gills. Milo had dragged him to a corner of the prison’s kitchen where he’d brought a cooler filled with perhaps eight different dishes.
“I need to know what’s the best, Neal, come on. It’s important.”
“Why’s it so important?” Neal said, contemplating the shaved beet salad with a raised eyebrow and wondering if he could fit just one more bite.
Milo squeezed the back of his own neck with one massive hand and winced. “I’m asking my girl to marry me on Valentine’s.”
A sudden warmth filled Neal at the news - and, he would not lie, a twinge of jealousy, as he wished he could do the same with Kate. “Milo, that - that’s terrific. Congratulations. How long have you two been going out?”
“Since high school.”
“Then it’s high time you took the plunge,” Neal said and proffered his hand for the guard to shake. “So, OK, menu choices. You want to be sure it’s not something too fiddly, so you won’t spend all your time in the kitchen. And maybe no garlic, you know what I’m saying? And those beets - they’re terrific, but they stain, you know? No, I think the tuna carpaccio as a starter, then the porcini-dusted lamb chops with the celery root puree - very earthy, shows you’ve got depth as well as sophistication. And for dessert… hmm…”
“She likes chocolate,” Milo supplied.
“Then by all means, go with the chocolate covered strawberry; simple yet elegant. And rest the ring right on top of it, you know? Maybe write ‘will you marry me’ on the plate with chocolate or something equally corny.”
“You think?” Milo was biting his lip, unsure.
“Trust me, no girl could resist.”
“Thanks, Neal!” Milo said happily and wrapped the convict in his large arms for a second. “You’re such a good friend - I don’t know what I’d do without you!”
“Now, now, don’t get all mushy on me. You’ve got some planning to do. But hey, leave those beets, will ya?”
Neal watched his friend leave, a spring in his step as he set off to get started on yet another chapter of his life, and wished he didn’t feel like his own story had stalled out.
----
June, 2009
“Neal?”
Neal lay on his bare mattress, facing the bare wall of his bare cell, and did not move.
“Come on, Neal, you gotta snap out of it, man.”
“Lea’ me alone, Milo,” he mumbled and wrapped his arms tighter around himself.
“I know you’re bummin’ out, man, but at least you tried, huh?”
“Four more years, Milo. I’ll be in here four more years, and I don’t know where she is or why she left.”
He could hear Milo’s shoes shuffle against the floor as he shifted his weight. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help, or get word to her.”
Neal sat up and looked at Milo; over the years of his imprisonment, one of the few bright spots had been his friendship with the younger man, who continued to bring him gourmet treats on a weekly basis as he invented new recipes, tried out new techniques, or worked out the menu for his imaginary, dream restaurant. Lacking a certain level of confidence, Milo was convinced his restaurant would never happen, but Neal repeatedly encouraged him to consider going to culinary school to at least hone his skills and get some training, if he was ever going to make it a reality.
“Thanks for the offer, but you shouldn’t.” Neal had very deliberately scheduled his prison break for the week of Milo’s wedding - he didn’t want anyone to suspect his friend was aiding and abetting him in any way.
“She had to have her reasons, you know?”
“But I’ll never find them out if I don’t find her,” Neal said fatalistically, and ran his hands through his hair.
“I brought you lunch,” Milo said, holding out a cardboard container and entering Neal's cell.
“Really?” Despite his misery over Kate’s disappearance and his extended sentence, the thought of Milo’s food brought him a small comfort.
“It’s an herbed goat cheese and heirloom tomato tartine,” Milo explained. He held up another box. “And blueberry tartlets, in case you want dessert.”
Neal was unspeakably touched by the gesture, by his friend trying to comfort him the only way he knew how - with food, and he was so grateful. “Thanks, Milo,” he said, tears pricking at his eyelids. “You don’t know what this means.”
“I do, Neal, I do.”
He took the box from Milo and opened it up. Inside, covering the sandwich, was an opened envelope lying face-down. Neal balanced the box on his lap and picked up the envelope - it was from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. “Milo -“ he began, looking up with a grin.
“I got in!” Milo said.
“You got in?” Neal put the box on his bunk and jumped to his feet. “Congratulations! That’s terrific!”
Milo blushed proudly and accepted Neal's proffered hand, shaking it. “I know! I start in September. Annie’s so excited to move to Paris.”
“I’ll bet she is,” Neal said; he’d never met Milo’s new wife, but she sounded like a good person, encouraging Milo in his ambitions even more than Neal.
Feeling his mood improve with happiness for his friend, Neal picked up the open-faced sandwich Milo had brought and took a hearty bite. Seeing that some things could work out for the better filled him with a hope that good things could happen. And who knew - maybe Agent Burke would take him up on his offer to talk about that Dutchman case.
----
September, 2009
“Hi, Neal.”
Neal looked up from the pot he was scrubbing in the kitchen and smiled at Milo, who stood wringing his hands along the folded-down top of a brown paper bag he held. “Last day, huh? You and Annie all packed for Paris?”
“Yeah, we leave day after tomorrow.” A look of trepidation passed over Milo’s face and Neal shut off the water in the sink, dried his hands on his apron.
“What’s wrong?”
Milo wrung the bag some more until it seemed on the verge of being torn in half. “What if this is a mistake? What I’m not good enough, or they hate me, or I flunk out?”
Neal rescued the bag from Milo and set it aside, then put his hands on Milo’s upper arms and squeezed. “Listen, you’ll do great. You were born to do this, and you will - I have faith.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Oh, I never said it would be easy, but you’ll still do well, Milo. You’re destined for great things. No one could make the food you make and not be. Just promise me one thing, huh?”
“Anything, Neal.”
“Look me up when you’re ready to open your restaurant, OK? At the very least, I’ll help choose the wine list, eh?”
Milo laughed and pulled Neal in for a hug, the air rushing out of Neal's lungs with an “OOF!”
“Thanks, Neal, I’ll never forget all you’ve done to boost my confidence, never. You’re a really good friend, and I’ll really miss you. Now here,” he pushed the bag he’d brought closer to Neal. “I made you an apple galette - you can take it to your cell to eat later.”
“Milo, I will definitely miss you more than you will miss me.” Neal said peeking into the bag. “If I had some wine, we could toast to your new beginnings.”
“Yeah,” Milo said with a grin and turned to go. He paused in the doorway and turned back to Neal. “You know, you’ll have a new beginning soon too, Neal. It’ll all work out, you know? I have faith. In you.”
“Thanks, that means a lot, Milo. Take care, man.”
Neal smiled as he watched Milo leave the kitchen, found a seat and opened up the bag he’d brought, reaching in for the pastry lying inside. Before he had a chance to take a bite though, another guard came and yelled for him from the doorway.
“Caffrey! Come on, you’ve got a visitor!”
Neal rose and went to him. “Who is it - it’s past visiting hours today,” he asked.
The guard rolled his eyes and gave him an annoyed look. “I don’t know, some FBI Agent Baines or Burnes or -“
“Burke?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Neal smiled and handed the guard Milo’s pastry bag. Maybe his new beginning had arrived earlier than expected.
----
January, 2013
ZAGAT GUIDE
The Lambshank Redemption
“Sure, you gotta wait a year” for a reservation (or you might try “greasing the palms” of the “bizarre, bald, and bespectacled” maître d’) at Neal Caffrey’s companion to his “ode to the art of confectionery” The Greatest Cake, but prison guard-turned-chef Milo Girard’s country-French cuisine “like no one’s grandmère ever made” is both “worth it” for the eight-course tasting menu, and “criminally decadent” desserts that make it a “must-visit” for special occasions or just a leisurely glass of wine after work. Famous for its “colorfully criminal” and “Brooks Brothers suit” clientele alike, this “comfortable yet elegant” spot provides a “culinary adventure” that’ll “con” even hard-core gourmands out of their hard-earned cash.
----
"Thank you for your time."