round one prompt post - CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS
ROUND ONE IS CURRENTLY CLOSED TO PROMPTS. ANY PROMPT POSTED HERE FROM NOW ON WILL BE DELETED.
New rounds will open at suits_meme.
Round One is officially closed. Round Two will open on Wednesday morning. Feel free to continue posting fills.
Refer to the Rules before posting a prompt.
Direct any of your concerns to the Mod Post.
I'll be archiving prompts (both ( Read more... )
New rounds will open at suits_meme.
Round One is officially closed. Round Two will open on Wednesday morning. Feel free to continue posting fills.
Refer to the Rules before posting a prompt.
Direct any of your concerns to the Mod Post.
I'll be archiving prompts (both ( Read more... )
Notes: On the crack-y side. Deviates a bit from the prompt. No beta. Also, I know nothing about half the things this prompt is about.
"Come on, man. You need the cash, and it's not as bad as you make it sound."
Mike stared at Trevor. "You want me to bring weed into a public kitchen, then bake something with it and hand that over to a complete stranger," he repeated, incredulous. There weren't many ways to make that any better than it sounded.
Trevor scowled and took one of the cupcakes- red velvet and cannabis, the heavenly product of sixty-two experimental batches- off of the plate. "Not just any stranger, a potential buyer. And I know for a fact you're just going to bring in some kind of... marijuana juice, or whatever."
"Tincture," Mike muttered darkly. "Seriously, I wrote you a guide for this. Why can't you do it?"
Trevor looked at Mike and shook his head sadly, like Mike was the unfortunate kid in class who only ever asked stupid questions (which, thanks eidetic memory, he had never been). "Because no one can bake weed like you can," he said, deadly serious.
The thing is, it was true. It all started during their junior year of high school, when Trevor asked Mike to make the pot brownies for some party.
Mike was even more eager to please back then, and he had always been good with details and clear directions, so he decided to make a project of it. He went through dozens of cookbooks. He read up on the different ways to incorporate weed into a recipe. He even made a few batches of weed-free brownies for comparison.
The thing about being a stoned high schooler is that you sort of want to eat anything. Even better, what you eat usually tastes fantastic, unless you're hammered, then it can taste like vomit. Not that anyone that wasted ever minded.
But things that already would have tasted fantastic? They taste downright orgasmic. Mike's brownies were supposedly the best pot brownies that anyone had ever tasted, and Trevor tried to strap him with the job indefinitely.
Even after they graduated, people called Trevor up sometimes to ask where he got those delicious baked goods. He ended up making a job out of it, being a Girl Scout for potheads.
He always tried to get Mike to bake something for sale, but Mike was more cautious after that. He experimented with weed all the time, had even made Trevor several birthday cakes with weed, but he only baked for small groups. That didn't stop Trevor from asking every time they hung out.
“I'm just saying that the offer's there if you want it,” Trevor told Mike. He placed his cupcake on a napkin and began to peel away the liner. “Bake a fancy souffle for a client of mine, and I'll deal with your gram's payment.”
Mike had to hide a wince when he wiped all of the chocolate ganache frosting off on the napkin. “What exactly do you need a “fancy” baked good for? Don't you just sell boxed cakes to college students?”
Trevor shrugged and took a bite of the cupcake. “People don't just want weed, Mike,” he explained around the crumbs. “They want quality weed. If you bake something nice with the weed, it shows off the quality. You in?”
Mike only hesitated for a second. He did need the money, and he figured the drug-dealers-die-painful-deaths statistics that he had memorised had less to do with cannabis-pastry-chefs and more to do with people who carried around cases full of drugs. Mike wasn't dumb enough to do shit like that.
“Alright, but it's a one-time deal.”
Trevor grinned and held out a hand for a high five. “Great, man. I'll get you the buds I want used tomorrow.”
Mike sighed. "Do you never read the things I give you? I need a month to make a tincture with marijuana, and if you want my best souffle, I need a tincture."
"Well, just use the best one you have, then," Trevor replied with a wave of his hand. Mike was mildly offended by the implication that he would use anything but the best ingredients possible. "These cupcakes are really good, you know?"
Mike nodded, defeated, and went to put together the things he'd need to make the souffle.
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I read the summary and cracked up!
He "needs somewhere to hide his weed souffle." Ahahaha.
Oh goodness. I like this. Quite a lot.
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I love how the original story is translated into this, with some critique of mike's actions in the show, as this mike would never carry "around cases full of drugs" :D (but then, baking in a public kitchen with a.. tincture might be just as risky -- we'll see :D)
I really love the translation of LAW Suits to FOOD suits and cannot wait to see more baking action! and harvey of course! rock on!
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Also, the deviations from the prompt sound like they actually make more sense than the original prompt, so that totally works for me. Thank you for filling this, I can't wait for more! -OP
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Mike was nervous. It wasn't everyday that he carried drugs into a public space, after all. He had worked enough with weed to be confident that his product wouldn't smell too obviously of drugs, but the kitchen was busier than usual. There was a group of fifteen bakers milling about, all in very official looking uniforms and hats.
Mike pocketed his cannabis tincture as soon as he had incorporated it into the chocolate, and his hands shook so much that he ended up over-folding the egg whites into his chocolate mixture. When it was almost time for the buyer to show up, Mike checked the souffle- puffed and beautiful- and slipped on his oven mitts.
He watched the door and checked the identifying pin on his chest- something about Trevor's fake business. Right on time, the door swung open.
A woman with the large group of bakers began to yell out some guy's name, but Mike barely registered it. The man that was supposed to eat his souffle had just walked through the door, green scarf and all, but there was a gun under his jacket and he was talking quietly to no one. His head was tilted and turned back to the right side, and Mike was sure that meant he was wearing an earpiece.
His buyer was a cop.
Panicked, Mike pulled his souffle out of the oven- careful, even in his haste- and turned around. He couldn't be seen at the station he'd used. He skidded over to the woman who was yelling to the group and placed his souffle down in front of her, positioned himself with his back to the door. With his hands free, he yanked the pin off and stuffed it in his pocket.
"Mr. Sorkin?" The woman asked, looking Mike up and down. "Rick Sorkin, your product is five minutes late. Is there any reason we shouldn't just throw it out?"
Mike scrambled for words, opened and closed his mouth ineffectively. He managed to get over the mental mantra of oh god, I'm going to jail for a souffle long enough to string together an answer. "You can throw it away. I just don't want the police to know it has weed in it." The woman stared at him, eyebrows raised. Mike had never been good at lying under pressure.
Half of Mike's brain was still stuck on imagining how terrible jail would be. The other half refused to move on from the fact that his souffle was going to deflate any moment.
Then, the woman turned to the man sitting at a table a few feet away and gave him a not-at-all-subtle wink. She turned back to Mike, a complete professional again. "Mr. Specter will see you."
He looked back to the man, dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit and studying Mike like he was nothing more than a particularly interesting plate garnish. Jail time and flattening souffle all went to the back of Mike's head, because now he had gotten looped into some kind of professional tasting, and he had a marijuana souffle in his hands.
“Now,” the woman supplied. She looked at Mike like he was mentally defective. “He'll see you now, Mr. Sorkin.”
Mike nodded and stumbled over to the man, helpless. "Uh, Rick Sorkin," he offered. He placed the dessert down in front of Mr. Specter and waited anxiously.
The man gestured to the seat across from him and smiled, polite and effortless. "Harvey Specter. Have a seat."
Mike sat down because it was really his only option. Harvey studied Mike's souffle quietly. Somehow, he managed to look serious even while staring at a ramekin from thirteen different angles. Mike watched, on edge, as Harvey picked up a spoon and scooped out a bite of the souffle.
Harvey slid the spoon into his mouth, then stared at Mike, eyes wide. He swallowed slowly, and Mike thought for a second that maybe he should have just taken his chances with the cops.
“Did you just give me a souffle with weed in it?” Harvey asked after a moment of heavy silence. He looked around the room, then lowered his voice. “Did you wake up this stupid today, or have you always been a complete idiot?”
Mike didn't know which answer would be better. "There was a chocolate sauce for the top, but I left it at my station,” he offered.
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Harvey let the kid sweat for a few seconds before he smirked and leaned back in his chair. “So, clearly you're not Rick Sorkin. No one who trained at one of the most prestigious culinary schools in France would bring weed to an interview.”
“No, I'm Mike. Mike Ross. I was honestly just trying to hide from the cop that walked in.”
Harvey looked in the direction that Mike had pointed. There was a man in a suit that looked confused, but not all that suspicious. “How do you know he's a cop?”
Mike glanced at the man briefly, then looked back at Harvey. “The way he tilts his head to the side. I read that cops wear their earpieces on that side, and he looks like he's listening to something.” Harvey couldn't help but listen when Mike talked; he was eager to share what he knew, almost to a fault.
“And why was he looking for you? I mean, what is the deal with your marijuana souffle?”
Mike hesitated and looked down at the souffle. “I've got a friend who deals,” he confessed. “He wanted me to show off the quality of the weed with a souffle, and I needed the money.” Then, he looked up at Harvey, face hard and determined. “I know how to bake, and I'm good enough to add weed into almost anything and still make it taste good.”
Mike Ross was impressive; anyone who managed to turn baking with marijuana into an art form was inventive enough to get Harvey's attention. Weed was an ingredient, just like anything else. Harvey couldn't even begin to imagine how well Mike would take to working with something else.
He'd kill at seasonal specialties. Harvey propped his hands underneath his chin. “We should just give you the job,” he murmured.
Mike sat up, eager. “I'd take it.”
“I can't,” Harvey told him, genuinely regretful. “We only hire chefs who have been trained in France. And you weren't trained anywhere at all, right?”
Mike hesitated, then put on that charmingly determined face again.
“But what if I turned out to be just as good as any of those guys who got proper training? And, I know more than any of them, guaranteed. What if I told you I've read thousands of recipes, and I know exactly what goes wrong and what goes right with each of them?” Harvey was quiet, and Mike pushed on. “Ask me anything. I'll prove it.”
Harvey decided to give him an easy one to start. “Okay, basic genoise. Tell me about it.”
“A sponge cake,” Mike supplied automatically. “It's egg-based, which is how it gets its volume. It's also dry, so it's best soaked with a liquer or syrup. Some popular recipes include folding melted butter into a part of the batter, but that can-”
“Alright,” Harvey interrupted, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “Very nice. You've read a book. But those guys spent years under the guidance of renowned bakers, learning the ins and outs of the kitchen. Do you even know any professional bakers?”
“Trevor's girlfriend wanted to watch that movie that came out about Julia Child,” Mike offered.
Harvey groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. He stood up and straightened his suit. “I'm sorry, but I really can't hire a man who's never stepped foot in a real kitchen.”
Mike nodded and stood up as well. “That's fine,” he said, nodding his head towards the group of men left for Harvey to interview. “I'm sure you like to babysit the new bakers that you recruit.”
Harvey looked over Mike's head at the group of actual interviewees. One of them appeared to have misplaced his recipe and was rapidly approaching a panic attack. Another was painstakingly measuring out 1/3 of a cup of glaze to put on his cake.
Harvey grimaced and turned back to Mike; Mike did his best to look like an attentive chef worthy of being hired. Mostly, he looked like a wet dog in an apron.
It was all the same to Harvey, though. “Go home and throw away anything you've used to bake with weed,” he told Mike sternly. “Get your nails trimmed and filed so that they're halfway decent, and tell Donna to send everyone else home on your way out.” Mike looked up at Harvey. He seemed surprised, despite having spent the better part of the conversation convincing Harvey to hire him. “I need to tell my boss that I've found our new assistant baker."
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Getting called to Jessica's office was never a very pleasant experience, especially when Louis was there to watch Jessica hand off ridiculous, demeaning jobs to Harvey.
“Croissants?” Harvey asked, incredulous. “I wear a suit to work, and you want me to go back to spending hours rolling out croissants? No offense, but you've got seven assistant bakers- eight, now- who are actually paid to do entry-level jobs like that.” He paused and gestured toward Louis, seconds away from an eye-roll. “Not to mention Louis.”
Louis rolled his eyes. Harvey wondered if it was difficult being so predictable. “Harvey, I'm a manager, too, and I dress just as nicely as you do.”
“Let's not get carried away,” Harvey deadpanned. “And as far as management goes, last night your sister-”
“Harvey,” Jessica interrupted. “You are not going to taunt Louis into demanding that he be given the privilege of doing your job.”
Harvey was certain she was only saying that because it would have worked.
“That still doesn't answer why I have to do this.”
Jessica lifted a folder from her desk and handed it to Harvey. “A woman requested you, specifically. Back when you were still baking for a living, you made a batch of croissants for her and tampered with the recipe.” She lifted an eyebrow at Harvey, and Harvey shrugged.
It wasn't like it was a secret that he was willing to bend the rules if it meant getting a better product, even back when he was doing kitchen work.
Jessica sighed and continued. “Apparently they were 'heavenly' and she wants them again. Since this was all before you were technically entitled to make changes to our bakery's recipes, we don't have the recipe that you used. Recreate it.”
“That was years ago. I could make a hundred batches and still not get the right one.”
Jessica couldn't be moved. “Then put the spare ones in baskets and hand them out to the people you offend,” she suggested coolly. “You're going to do this personally, Harvey. If it means reassigning half of your duties to Louis, I will.”
Harvey agreed before Louis could fit any more smugness on his face and left to personally deal with the croissants.
He found Mike standing in the kitchen with his uniform in his arms, staring at the recipe girl, Rachel, as she stormed off. She was ridiculously good at her job- finding new recipes for the bakery, keeping track of old ones- so she didn't have to play well with others.
“Mike,” he greeted, shoving Jessica's folder on top of the stack of clothes. “Here's your first project. It's a great experience, you should be very honored, and if you tell anyone that you're doing it, I'll personally see to it you never come within ten feet of an oven again.”
Mike managed to switch his shell-shocked look over to Harvey halfway through the explanation. He fumbled with the folder and blinked slowly. “Uh, what?” He still seemed to be torn between staring at Harvey, staring at Rachel, and trying to skim the contents of the folder.
Harvey was at his best when he had a person's full attention. That was really the only explanation for his petulant response of, “Figure it out, genius.”
Mike scowled, but he caught up quickly enough. “Croissants?” he asked. “How do I-”
“Ask the queen of all things recipe,” Harvey said, nodding his head in the direction Rachel had gone.
Mike flushed. “Harvey, she really doesn't like me,” he protested. “I don't think she wants to talk to me.”
Harvey cocked an eyebrow. “Then leave a note in her locker and don't make out with her friends behind the bleachers.”
“Ha ha,” Mike said, sarcastic. “You only joke that we're like high schoolers because you're intimidated by my youthful vigor.” He flashed Harvey a stupid smile- some combination of eager and smug. “Don't worry. I'll try not to make you look bad when my croissants blow the customer away.”
Harvey barely managed to bite back a smile at that, so he handed the file off to Mike and went off to do very important manager things. If he made sure that Rachel was swamped with tracking down some unusual recipes for the afternoon, then it was really just because he wanted to see how well Mike did under pressure.
Donna, with her ridiculous, all-knowing smirk, asked Harvey when she should make sure they had goat eyes in stock.
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And: croissants! Harvey changed the recipe! Of course Mike will blow him away! :D
Eagerly awaiting more!
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of course, mike will blow customer away,and he will blow harvey away as well. I have faith in him :)
waiting for the next chapter eagerly
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I just read the second part of this AND IT WAS GREAT!!!!! Incredulous!Harvey and Winking!Donna. And The Boy With the Souffle!
*ahahaha
one thing is puzzling me and google has no ready answers: what is a 'public' kitchen? does it exist? is it really somewhere where everybody can just cook? would they have an 'entrance test thing' there?
sorry if it should be very obvious -_-
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