Fanfics + Homework = Best.
HAI GUYS. HAI FOUR AM. HOW ARE YOU ALL DOING.
So I have this class called "Cultural Perspectives on Food and Nutrition." And for this class I have this project wherein I have to write three short stories showcasing different cultural phenomena as they pertain to food. (There's a set list of these phenomena in our notes/text, and I had to use at least one in each story. No, I'm not going to copy my notes into here. It's not that important.) Anyway, since the combination of writing fanfics while doing schoolwork ALWAYS makes me happy (see, mostly, AP English III), I decided to go ahead and try my hand at some Hetalia ficcage, BUT SUBTLE ENOUGH to cover the fact that the characters are actually NATIONS. I think I did an okay job! And actually, I am confident enough with these that I'm going to post them to hetalia! Maybe. Depending on what you guys say.
(To be clear, only two of the three of my stories ended up being Hetalia fics. I was kind of limited by my...well, limited experience in other countries, and lacking an Israel-tan, I had to make do with something else for the first story. That said...)
Title: Flavor in British Cooking
Author: ME~
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Arthur (UK) and Francis (France)
Rating: PG, for drunk!France
Warnings: Drunk!France, and me having WAY TOO MUCH FUN with writing out the French accent. I hope I didn't go overboard...
Summary: Curry is REALLY popular in England...
“I can’t believe you’re already tipsy. It’s not even five yet! You have no taste,” winced Arthur, trying a little to look like he didn’t know the Frenchman.
“Zis from ze Eenglishman wiz ze taztebuds of an eighty-year-old man,” retorted Francis with a sneer. “Iz zis why you don’t visit Antonio anymore? Hiz paella iz too spicy for you, non?”
“One more crack about British cooking, you bloody git, and I’ll--”
“You’ll what? Brick me on ze ‘ead wiz one ov zose rocks you zo elegantly refer to az a ‘scone’?” Francis giggled, tilting dangerously to the side.
“That’s enough!” Glowering so hard he could barely see beneath his eyebrows, Arthur grabbed Francis by the wrist and dragged him off down the streets of London, regretting it instantly when the Frenchman began belting out some French drinking song at the top of his lungs. “I’m going to show you there can be flavour in British cooking!”
Francis broke off his song long enough to reply, “What flavor, charcoal?” and skipped merrily out of harm’s way as Arthur tried to deliver a blow to his skull with his long, black umbrella.
They ended up in a pub, one of the many that lined London’s streets, and Arthur shoved Francis inside with a loud grunt. The Frenchman composed himself well enough in front of the other patrons, but Arthur’s face was still beet-red when they sat down at a table away from the bar to order.
Francis was making faces at the menu, so Arthur ordered for both of them and asked for a stiff drink besides. It was going to be a long night.
“Deed you just order curry?” demanded Francis, picking his head up from where it had been lolling on the table.
“Yes!” Arthur responded proudly, banging his palm flat on the table between them. That would show Fran--
“Curry is Indian, you zorry excuze for a gentleman!” Francis (somehow quietly) shrieked.
“It’s called ‘Anglo-Indian cuisine,’” Arthur shot back, his entire face reddening again. “It’s a perfectly acceptable form of--”
“--stealing anuzzer country’s food and calling it your own,” interrupted Francis, frowning at him and wagging a finger. “Culinary thievery.”
“They brough’ it with them!”
“And I zuppose ze intense flavors and spices are going over very well wiz ze home-crowd,” Francis responded smugly, twisting a lock of his dirty-blonde hair around a finger.
“Well, that’s--”
“Ah!” Francis interrupted, as the two plates of chicken curry arrived at their table and were set down in front of them. “Now we shall see...” He expertly blew on a forkful of curry, and as Arthur watched closely, he placed it delicately in his mouth.
“Well?” Arthur asked, once the Frenchman had finished chewing and swallowing.
“Zat was disguzting,” Francis pronounced, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth delicately with the napkin from his lap.
“What?!”
“’ow can you call zees ‘curry’? Eet iz as bland as everything else you Eenglish people try to pass off as food.”
“But it is curry!” Arthur protested.
“Eet iz bland Eenglish mush wiz curry powder added to eet. Eet iz not curry. Your Indian citizens must be sorry zey brought zis over to you to ruin.”
Arthur could do nothing but sputter.
“Zees iz worse zan zat garbage America calls ‘fusion cookeeng,’” Francis continued relentlessly, simply because he was dying to know what color Arthur’s face would turn next.
Purple, apparently.
“My cooking is NOT as bad as America’s!” he shouted, causing every patron’s head to turn his way.
“Of cou’se eet izn’t,” Francis soothed him sardonically.
“Francis! I treat you to lunch and this is how you repay me?”
“Mon cher, ze next time you ‘treat me to lunch,’ as you put eet, parehaps you will zee fit to treat me to zomezing edible next time, non?”
“Out!” Arthur screamed, “OUT!”
Francis giggled. “I zought you would nevare ask.”
I hate to say this, because it sounds really egotistical, but...I think I just made myself fall in love with Francis XD;; He's the food elitist in me. I can't help it ♥
Title: How Sashimi Came to America
Author: kono watashi desu *bows*
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Alfred (US) and Kiku (Japan)
Rating: G
Warnings: Alfred being Alfred ♥ Also, this got completely out of hand. Lol 3.5 pages.
Summary: "Say, do you think I could get a California Roll?"
Japan had changed a little since the last time Alfred had visited. Sure, he had been receiving all kinds of great, innovative technology and electronics from the island nation over the past decades, but for some reason he could never quite reconcile the opposing images of Japan he had in his head: the geishas and samurai he often saw in movies back home clashed solidly with the famously bright lights of Shibuya, Tokyo, that now greeted him as he stepped out of the taxi that had gotten him to this point. Among the fashionable swarm of young Japanese citizens, Alfred picked out the features of his friend Kiku, waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of Shibuya 109. Grinning, the American made his way over, his blonde hair and tall stature eliciting surprised whispers from the young men and women around him. He couldn’t tell exactly what they were saying, but he could understand enough to grin a bit wider and step with a little more self-importance.
Kiku was more reserved, as always. He bowed, and Alfred’s bow in return was never as elegant or comfortable. “It has been a while, Alfred-san,” Kiku acknowledged, his soft accent threading through his every word. Alfred very much appreciated the effort; Kiku’s English was far superior to his own Japanese.
“It has. And how many times do I have to tell you, Alfred’s fine.”
“You may need to repeat it a couple more times,” Kiku said with the briefest of smiles, and Alfred was left wondering if he had been joking or not. “How was your flight?”
“Not too bad. It’s a lot shorter from California than from New York. Still,” he added, patting his stomach, “I’m starved.” His stomach had been growling at him all during the taxi ride from the airport.
“Ah, I’m terribly sorry,” Kiku said at once, dipping his head in a short bow. “I should have realized.”
“No, no, it’s fine--” Alfred tried.
“Where would you like to eat, Alfred-san?”
The American gave up correcting him. “Surprise me, Kiku! Show me something awesome and adventurous!”
“‘Awesome and...’” repeated Kiku slowly, bemused. He was well aware of Alfred’s usual taste in food--or lack of taste, rather--and he was also well aware of what other countries’ cuisines had turned into in America’s hands.
“Come on, Kiku, I can handle it!”
“Very well.” Kiku motioned for Alfred to follow him, and together they slipped through the crowded sidewalks of Shibuya towards a small restaurant several blocks away.
The restaurant was small and sparsely furnished, even though Alfred was expecting something like the overly-gilded decorations his Chinese restaurants at home liked to flaunt. “Irasshaimase!” chorused the host and the chef behind the counter. “Ah, Honda-san!” the host continued, recognizing one of his customers. He and Kiku began chattering in Japanese, too rapid for Alfred to make sense of, as the host led both of them by the elbows to seats at the counter. There were no traditional tables to sit at here, causing Alfred some confusion, but at least with a glance at the chef’s workspace, he thought he had some idea of what he had been taken to try.
“Kiku! This is a sushi restaurant, isn’t it?”
The American’s blue eyes were bright with interest. Kiku couldn’t help but feel a little worried as he lifted a cool, damp towel from before him on the counter and wiped his hands on it. “It is, yes.”
“Did I tell you we’ve got a couple of these at home already? Say, do you think I could get a California Roll? Huh?”
Kiku tried his absolute best to keep his expression composed. He was well aware of the contents of such a dish. “I’m afraid we don’t have such a thing here, Alfred-san.”
Alfred looked disappointed, but he wouldn’t give up. “Alright, then. How about a Crispy Shrimp Roll?”
Kiku shook his head.
“Dragon Roll? Spider Roll?” Kiku negated every one. “What else is there, then?”
Sighing, the Japanese man motioned to the man behind the counter and inclined his head. “Ōkawa-san, omakase.”
The chef behind the counter grinned at Kiku and pulled out one of the sharpest-looking knives Alfred had ever seen, along with a large hunk of raw fish the color of uncooked beef, with even, narrow white bands running across it. The American watched the man work, his eyes wide as uniform slices of various raw fish collected into a simple but colorful and beautiful dish, which he then placed on the counter for them atop simple bamboo trays while the host filled a pair of wide, shallow cups with clear sake.
Beside him, Kiku accepted his plate with a gracious-sounding Japanese phrase and another bow, which the chef returned. The Japanese man placed the dish in front of him, and, with his chopsticks lying between the plate and himself, he placed his palms together and murmured, “Itadakimasu.”
Alfred attempted to imitate this, though by the time he got the plate and the chopsticks in the right positions, he had already forgotten the phrase. “E...Er, Kiku...? What was--”
“Itadakimasu,” repeated Kiku, glancing aside at Alfred. “We say it before eating as thanks for the food.”
“Who are we thanking? Didn’t we already thank the chef?”
“We’re thanking everyone who helped get it to us, from the sushi-ya to the fishermen who caught it, to the gods who put the fish in the sea to be caught. ...And it’s the polite thing to do,” he added, with the subtlest of points.
Still bemused, Alfred nevertheless shrugged and repeated the phrase before picking up his chopsticks and fumbling with them. Realization dawned on him as he took his first good look at his plate. “Hey, Kiku?”
“Yes?”
“This fish is raw.”
Kiku bit his lip for a moment before he spoke again. “That it is, Alfred-san.”
The American poked a bright piece of tuna with the end of one of the chopsticks in his hand. He winced at the squishiness of it. “Is this even safe?” he wondered under his breath.
“I assure you, Alfred-san, this restaurant only uses fish of the highest grade. You won’t get sick,” Kiku assured him calmly, picking up a piece of sashimi with his fingers and dipping it lightly into the small puddle of soy sauce he’d dripped into his shoyu dish. “Also, you don’t use chopsticks to eat sashimi. Use your fingers.”
“My fingers?--Is this octopus?!”
“Alfred-san, did you not ask me to take you somewhere adventurous?”
Alfred watched suspiciously as Kiku popped the entire piece of fish he’d selected into his mouth. “When I said adventurous, I didn’t say I wanted salmonella.”
Kiku sighed patiently. “I promise you, Alfred-san, this food will not give you salmonella. Or any other disease,” he added, before the American could protest further. “Please give it a chance.”
Alfred shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hadn’t he read somewhere that Japan had been eating this stuff for ages? Surely if the nation had survived this long on raw fish, Alfred considered, it must not be that dangerous. Still... Putting his chopsticks back, he finally managed to take up a piece of the familiar-looking tuna gingerly between his forefinger and his thumb and dipped it into the soy sauce, just as he’d seen Kiku do.
The Japanese man glanced aside at him as he made a big show of bringing the fish close to his face, inspecting it, sniffing it. Kiku blushed, embarrassed for him, and glad that they were the only customers currently sitting in the restaurant. The shoyu dripped onto the table in front of Alfred, barely missing landing on his pants. This was getting ridiculous, Kiku decided.
“Alfred-san, please don’t tell me you’re afraid of this little piece of fish,” Kiku said quietly, his eyes intent on his own dish.
The American paused, and Kiku knew he had hit the right note. “‘Afraid’?” he repeated, stumbling over the word as if it were not even in his vocabulary. The shorter man beside him tipped his head noncommittally and shrugged. “Heck no!” cried Alfred, his eyes burning with new fire behind his glasses. He glanced at the fish, swallowed the last of his fear, and then popped the entire piece into his mouth. Kiku watched out of the corner of his eye as Alfred chewed slowly, thoughtfully. Suddenly, his mouth stopped moving, and he swallowed, his eyes wide.
“Kiku.”
“Yes?”
“Kiku, this is amazing.”
The Japanese man smiled quietly to himself.
“I mean it! I thought it was gonna be slimy and stuff, but it was really soft! It just kinda melted, like butter, but it was so much better, and--and--!”
“Why don’t you try the mackerel?” Kiku suggested, pointing out another piece of fish on Alfred’s tray. “It’s Ōkawa-san’s specialty here.”
Alfred stopped raving long enough to comply, and this time he was so excited he even forgot to use the shoyu in the dish. “Mmmm!”
Kiku bit back more laughter at the American’s expressive approval. He began to explore the rest of his tray on his own, gasping in delight at each new taste, and afterwards Kiku taught him the words to say after the meal was over: Gochisousama deshita.
“Thanks for dinner, Kiku,” Alfred gushed as they left the restaurant. “I’m gonna look out for some real sashimi restaurants in California when I get back home.”
Kiku merely nodded, and hoped that Alfred wouldn’t be too disappointed.
“For dinner tomorrow night, shall I take you for ramen?”
“Ramen? Oh, we have that!” Alfred exclaimed. “Did you know you can make it in three minutes in the microwave?”
Kiku gave the American a weak smile and just shook his head. Alfred still had a lot to learn.
So! Post to hetalia or not? What would need to be changed? Please R&R! ILU GUYS~
[ETA:] I forgot to mention, the title from the second story came from
THIS BOOK, which I used to have on tape and listened to all the fecking time. It would make me happy beyond belief to be able to listen to it again. The book would be nice, too, barring that...
So I have this class called "Cultural Perspectives on Food and Nutrition." And for this class I have this project wherein I have to write three short stories showcasing different cultural phenomena as they pertain to food. (There's a set list of these phenomena in our notes/text, and I had to use at least one in each story. No, I'm not going to copy my notes into here. It's not that important.) Anyway, since the combination of writing fanfics while doing schoolwork ALWAYS makes me happy (see, mostly, AP English III), I decided to go ahead and try my hand at some Hetalia ficcage, BUT SUBTLE ENOUGH to cover the fact that the characters are actually NATIONS. I think I did an okay job! And actually, I am confident enough with these that I'm going to post them to hetalia! Maybe. Depending on what you guys say.
(To be clear, only two of the three of my stories ended up being Hetalia fics. I was kind of limited by my...well, limited experience in other countries, and lacking an Israel-tan, I had to make do with something else for the first story. That said...)
Title: Flavor in British Cooking
Author: ME~
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Arthur (UK) and Francis (France)
Rating: PG, for drunk!France
Warnings: Drunk!France, and me having WAY TOO MUCH FUN with writing out the French accent. I hope I didn't go overboard...
Summary: Curry is REALLY popular in England...
“I can’t believe you’re already tipsy. It’s not even five yet! You have no taste,” winced Arthur, trying a little to look like he didn’t know the Frenchman.
“Zis from ze Eenglishman wiz ze taztebuds of an eighty-year-old man,” retorted Francis with a sneer. “Iz zis why you don’t visit Antonio anymore? Hiz paella iz too spicy for you, non?”
“One more crack about British cooking, you bloody git, and I’ll--”
“You’ll what? Brick me on ze ‘ead wiz one ov zose rocks you zo elegantly refer to az a ‘scone’?” Francis giggled, tilting dangerously to the side.
“That’s enough!” Glowering so hard he could barely see beneath his eyebrows, Arthur grabbed Francis by the wrist and dragged him off down the streets of London, regretting it instantly when the Frenchman began belting out some French drinking song at the top of his lungs. “I’m going to show you there can be flavour in British cooking!”
Francis broke off his song long enough to reply, “What flavor, charcoal?” and skipped merrily out of harm’s way as Arthur tried to deliver a blow to his skull with his long, black umbrella.
They ended up in a pub, one of the many that lined London’s streets, and Arthur shoved Francis inside with a loud grunt. The Frenchman composed himself well enough in front of the other patrons, but Arthur’s face was still beet-red when they sat down at a table away from the bar to order.
Francis was making faces at the menu, so Arthur ordered for both of them and asked for a stiff drink besides. It was going to be a long night.
“Deed you just order curry?” demanded Francis, picking his head up from where it had been lolling on the table.
“Yes!” Arthur responded proudly, banging his palm flat on the table between them. That would show Fran--
“Curry is Indian, you zorry excuze for a gentleman!” Francis (somehow quietly) shrieked.
“It’s called ‘Anglo-Indian cuisine,’” Arthur shot back, his entire face reddening again. “It’s a perfectly acceptable form of--”
“--stealing anuzzer country’s food and calling it your own,” interrupted Francis, frowning at him and wagging a finger. “Culinary thievery.”
“They brough’ it with them!”
“And I zuppose ze intense flavors and spices are going over very well wiz ze home-crowd,” Francis responded smugly, twisting a lock of his dirty-blonde hair around a finger.
“Well, that’s--”
“Ah!” Francis interrupted, as the two plates of chicken curry arrived at their table and were set down in front of them. “Now we shall see...” He expertly blew on a forkful of curry, and as Arthur watched closely, he placed it delicately in his mouth.
“Well?” Arthur asked, once the Frenchman had finished chewing and swallowing.
“Zat was disguzting,” Francis pronounced, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth delicately with the napkin from his lap.
“What?!”
“’ow can you call zees ‘curry’? Eet iz as bland as everything else you Eenglish people try to pass off as food.”
“But it is curry!” Arthur protested.
“Eet iz bland Eenglish mush wiz curry powder added to eet. Eet iz not curry. Your Indian citizens must be sorry zey brought zis over to you to ruin.”
Arthur could do nothing but sputter.
“Zees iz worse zan zat garbage America calls ‘fusion cookeeng,’” Francis continued relentlessly, simply because he was dying to know what color Arthur’s face would turn next.
Purple, apparently.
“My cooking is NOT as bad as America’s!” he shouted, causing every patron’s head to turn his way.
“Of cou’se eet izn’t,” Francis soothed him sardonically.
“Francis! I treat you to lunch and this is how you repay me?”
“Mon cher, ze next time you ‘treat me to lunch,’ as you put eet, parehaps you will zee fit to treat me to zomezing edible next time, non?”
“Out!” Arthur screamed, “OUT!”
Francis giggled. “I zought you would nevare ask.”
I hate to say this, because it sounds really egotistical, but...I think I just made myself fall in love with Francis XD;; He's the food elitist in me. I can't help it ♥
Title: How Sashimi Came to America
Author: kono watashi desu *bows*
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Alfred (US) and Kiku (Japan)
Rating: G
Warnings: Alfred being Alfred ♥ Also, this got completely out of hand. Lol 3.5 pages.
Summary: "Say, do you think I could get a California Roll?"
Japan had changed a little since the last time Alfred had visited. Sure, he had been receiving all kinds of great, innovative technology and electronics from the island nation over the past decades, but for some reason he could never quite reconcile the opposing images of Japan he had in his head: the geishas and samurai he often saw in movies back home clashed solidly with the famously bright lights of Shibuya, Tokyo, that now greeted him as he stepped out of the taxi that had gotten him to this point. Among the fashionable swarm of young Japanese citizens, Alfred picked out the features of his friend Kiku, waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of Shibuya 109. Grinning, the American made his way over, his blonde hair and tall stature eliciting surprised whispers from the young men and women around him. He couldn’t tell exactly what they were saying, but he could understand enough to grin a bit wider and step with a little more self-importance.
Kiku was more reserved, as always. He bowed, and Alfred’s bow in return was never as elegant or comfortable. “It has been a while, Alfred-san,” Kiku acknowledged, his soft accent threading through his every word. Alfred very much appreciated the effort; Kiku’s English was far superior to his own Japanese.
“It has. And how many times do I have to tell you, Alfred’s fine.”
“You may need to repeat it a couple more times,” Kiku said with the briefest of smiles, and Alfred was left wondering if he had been joking or not. “How was your flight?”
“Not too bad. It’s a lot shorter from California than from New York. Still,” he added, patting his stomach, “I’m starved.” His stomach had been growling at him all during the taxi ride from the airport.
“Ah, I’m terribly sorry,” Kiku said at once, dipping his head in a short bow. “I should have realized.”
“No, no, it’s fine--” Alfred tried.
“Where would you like to eat, Alfred-san?”
The American gave up correcting him. “Surprise me, Kiku! Show me something awesome and adventurous!”
“‘Awesome and...’” repeated Kiku slowly, bemused. He was well aware of Alfred’s usual taste in food--or lack of taste, rather--and he was also well aware of what other countries’ cuisines had turned into in America’s hands.
“Come on, Kiku, I can handle it!”
“Very well.” Kiku motioned for Alfred to follow him, and together they slipped through the crowded sidewalks of Shibuya towards a small restaurant several blocks away.
The restaurant was small and sparsely furnished, even though Alfred was expecting something like the overly-gilded decorations his Chinese restaurants at home liked to flaunt. “Irasshaimase!” chorused the host and the chef behind the counter. “Ah, Honda-san!” the host continued, recognizing one of his customers. He and Kiku began chattering in Japanese, too rapid for Alfred to make sense of, as the host led both of them by the elbows to seats at the counter. There were no traditional tables to sit at here, causing Alfred some confusion, but at least with a glance at the chef’s workspace, he thought he had some idea of what he had been taken to try.
“Kiku! This is a sushi restaurant, isn’t it?”
The American’s blue eyes were bright with interest. Kiku couldn’t help but feel a little worried as he lifted a cool, damp towel from before him on the counter and wiped his hands on it. “It is, yes.”
“Did I tell you we’ve got a couple of these at home already? Say, do you think I could get a California Roll? Huh?”
Kiku tried his absolute best to keep his expression composed. He was well aware of the contents of such a dish. “I’m afraid we don’t have such a thing here, Alfred-san.”
Alfred looked disappointed, but he wouldn’t give up. “Alright, then. How about a Crispy Shrimp Roll?”
Kiku shook his head.
“Dragon Roll? Spider Roll?” Kiku negated every one. “What else is there, then?”
Sighing, the Japanese man motioned to the man behind the counter and inclined his head. “Ōkawa-san, omakase.”
The chef behind the counter grinned at Kiku and pulled out one of the sharpest-looking knives Alfred had ever seen, along with a large hunk of raw fish the color of uncooked beef, with even, narrow white bands running across it. The American watched the man work, his eyes wide as uniform slices of various raw fish collected into a simple but colorful and beautiful dish, which he then placed on the counter for them atop simple bamboo trays while the host filled a pair of wide, shallow cups with clear sake.
Beside him, Kiku accepted his plate with a gracious-sounding Japanese phrase and another bow, which the chef returned. The Japanese man placed the dish in front of him, and, with his chopsticks lying between the plate and himself, he placed his palms together and murmured, “Itadakimasu.”
Alfred attempted to imitate this, though by the time he got the plate and the chopsticks in the right positions, he had already forgotten the phrase. “E...Er, Kiku...? What was--”
“Itadakimasu,” repeated Kiku, glancing aside at Alfred. “We say it before eating as thanks for the food.”
“Who are we thanking? Didn’t we already thank the chef?”
“We’re thanking everyone who helped get it to us, from the sushi-ya to the fishermen who caught it, to the gods who put the fish in the sea to be caught. ...And it’s the polite thing to do,” he added, with the subtlest of points.
Still bemused, Alfred nevertheless shrugged and repeated the phrase before picking up his chopsticks and fumbling with them. Realization dawned on him as he took his first good look at his plate. “Hey, Kiku?”
“Yes?”
“This fish is raw.”
Kiku bit his lip for a moment before he spoke again. “That it is, Alfred-san.”
The American poked a bright piece of tuna with the end of one of the chopsticks in his hand. He winced at the squishiness of it. “Is this even safe?” he wondered under his breath.
“I assure you, Alfred-san, this restaurant only uses fish of the highest grade. You won’t get sick,” Kiku assured him calmly, picking up a piece of sashimi with his fingers and dipping it lightly into the small puddle of soy sauce he’d dripped into his shoyu dish. “Also, you don’t use chopsticks to eat sashimi. Use your fingers.”
“My fingers?--Is this octopus?!”
“Alfred-san, did you not ask me to take you somewhere adventurous?”
Alfred watched suspiciously as Kiku popped the entire piece of fish he’d selected into his mouth. “When I said adventurous, I didn’t say I wanted salmonella.”
Kiku sighed patiently. “I promise you, Alfred-san, this food will not give you salmonella. Or any other disease,” he added, before the American could protest further. “Please give it a chance.”
Alfred shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hadn’t he read somewhere that Japan had been eating this stuff for ages? Surely if the nation had survived this long on raw fish, Alfred considered, it must not be that dangerous. Still... Putting his chopsticks back, he finally managed to take up a piece of the familiar-looking tuna gingerly between his forefinger and his thumb and dipped it into the soy sauce, just as he’d seen Kiku do.
The Japanese man glanced aside at him as he made a big show of bringing the fish close to his face, inspecting it, sniffing it. Kiku blushed, embarrassed for him, and glad that they were the only customers currently sitting in the restaurant. The shoyu dripped onto the table in front of Alfred, barely missing landing on his pants. This was getting ridiculous, Kiku decided.
“Alfred-san, please don’t tell me you’re afraid of this little piece of fish,” Kiku said quietly, his eyes intent on his own dish.
The American paused, and Kiku knew he had hit the right note. “‘Afraid’?” he repeated, stumbling over the word as if it were not even in his vocabulary. The shorter man beside him tipped his head noncommittally and shrugged. “Heck no!” cried Alfred, his eyes burning with new fire behind his glasses. He glanced at the fish, swallowed the last of his fear, and then popped the entire piece into his mouth. Kiku watched out of the corner of his eye as Alfred chewed slowly, thoughtfully. Suddenly, his mouth stopped moving, and he swallowed, his eyes wide.
“Kiku.”
“Yes?”
“Kiku, this is amazing.”
The Japanese man smiled quietly to himself.
“I mean it! I thought it was gonna be slimy and stuff, but it was really soft! It just kinda melted, like butter, but it was so much better, and--and--!”
“Why don’t you try the mackerel?” Kiku suggested, pointing out another piece of fish on Alfred’s tray. “It’s Ōkawa-san’s specialty here.”
Alfred stopped raving long enough to comply, and this time he was so excited he even forgot to use the shoyu in the dish. “Mmmm!”
Kiku bit back more laughter at the American’s expressive approval. He began to explore the rest of his tray on his own, gasping in delight at each new taste, and afterwards Kiku taught him the words to say after the meal was over: Gochisousama deshita.
“Thanks for dinner, Kiku,” Alfred gushed as they left the restaurant. “I’m gonna look out for some real sashimi restaurants in California when I get back home.”
Kiku merely nodded, and hoped that Alfred wouldn’t be too disappointed.
“For dinner tomorrow night, shall I take you for ramen?”
“Ramen? Oh, we have that!” Alfred exclaimed. “Did you know you can make it in three minutes in the microwave?”
Kiku gave the American a weak smile and just shook his head. Alfred still had a lot to learn.
So! Post to hetalia or not? What would need to be changed? Please R&R! ILU GUYS~
[ETA:] I forgot to mention, the title from the second story came from
THIS BOOK, which I used to have on tape and listened to all the fecking time. It would make me happy beyond belief to be able to listen to it again. The book would be nice, too, barring that...