Title: Mise en Place (3/25)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John (eventually), just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
Prologue ~
One ~
Two Chapter Three
I hate making TV documentaries.
--Jamie Oliver
John couldn’t decide if knowing that Sherlock Holmes would be at the restaurant before the end of the day was a good thing or not. On one hand, it was somewhat comforting to know that within the next eight hours, the first day would be over and the Empire would be on its (painful, rocky, angst- and emotion-ridden) way back to solvency. On the other, the anticipation was killing him. Every time the front door opened, he felt his heart leap into his throat while his stomach dropped into his shoes, and he was too scared to even go and take a piss for fear that Sherlock would come into the restaurant halfway through.
“John,” said Harry from the bar. “Stop. Pacing.”
“Can’t,” said John shortly, and leaned even more heavily on his cane.
“Then pace outside,” said Harry impatiently. “Or every time you walk another circuit, I’m going to have a shot of vodka.”
John glared at her. “Why are you behind the bar, anyway? I’m the one with the bloody cane, and you’re the alcoholic. I should be pouring the drinks and you should be seating the customers.”
“You’re nervous.”
“Too bloody right,” snapped John, and went back to pacing. He pulled up short when he saw Harry threaten to pour a shot, and he stared at the bottle, working his jaw, before sitting down with a thump on the bar stool.
“Two,” he said, and Harry lifted an eyebrow before pouring out two shots. John picked up one and held it up, waiting for her to clink her glass to his, and they both downed the shots simultaneously.
“It’s empty,” said Harry, coming up from the shot. “We should have asked people to come in and comped their meals, just so we didn’t look so pathetic.”
“Sarah offered,” said John glumly.
“You turned her down?”
“Of course I turned her down, we might be that pathetic but I’m not going to admit it to her.”
“Fuck me,” said Harry, bolstered by the vodka, and she lunged for the phone. “I’ll be that pathetic, what’s her number?”
They scuffled over the phone, and after a moment, Harry gave up and looked longingly at the vodka bottle again.
“No, Harry,” said John automatically. “Then we really would be pathetic.”
“Why do they call it Dutch courage, anyway?” asked Harry. “I never thought of the Dutch as a particularly lushy lot.”
John didn’t have a chance to answer; the bell on the door rang as it opened, and he sprang to his feet, clutching the cane.
It’s him.
John didn’t know how he knew; the sunlight streaming in from outside made identification all but impossible, but John didn’t think it could possibly be anyone else. He wanted to glance at the camera installed in the corner, to see if the red light was on, indicating the camera was recording, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the tall, thin figure in the doorway. And then the figure stepped forward and the door shut behind him, and he walked into the dining room, looking around. Without the backlight of the sun, it became all too obvious that their expected customer had arrived.
“Hello,” said John, hoping his voice didn’t squeak. “Welcome to the Empire, Mr Holmes.”
“Sherlock, please,” said the man absently. He turned in slow circles, looking at the items on the walls, the fabric hanging in curtains, and finally resting on the quartet of portraits along the back wall. “Rather dark for lunch. The last redecoration was in 1983, wasn’t it? A fire in the kitchen, nothing that wasn’t extinguished fairly quickly or anything to cause structural damage, but caused a great deal of smoke which required replacement of the curtains.”
Harry and John glanced at each other; Harry’s eyebrows were already halfway up into her forehead.
“Er - yeah. My mum spent weeks trying to match the color. How-?”
“She did admirably, but it’s still rather obvious. These would be your father and grandfathers, I take it?”
“Yes,” said John, and walked over to join the man. Sherlock was younger in person than he seemed on the television screen; John wondered if it was makeup or lighting that accentuated the lines around his mouth or his eyes. But then, youth probably took away from the authoritative demeanor he was meant to have. Perhaps the reason so many of the restaurant owners and chefs were unwilling to implement his suggestions was because they were getting them from someone who barely looked old enough to have a mortgage.
Young, and not bad-looking, either, thought John. The purple shirt looked good on him, and John could tell how curly his hair was up close. He even looked taller in person, and John straightened up, somewhat conscious of his height. He pointed to the portraits of his father, and then his grandfathers in turn. “My dad, Hamish Watson. His father, James - he’s the one who opened the Empire in 1949. And then there’s the two Johns - John Watson, my great-grandfather, and his dad, John H. Watson.”
Sherlock nodded. “Then you would be some derivative of either James or John, I take it?”
“John. Just John.”
“Patterns,” said Sherlock thoughtfully, and turned to look at John properly for the first time. “The name is Sherlock Holmes.” He stretched out his hand to shake, and John took it.
“John Watson,” said John, and gave Sherlock’s hand a brief shake. It was warm and dry, and felt oddly comfortable around John’s hand. John had the idea that Sherlock was sizing him up, but instead of feeling irritated, he waited patiently, and looked back without blinking. Finally, Sherlock quirked his lips with a glance down at their clasped hands. John let go, self-conscious again. “You’ve met the Empire’s patriarchs; would you like to meet the rest of the staff?”
“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” said Sherlock, and John tried not to grin. He felt a little bit silly, play-acting for the camera in the corner, and when he glanced over, he saw Lestrade offer a thumbs up.
“Come on back, then,” said John. He led Sherlock into the kitchen, where Anderson was already waiting with another camera on his shoulder to supplement the three installed the day before. John prayed that the kitchen was still in reasonably decent order, and mostly, it was. Artie leaned in the doorway to the annex, chatting up Molly and laughing at some kind of joke, and Mary was perched up on the corner table, folding napkins again. She hopped off with a blush the moment she saw John enter the room, and tried to look innocent while he glared at her sternly. John was more worried about Molly, who was busy trying to look busy as she chopped an onion.
“Hi,” she squeaked, which made John feel marginally better for himself, and a lot worse for Molly, who turned bright red.
“Hello,” said Sherlock with a smile, and something about his low tone clearly put Molly at ease; her manic grin calmed down immediately to something a little less rabid, and she wiped her hands on her apron and reached out to take his offered hand. “And you are-?”
“Molly Hooper,” said Molly.
“The chef?” prompted Sherlock.
“Oh! Yes!” Molly rose up on her toes. “That’s me. The chef. I do the cooking.”
“I should hope so,” said Sherlock, looking around the kitchen. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, I’m here to do the eating.”
“I’m Artie,” said the boy from where he was leaning against the doorframe to the annex. “I’m here to wash the dishes. And be famous on the telly.”
“Artie,” said John, his voice a warning.
“Artie,” said Sherlock, grave but still amused.
“This side, please,” Artie said to Anderson, tapping his right cheek with a belligerent grin, and John resisted the urge to throw his cane at the boy.
But Sherlock only quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll see what I can do,” he told Artie, whose grin only grew.
“And this is Mary, she’s our waitress,” said John.
Mary grinned, not so widely as Artie, but confident in a way that John envied.
Sherlock shook Mary’s hand. “Just you, for twenty tables?”
“Well, it’d be more difficult if they were all full,” said Mary, and then glanced at John. “Oops. Should I have said that?”
“It’s all right,” John told her. “That’s why he’s here.”
“So I understand you’re to feed me lunch today?”
Molly nodded enthusiastically. “I’m all ready - what would you like to eat?”
Sherlock turned his gaze back to her. And then he smiled - a thousand watts, aimed directly at Molly, and even though John was on the sidelines and not in its direct path, he felt something inside him lurch. Bloody hell, he thought, and wanted to dive into the walk-in just to start digging for scallops wrapped in gold leaf and served on a bed of edible roses.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare presume - why don’t you bring me your best things, and I’ll come back when I’m done?” said Sherlock, and his purr sounded almost cheerful and friendly.
Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh…okay. Right away!”
“Excellent, looking forward to it,” said Sherlock, and he turned away to head back into the dining room.
John stayed behind, just a moment, and watched as Molly practically fell to pieces in front of him.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, and John limped past the warming table and took her by the shoulder.
“It’ll be fine,” he comforted her. “It’s just lunch. You can do this, Moll.”
“’Course you can,” said Artie, unusually helpful. “What’s he, some rock-star celebrity bloke who’s going to put us all on telly and expose us to public ridicule? He still drops his pants when he goes to the loo.”
“Shut it, Artie,” said John, without looking away from Molly’s face. But Molly had already started to giggle, though whether it was out of nerves or amusement, he wasn’t sure. “Focus, Molly. What are you going to give him?”
“Salad,” said Molly, and took a deep breath. “And the chicken, and I thought the pan noodles? And…tiramisu, for dessert?”
“Bread first,” said Artie, and Molly nodded.
“Sound delicious, he’ll love it,” said John, and he gave Molly’s arm a slightly harder tap than he’d intended, and went back out to the dining room, only dimly aware of Anderson following him, the camera still recording.
Shite. This is really happening, isn’t it? There’s a bloke with a camera following my every move and in a few months, we’re all going to be on bloody television.
Sherlock had chosen a table near the front of the room, not next to the window, but a row back, close enough to still catch the light coming in, but not so close that he’d be susceptible to onlookers from the road. It was a wise choice, thought John, and he was even facing the windows, which meant the portraits were right over his shoulder, looking on. Lestrade was already sitting opposite him, chatting and going over some paperwork; John wondered if they were strategizing for their eventual plans for the restaurant - could Sherlock already have ideas? It took every ounce of will-power not to try wandering over to eavesdrop.
Anderson walked past John, dropping the camera to his side, and went to reposition the main camera so that it would record Sherlock as he ate. John watched him maneuver the camera and the accompanying equipment around the tables, and was beginning to wonder if he should offer to help when a voice at his elbow made him jump.
“Hi.”
John nearly fell into nearest table. “Sorry, didn’t know there was someone else,” he apologized, and turned to see a black woman with tight, curly hair standing at his side.
“S’alright, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the woman, and she reached to shake his hand. “Sally Donovan, I’m the AD. Anyone who tells you I’m Sherlock’s dogsbody, you can pop ‘em over the head with that cane of yours, I’d appreciate it.”
John chuckled. “John Watson, I’m the co-owner of the Empire. We’re glad he could make it.”
“So’s he, if he could stop to think about it, but catch him admitting it,” said Sally. “Here, I’ve got the schedule for the next few days, now’s a good time to go over it, while Greg and Sherlock are doing their confab.”
“Ah - I should really get them something to drink first-”
But Sally shook her head. “No, wait until Anderson’s set up, he’ll want to get any interactions with Sherlock on film. We won’t use half of them, but we’d rather have them just in case.” Sally grinned. “What if you tripped and spilled a glass of water on him? Shame to miss that.”
“Ah,” said John, and his eyes went wide. He started tapping his cane absently on the floor, imagining it. “Shite.”
Sally glanced at the cane, and her own eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“No, it’s fine,” said John, distracted. “Mary does the serving.”
“Right,” said Sally. “Sorry. Here, do you want to sit down?”
John bristled a little at the insinuation, but pulled a nearby chair out anyway. “Wait - I’m sorry, should I have Molly prepare something for you as well? I should have thought-”
But Sally shook her head. “No, it’s fine. We’re all working, we wouldn’t have time to eat anything more than a quick sandwich, and I don’t think that’s the sort of food you’re serving. Okay, so today is all about first impressions - Sherlock will have lunch, and then he’ll come back and chat with you and your chef - Molly, right? - and that’ll be it. We’re going to take him out and do some establishing shots around town with him. Tomorrow we’ll come back and it’ll be about observation - Sherlock’s going to want to watch you during a regular day, see what’s going on in the front and back of house. No interference. I understand you’re having problems getting customers in the door?”
“Right,” said John.
“Well, we’re going to take care of that for you a little bit - we’ve sent out invitations to a few groups inviting them to come and eat here.”
“I’ve seen those nights,” said John. “Where people wait up to two hours for a glass of water? Who really wants to accept those invitations?”
Sally laughed. “You’d be surprised how many people jump at the chance to pay for a meal when it means they’ll be on telly in exchange. It’s all about bragging rights. We’ll make them sign waivers asking for confidentiality until the show airs, and half of them will keep their own notes so they can blog about it later.”
John didn’t doubt it. “What happens then?”
Sally shrugged. “Well, the third day is when the real work begins. It’s a bit touch-and-go at that point, Depends on what Sherlock decides at the end of the night, if it’s a problem with the food or the staff or the location or the décor. We try to play it by ear. One thing’s for sure, small town like this one, you’re not going to lack for customers over the next few days, everyone’s going to want a chance to eat here, just so they can say they did, and try to get a glimpse of his highness over there.”
John glanced back at Sherlock, who was already making notes in a large Moleskine notebook, nodding while Lestrade talked to him, and every so often looking up to make a point of his own. After another minute, Lestrade stood up and left the table, going over to the window where he could watch but not be seen by the camera. Anderson looked up and gave Sally a thumbs-up.
“That’s your cue,” said Sally. “Well, Mary’s cue, anyway.”
“Right,” said John and stood up, shaking a little bit. “You’ve done these shows for four years now, right?”
Sally smiled. “I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know what you’re going to ask. Yes, this is the moment where every single owner has started to question their sanity.”
“Glad to hear it,” said John, and exhaled.
“Hey,” said Sally suddenly. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said John, and went to tell Mary that it was time for service to begin.
*
Transcript
The Empire, Upper Brickley, Kent
Proposed Air Date: March 27, 2010
[Establishing shot: Kent countryside. It’s idyllic and lovely, with green fields and gently bubbling brooks. Through the voice over, the countryside slowly morphs into something more urban, gradually focusing in on the town of Upper Brickley, Kent, and its streets, storefronts, and residents.]
SHERLOCK VOICE OVER: Everything has a shelf-life. With enough time, even a Kendal Mint Cake will grow stale, to the point that no one will want to eat it anymore, including the cockroach. Of course, there are always those who claim that they’d eat the mint cake after a few decades, but then, they’re the ones who would have been willing to eat it in the first place, so you may take their opinions accordingly.
[Establishing shot: The Empire, exterior.]
SHERLOCK V.O. cont.: The Empire is hardly the culinary world’s answer to the Kendal Mint cake, but it’s certainly outlived its shelf-life. Established in 1949 in Upper Brickley, Kent, just outside of Canterbury, by former Naval officer James Watson, against advice from all his friends for actually daring to open a restaurant at the height of rationing, the Empire was a pioneer in its day of hearty ethnic cuisine, the first of its kind in a fifty-mile radius. For many Kentish folk, the Empire provided the first exposure to food outside of the normal British fare of meat and potatoes.
[INTERIOR, The Empire. Shots of James Watson, the empty dining room, the various paintings and photographs that line the walls.]
SHERLOCK V.O. cont.: But the world has grown smaller, and now ethnic restaurants, real ethnic restaurants, dot the high streets in Upper Brickley and its neighbors.
[EXTERIOR, Quick shots of the various Thai, Indian, Indonesian, Chinese, Peruvian, etc. restaurants, all bustling and busy.]
SHERLOCK V.O. cont.: It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that The Empire’s time has passed. Except, of course, it is a surprise to those who own it and are unwilling to recognize that all curtains fade, all fads pass. All empires fall. And all restaurants, eventually, close.
[EXTERIOR, Sherlock standing in the center of the road just outside the Empire, staring directly at the camera, hands in his pockets. There’s a good wind blowing so that his coat billows behind him, and the pavement and cobblestones on the road are glistening; dark clouds overhead. It is clearly meant to be an extremely sexy shot, and it works.]
SHERLOCK V.O. cont.: Insert your own tortured metaphor about empires, suns, and what must rise and fall. I’ve got a restaurant to save.
[TITLES: RESTAURANT RECONSTRUCTED]
[SHERLOCK HOLMES]
[Smash cut: INTERIOR: The Empire. The dining room is empty. In the back, a man is at the bar. The bottles clink as he rearranges them.]
[Smash cut: INTERIOR: The Empire kitchen. Close-up on an onion being chopped, somewhat roughly, and the knife slips, comes a bit too close to the fingers holding the vegetable.]
MOLLY HOOPER: Ouch. That was close.
[Smash cut: INTERIOR: The Empire dining room. The man behind the bar has stopped rearranging bottles, and is now sitting on one of the stools, his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. He’s not all that old, but there’s a cane resting against the wall nearby. Slowly, he starts banging his head against the wall, probably out of boredom.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The Empire is now owned by James Watson’s grandchildren, Harriet and John, but the restaurant has been in a slow decline for the better part of two decades. It’s only in the last few years that things have been extremely dire.
[Smash cut: EXTERIOR: Sherlock walks up to the Empire, pushes the door, and enters.]
[Smash cut: INTERIOR: Sherlock crosses the dining room and is greeted by the man, who has gotten to his feet.]
*
John Watson was not unfamiliar with pressured situations. Nor was he a stranger to stress. First in medical school, when he’d been studying emergency medicine, and speed and accuracy went hand in hand, John had excelled, never once dropping a bedpan or missing a stitch or worse yet, forgetting a diagnosis. Later, in basic training, he’d done his pushups and laps and chin-ups with the best of them, while the sergeants shouted abuse. He’d even tromped through the mud and the rain with good graces. It was enough to make the rest of his unit hate him, except that no one actually hated John Watson, because he was friendly and affable enough and never actually lorded over anyone that he was, in fact, better than they were, mostly because he never really believed he was.
John didn’t mind the really wretched parts of medical school or the Army, because he’d grown up washing dishes for hours on end, and in his mind, there wasn’t much worse that a person could do. Mud could wash off; bedpans made a racket but the mess could be cleaned up. Dishpan hands were forever, especially when they were six days a week.
But sitting in the back of the Empire’s dining room, watching the cameras roll while Anderson made adjustments and Lestrade spoke to Sherlock in between courses - John found that he couldn’t sit still. Harry had long since fled, John had no idea where, and the first time that John saw Mary fleeing the table for the safety of the kitchen, sans bread basket, he’d decided he couldn’t sit another minute and watch the destruction.
As soon as Lestrade looked in his direction, John gave a little wave. The man came over a few minutes later.
“I’m not on camera, am I?” asked John.
Lestrade frowned. “Did you sign the release?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I meant. If I - ah-”
Lestrade grinned. “Scarper? Don’t go far, he’ll want a word when he’s done.”
John nodded, and hoped his retreat was more dignified than Mary’s.
The kitchen was in upheaval. Molly was wailing over the range, while Mary beat Artie about the head with a dishtowel.
“Oh my fucking Christ,” groaned John. “Do I even want to know?”
“I burned the chicken!” wailed Molly.
“I tried to tell you!” yelped Artie from under the dishtowel.
“Go back to the annex and stay there,” said Mary, hitting Artie anew with each word.
John grabbed the nearest wooden spoon and began to bang it on the warming table. “CHILDREN!” he yelled, and the shouting stopped. John dropped the spoon at glared at them. “Mary. Are we giving him salad or soup?”
“Salad.”
“Wonderful. Prep it.”
Mary scurried to the walk-in.
“Molly. How burnt is the chicken?”
“Not much,” said Molly.
“Charcoal,” said Artie helpfully.
“How long for a new one?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Plenty of time. Do it.”
Molly sniffed, and reached into the freezer drawer.
“Artie. Is there anything, anything, in this building that you could possibly be doing other than standing in this room right now? And please for the love of Christ don’t tell me what it is, but just answer in the affirmative.”
“Sure, boss.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve the dining room or the kitchen, go and do it and don’t show your face until there are dishes to wash.”
“Bollocks, I’m out of yoghurt,” said Molly, peering up at her mise-en-place.
“It’s Omani chicken, you don’t need yoghurt.”
“Then I’m out of cream!”
“You don’t need - oh, fine.” John gave up on Molly and went to join Mary in the walk-in. The moment the door shut behind him, however, Mary was on him, trapping him against the door. John let out a surprised squawk.
“You can make that noise?” asked Mary, bemused.
“Mary, what the bloody fuck?”
“The Army has not improved your language,” said Mary.
“Mary.”
“You know what else the Army didn’t improve? Your flirtation technique.”
John stared at Mary. “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”
“Flirtation,” said Mary. “It’s when one person who likes another person sidles up to them and participates in playful banter to show interest. You and I used to do it nearly all the time, and as I recall you were smashing at it. Granted, we were usually talking about ridiculous things, like the weather or how many people ask for a second basket of bread but never actually eat it, but I don’t know, it could work when talking about great-great-grandfathers.”
John stared at Mary, mouth agape.
“Close your mouth, you look like a codfish,” said Mary.
“You honestly think I was flirting with Sherlock Holmes?”
“He is rather dishy,” said Mary. “How’d it go? Do you think he was interested? ‘Cause if not, can I have a go?”
“No!”
“So he was interested?”
“No!”
“And you don’t know whether or not to be insulted or relieved,” said Mary thoughtfully. “Interesting. Yoghurt’s on the right-hand side.”
“How do you know-?”
“Oh, please,” scoffed Mary. “You’re blocking the door.”
John ducked under Mary’s arms and marched to the yoghurt. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Mary had already disappeared.
“Where’s Mary?” he asked Molly, still annoyed.
“Salad course,” said Molly.
“What salad?”
“Russian herring.”
John froze. “Oh, God. Why?”
Molly burst into tears.
“Oh, for-” groaned John, and fled.
*
John found Harry in the alley behind the restaurant. She was smoking a cigarette, and when she saw John, she tried to hide it behind her back.
“Oh, give over,” sighed John, and leaned against the wall next to her.
Harry waited a moment, and then reached into her pocket and handed the pack to John.
“Coward,” said Harry.
“Yes,” said John, and lit the cigarette.
*
[INTERIOR, The Empire dining room. Sherlock sits at a table, taps his pencil in a rhythmic pattern. Behind him, we see the four portraits of the Empire patriarchs. The door to the kitchen opens, and a waitress comes out. She’s in her late 20s, blonde hair pulled back in a short, curly ponytail, and she wears a bright, cheerful, brave expression. She’s carrying a tray with a glass of water and a basket of bread. Her name, we’ll learn later, is MARY MORSTAN.]
MARY: Water, twist of lemon, and one of our bread baskets.
SHERLOCK: Thank you. Can you tell me about the bread?
MARY: Sure! It’s pretty straight forward. Brown, white, and breadsticks.
[SHERLOCK looks at MARY and blinks slowly. MARY winks.]
MARY: So the white bread is naan, it’s a traditional flatbread found in much of the East. We’ve studded ours with sesame seeds-
SHERLOCK: So it’s made on premises.
MARY: Well, no, not exactly…
SHERLOCK: And the brown?
MARY: A Russian sweetbread. It’s technically more of a dessert bread, but everyone kept demanding it before the meal-
[SHERLOCK glances pointedly around the empty dining room.]
SHERLOCK: Everyone?
MARY: Well, when it was first put on the menu.
SHERLOCK: Which was…
MARY: In 1957.
SHERLOCK: Right. What about the breadsticks?
MARY: Oh, they’re just breadsticks.
SHERLOCK: Ah.
MARY: They’re really good breadsticks, though.
SHERLOCK: I’m sure.
[MARY doesn’t move; neither does SHERLOCK. Instead they just kind of look at each other for a moment.]
MARY: I’ll just go back into the kitchen now, shall I?
SHERLOCK: Please do.
[MARY flees. SHERLOCK picks up a breadstick, eyes it suspiciously, sighs, and goes for the naan instead. He takes a bit, mouths it a little, and swallows with a shrug.]
SHERLOCK: Mostly tasteless. I’m not sure why the sesame seeds are added, perhaps for additional roughage?
[He takes a drink of water and then goes for the Russian bread. He spits it out almost immediately.]
SHERLOCK: Good God. When did she say this was put on the menu? I think it was baked at the same time.
SHERLOCK V.O.: The Kendal Mint cake would be an improvement.
[Smash cut: INTERIOR, Empire Kitchen. MARY enters.]
MOLLY: Well?
MARY: I don’t think he has a sense of humor.
MOLLY: You didn’t try to flirt with him?
MARY: Well, he’s cute.
MOLLY: He’s a psychopath.
ARTIE: Molly, the psychopath’s chicken is burning.
MOLLY: Shite!
[Cut to: INTERIOR, Dining room. MARY delivers the first course to Sherlock.]
MARY: Russian Herring Salad.
SHERLOCK: Oh, more Russian dishes.
MARY: It’s very popular.
SHERLOCK: In 1957?
MARY: Uh…
SHERLOCK: (pointedly) Thank you.
MARY: You’re welcome.
[MARY flees. You can practically see her ponytail go horizontal with the speed of her retreat. Sherlock eyes the salad. He eyes it so dramatically that he’s practically even with it.]
[The camera angle changes. Now we’re eyeing the salad, too. It’s…intriguing. And layered with contrasting colored items. It’s kind of frightening, in a Technicolor sort of way.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: There are times when I very much wish I had gone into another line of work entirely. Solving crimes, for instance. Such as The Mystery of Whoever Thought Putting Herrings In a Salad Would Be A Good Idea.
[Back to the original camera angle. Sherlock takes a bite. Well, sort of - he doesn’t even close his mouth around the fork when he takes the food back out, drops it on the plate, and starts chugging his water.]
SHERLOCK: Bloody hell.
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. Mary peeks through the window into the dining room.]
MOLLY: Well?
MARY: Well. I think he’s ready for the next course.
[INTERIOR, Dining room. Mary delivers the next course. There’s a rather sad looking chicken breast sitting atop a somewhat shiny-looking mound of white potatoes, mashed to a fare-thee-well, with faded yellow and green discs on the side. A lonesome sprig of parsley is set into the potatoes, as if they’re wearing a hat.]
MARY: Omani Chicken and Tomatoes, served on a bed of mash with mixed veg on the side.
SHERLOCK: Tomatoes?
MARY: Yes.
SHERLOCK: Where?
MARY: Under the chicken?
SHERLOCK: And mixed veg.
MARY: Yes.
SHERLOCK: Green and yellow courgettes are mixed veg.
MARY: Well…they’re…mixed. Together. And different colors.
SHERLOCK: They’re both courgettes.
MARY: Different colors!
SHERLOCK: Obviously. Thank you!
[MARY flees. The ponytail is definitely horizontal.]
SHERLOCK: Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
[He toys with the chicken for a moment, looking underneath.]
SHERLOCK: No tomatoes. Left behind in 1957, perhaps.
[He cuts a piece and tries it. He chews. And chews. And chews.]
SHERLOCK: The tomatoes had the right idea. Cooked, then frozen, then cooked again.
[SHERLOCK spits out the chicken, and takes a bite of mash, then spits it out.]
SHERLOCK: Cold.
[On to the veg! Which receives the same fate.]
SHERLOCK: Oily and overseasoned. But the plain naan is looking better and better.
[A quick series of cuts of an overhead of the bread basket. In the first shot, the naan and the breadsticks are largely untouched; with each half-second shot, however, there are bites taken out of both of them, until the only thing that remains in the basket is the Russian bread.]
[INTERIOR, Dining room. MARY delivers another plate, this one piled high with noodles.]
SHERLOCK: Oh, dear, more food.
MARY: Japanese pan-fried noodles.
SHERLOCK: Russian salad, Omani chicken, British mash and veg, and Japanese noodles?
MARY: Yes.
SHERLOCK: Just checking. You can flee now.
[MARY flees.]
SHERLOCK: I can’t wait to see where the pudding is from.
[He takes a bite of the noodles, and his eyes widen in surprise.]
SHERLOCK: Now that’s a surprise.
[SHERLOCK chews, swallows - and takes another bite.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The Japanese pan-fried noodles are not bad. The noodles aren’t authentic, nor are they freshly made, but the flavor is spot on and well-balanced. I manage to eat four bites.
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MARY returns with the plate of noodles, barely touched. The door closes behind her, and MOLLY and the dishwasher, ARTIE WIGGINS, stare at her.]
*
“He hates it,” said Molly, staring at the plate. “Oh my God. He hates it. He hates everything.”
“He ate the naan,” said Mary, but Molly slumped over the kitchen block and covered her head with her arms.
“I don’t think that helped,” said Artie.
“What were you going to give him for pudding?” asked Mary.
“Tiramisu.”
“Well, we’re toast,” said Artie.
“No, we’re not,” said Mary grimly, and she dropped the plate of noodles on the warming table and marched into the kitchen. She picked Molly up by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “There has to be something in this kitchen that is not bloody awful and we can give him for pudding.”
“I’ve got chocolate sauce,” offered Artie. “And whipping cream.”
“Bugger off, Artie.”
“Fine,” said Artie. “It’s just I think those would go really well with the pie in the back of the fridge.”
The kitchen went silent.
“Pie?” asked Mary.
“That’s for later,” sniffed Molly.
Mary’s hands tightened on Molly’s shoulders. “There is pie?”
“Ouch! When was the last time you cut your nails?”
“What. Kind. Of. Pie.”
“Chocolate,” said Molly, and her eyes widened. “No. That’s for us, I knew today would be horrible, and I thought we’d need something nice at the end of it-”
“Molly, I love you, now shut up,” said Mary. “Artie. Get the pie. Leave the tiramisu.”
“What about the gun and the cannolis?”
“GET THE PIE, ARTIE.”
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. MARY brings the last course, and if anyone could set a pie down dramatically, she does it. She doesn’t say a word, she just waits.]
SHERLOCK: Well?
MARY: Seriously? You can’t figure this one out?
SHERLOCK: It’s a pie.
MARY: Very good! Bon appétit!
[MARY does not flee. She practically skips back to the kitchen.]
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MARY, MOLLY, and ARTIE are all clustered around the window, looking out into the dining room, jockeying for position.]
MARY: Quit it!
ARTIE: Ow, someone’s elbow is in my ribs.
MOLLY: It’s my pie, I should get to watch.
MARY: I SAID QUIT IT!
ARTIE: Your elbow is in my ribs.
[INTERIOR, Dining Room. SHERLOCK is eyeing the pie. It’s a dark pie, chocolate, with a flaky pastry crust, a dollop of fresh whipped cream sliding off the side, and a swirl of chocolate sauce decorating the plate. It looks…well, appetizing, actually, and SHERLOCK is clearly suspicious.]
SHERLOCK: One bite.
[He takes a bite, and his eyes widen, just a tiny bit, just for a moment. And then swallows. And then he takes another bite.]
[Speed up: SHERLOCK eating the pie.]
[Slow down: SHERLOCK’S fork scraping against the plate. The pie is gone.]
[INTERIOR: Kitchen. MARY, MOLLY and ARTIE spring from the window, scrambling to return to their normal positions. Just as they’re settling themselves into looking nonchalant (and failing miserably), the door to the dining room opens and SHERLOCK comes in, carrying the pie plate.]
SHERLOCK: Who made the pie?
MOLLY: Uh. Me.
SHERLOCK: Then who made the rest of the food? The dishwasher?
ARTIE: Oi!
MOLLY: Uh. Still me.
SHERLOCK: You…aren’t lying to me.
MOLLY: No.
*
Sherlock had met many chefs in the four years he’d been filming Restaurant Reconstructed. Good chefs, bad chefs, neurotic chefs, paranoid chefs, egotistical chefs, self-delusional chefs (who were often the same as the egotistical ones), and even the odd fantastic chef who had no self-confidence whatsoever.
Those were the chefs he pulled aside, off-camera, and told them that yes, he really meant it, when the restaurant folded - because Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not realistic about any restaurant’s chances - to please apply at any of his kitchens. Sometimes they did, and they were always hired on the spot, though not always at the same level they’d expected. No one ever regretted hiring them, and none of the chefs ever regretted the (often temporary) demotion.
But Molly was a different breed of chef altogether, because looking at her, really looking at her, Sherlock realized something.
“Soft hands, lack of calluses, pencil indention on your right forefinger, flushed face, hair falling out of your ponytail, chef’s coat a half size too large, trainers on your feet,” he said, staring at her. “Dirty sleeves. You’re not a chef at all.”
“I am!” cried Molly, but it was too late. “Well, now!”
“For how long? No, don’t tell me. A month? Two? It’s very recent, this shift. Not even long enough for you to grow out your fringe properly.”
“Almost three,” said Mary, when it became obvious that Molly was preoccupied with trying to fix her hair.
“I thought it was odd, one waitress for twenty tables,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “That’s what you did before, wasn’t it?”
“I can cook,” said Molly forcefully. “I can.”
“Of course you can cook, any idiot can boil water,” said Sherlock, though he didn’t sound impressed. “And you made the pie. But everything else - the recipes aren’t yours. They weren’t even the previous chef’s, unless the reason he’s no longer here is because he died of old age. Ah - but, no. Too young for that. Don’t tell me the rest, let’s see how I do. Previous chef was taller than you, the shelf for the mise is just a bit too high for you, Molly, you can’t see half of what’s there. He was rather fond of cast-iron and flat wooden spoons. He worked here for seven years, made some small changes to the menu, notably including the sesame seeds on the naan, had a fondness for listening to upbeat instrumental jazz while working, and favored blue Crocs. He wasn’t a smoker, likely wasn’t much of a drinker, though I suspect he’d have a bit of a tipple at the end of the night, not enough to make him drunk or even tipsy, just enough to push through to the end of service and then sleep well once at home. He relied on pasta dishes for your family dinners, boxed pastas but fresh sauces, and you all adored him. How’d I do?”
Artie whistled. “Crikey, mate.”
“Thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes.
Molly sniffed. “I made the pie.”
“Of course you made the pie. It’s written all over you, and it’s not on the menu. I suspect it also wasn’t what you intended to serve me.”
“Tiramisu,” said Mary. “The pie’s better.”
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, without looking at her. “Useful to have a clever and observant waitress. That’s one of the very few points in the Empire’s favor.”
“Cheers,” said Mary. “Mind telling us the rest so we can lick our wounds in peace?”
“The décor is regrettable, the menu is abhorrent, the food is largely inedible. The noodles were passable. The pie was divine.”
“Not one for mincing words, are you?” asked Artie dryly.
“Hardly any time for that. Thank you for lunch, ladies and gentleman. I shall see you in the morning.”
Sherlock turned to go, but just as his hand touched the door leading to the dining room, Molly lifted her chin. “You had one thing wrong.”
Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder. “Oh?”
“The previous chef’s name was Clara.”
Sherlock groaned and threw his head back. “Clara, of course. The chef was female.”
And he left, the door swinging behind him. The moment he was gone, Molly collapsed over the table, and let out a heaving sigh.
“Well,” said Mary, when no one managed to say anything. “That wasn’t completely awful.”
“I don’t think he left a tip,” said Artie.
“Good thing, I’d throw it in his face,” said Mary, and went to put her arm around Molly while she cried. “Come on, sweetie. Sod him, I want some of your delicious pie.”
“Is that lesbian code for something fun?” asked Artie, perking up.
“Sod off, Artie,” said Mary automatically. “And get the whipped cream.”
End A/N: Recipe for
Japanese Pan-Fried Noodles.
Chapter Four