Nights 'Round the Table (7/14)
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen
Merlin turned up on his doorstep carrying what, to Arthur, seemed like an excessively large pot for a meal for two people and wearing yet another bandanna around his neck. He also didn’t appear to have any other equipment or ingredients for a supposedly revelatory dinner, so Arthur could only assume Merlin had packed everything into the pot and wasn’t planning on throwing something together with what he found in Arthur’s fridge like a contestant on Iron Chef.
“I thought you only needed a skillet, a knife, and a spoon.” He hoped that Merlin was serious about that. Yesterday, He had had to go out and buy a skillet, and if Merlin needed anything beyond the handful of items Arthur actually had in his kitchen, it would bring this dinner to a halt while he sent Leon to find cookware and/or food. If it became necessary, he hoped he could strong-arm Merlin into getting delivery.
“Well, I may have oversimplified a little.” Merlin paused. “I can absolutely cook something amazing like that, but I thought I should put a little more effort into it, since I’m trying to prove a point. Although, really, it’s mostly because average people never have the right size pots to boil their pasta in.”
Arthur tried to look like he had the slightest clue about what Merlin meant, but he could tell it wasn’t working from the way Merlin rolled his eyes.
“Are you going to let me in? I’d like to do my miz and get started.”
“Your what?” Arthur suspected Merlin was using some sort of restaurant jargon, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Mise en place. It just means everything in it’s place. I want to set everything out, finish my prep work, and feed you. Also, I have a bottle of wine that needs to chill.” Merlin said, with a wide smile.
“Merlin, I have wine,” he said, stepping away from the door and motioning for Merlin to follow him to his kitchen.
“Yeah, I’m sure you do, but Lance, who is a trained professional by the way, told me to bring this wine. You can thank him later.”
Arthur took Merlin’s coat, and waved his hand in a way that meant Merlin should make himself at home. Grinning, Merlin set his pot on the counter and pulled his bandanna up over his hair. Arthur had a moment of feeling like an idiot, since it was obviously meant to keep his hair back, and not some horribly misguided fashion statement. It was an interesting look for Merlin. It made all his sharp angles stand out more.
Merlin opened his pot and began unpacking on the counter island. It was somewhat like watching a clown car empty. He pulled out a dozen or so containers in various sizes (one of which looked like it should hold jewelry) that had been sandwiched in between two cold packs, a bottle of Chardonnay that he stuck in the fridge, a pear, a cheese grater, a wedge of cheese, and a pepper mill. Arthur sat on one of his stools opposite Merlin and settled in to watch.
“I was going to do all the prep here,” Merlin said as he began opening the packages and arranging them. “But then I realized that I was way to picky about my knives and that I would really need to bring them with me, but I didn’t really want to carry them with me on BART. I mean I’d probably be ignored, because it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve carted them around with me on public transit, but I could just see this being the one time someone thought I looked suspicious, and I’d end up having to call you to come bail me out of jail. BART cops make me nervous anyway.” He carried the now empty pot to the sink and began filling it with water using the sprayer. “Do you have a pasta strainer?”
Arthur had to think for a moment. Morgana had found it hilarious for a period of about five years to buy him birthday gifts he never used but which she claimed normal people kept in their houses. Which was why he had a vacuum cleaner and a laundry basket, and any number of other things.
“You keep adding items to your list, Merlin,” he said, walking over to his kitchen cabinets to see if he could sneakily look for it without giving away that he wasn’t completely sure where the strainer was.
Merlin didn’t seem to notice, as he lifted the pot away from the sink and carried it to the stove. Arthur almost forgot what he was doing, seeing the way it made Merlin’s muscles pop. It wasn’t right that someone so thin could make that seem effortless. Merlin grabbed one of his packages and tossed in a handful of some white powder, put the lid back on and turned on the stove, then went back to puttering over the rest of the items on the counter.
“What was that?” Arthur asked wondering if strange white powders was what made the difference between gourmet and ordinary food.
“Hmmm?” Merlin asked, looking at him confusedly. “Oh! It works best with salt water.”
“I do have salt, Merlin.” Or at least Arthur assumed he did. It had been a while since he had so much as brought takeout back home, and heat-and-serve meals tended to have plenty of salt.
“I’m sure, but I didn’t know if you’d have kosher salt, and I like the flavor of it better, since I’ll need it for the salad too.”
“You can tell the difference between types of salt?”
“Anyone can if they care enough to start paying attention.” Merlin said with a grin.
Arthur was fairly sure that most foodies were lying about being able to taste the difference in things based on some arbitrary qualifier of freshness or quality. As far as he could tell, it was just another way for the elites to compete with each other. His skepticism must have shown on his face, because Merlin’s smile dimmed noticeably.
“See, the thing is, once you train yourself to notice the interplay of ingredients, it’s easy to tell when your taste buds are being tricked. Companies hire scientists to figure out how to make their products taste consistent in the cheapest, most shelf-stable way possible, but there comes a point when you can taste what they actually put in, not what your brain is tricked into thinking it is. Like how most fruit juices are a combination of grape and apple. Once you learn to pick out the flavors, it’ll never fool you that it’s cranberry.”
“I wasn’t expecting a dissertation, Merlin.”
His smile was back. “I was an engineer before I was a chef, Arthur. Old habits die hard. Do you have a large bowl?”
“Behind you, middle cabinet.” All of his plates and bowls were in the same place. “So what really made you change your career path?”
“I’d wanted to be a chef first, since it’s kind of the family business,” Merlin said, turning to grab the bowl. “My mom’s the only one that never had a knack for it. Her family owned the same pub in Wales for something like 10 generations, and my grandparents moved here to try their hand at the business in America. Most of the staff at Ambrosia are cousins that used to work at the original and just want residency.”
He paused as if he realized he’d gotten sidetracked. “When I was a senior, I was all ready to apply to the Culinary Institute of America, but then I wasn’t sure if anyone would ever take me seriously with my name, so I went for my second love of science instead, joined a frat, and became a vegetarian all in some misguided attempt at rebellion.” Merlin returned to the sink and began scrubbing his hands. It reminded Arthur of a surgeon.
“Vegetarian and in a frat don’t usually go together.”
“Well, wait till you meet my parents. Then you’ll understand. Dad’s primarily a French chef, and likes to say vegetarians are hypocrites because only privileged westerners have the luxury of turning away food. Mom went veg when I was twelve to spite him, she says that since westerners have the ability to choose what they eat, they have an obligation to choose wisely and in ways that limit their environmental impact. You can probably guess why joining a fraternity would be the only real way to rebel with them as parents.”
While Merlin spoke he was busy making what looked like a salad. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
“It’s a little late to ask, don’t you think? But no, Merlin, I’m not allergic to anything.”
“Good,” he said, returning to the cabinet and grabbing two shallow bowls. Leon had decided shortly after Arthur had moved in that the condo was perfect for dinner parties and had taken to buying Arthur dinnerware every time Leon was in Ikea. “Can you get the wine?”
Arthur stepped away from Merlin’s work space and set to getting their drinks ready. When he returned with the two glasses, Merlin was just finishing up the salads.
“Okay, so this is an arugula salad, with pear, prosciutto, aged gouda, and a sherry vinaigrette dressing.” He picked up the pepper mill and topped each with coarse ground pepper. “Where are the forks?”
“Top drawer on the right. Would you rather take this to the table?”
“Um, not just yet. I’m going to need to start the butter sauce for the pasta, and we’d have to shout across the room if we wanted to keep talking.” He picked up his wine glass and gestured to Arthur. “To good food.”
Arthur nodded. “To fame and fortune.”
They both drank. Arthur had never been a fan of white wine, and he tried not to make a face, but from Merlin’s expression he was pretty sure that he had been too obvious.
“It’ll be better with the food, promise.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and took a bite. It was good, but he still didn’t know what he was supposed to be experiencing other than better than average food. “It’s delicious.”
Merlin shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think for a second you really know why, though. Here. Give me your fork and close your eyes.”
Arthur was skeptical, but Merlin looked sincere, so he did it. He could hear Merlin’s laugh and shuffling noises.
“So, I’m getting a little bit of everything on your fork. You need to go slow while you chew and be sure to use your tongue to hold the food against the roof of your mouth and also to move it to your teeth. That way, you’ll experience the flavor combinations properly. Open up,” he said, sliding the fork into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur chewed slowly, working his tongue as he’d been told, noticing for the first time that there were many different elements in the dish and the interplay between them.
“Swallow, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice was low, almost teasing.
Arthur swallowed, and felt like his Adam's apple was too big, that Merlin would notice that it was bobbing harder than necessary for one bite of food.
“Now take a sip of your wine. Keep your eyes closed if you can. Just focus on the taste of everything. And try and inhale before you drink so that you get the scent of the wine before you get the flavor.”
Arthur followed the instruction, and the sip he took was like a burst of perfection. He had that moment of clarity where he actually understood why people babbled about food and wine pairings. He had never realized that if done correctly, the wine acted like an additional ingredient to the dish.
“Okay, open up again.” Merlin slid the fork into Arthur’s mouth again, and he closed his lips around it, pulling the food into his mouth. “So, now I want you to find the flavors in it. Tell me what you’re tasting, Arthur.”
Arthur chewed slowly and cataloged as best he could, and when he swallowed again, he opened his eyes, so he could see Merlin as he told him, “There was something zesty? And I could taste the pear, and the cheese.”
“That’s the arugula. Anything else?”
“I think the vinegar, it was a little like balsamic.” Which, honestly, was the only vinegar Arthur knew.
“You’re a pretty quick study. Did you notice the prosciutto?”
“Yeah. It was salty, but in a good way.”
A blush spread across Merlin’s cheeks and he stood up, took a large drink of his wine and stepped away from the counter. “The water’s about to boil. I should get started on the sauce.” He grabbed Arthur’s new skillet and set it on the stove, turning back just long enough to grab a few items from his set up.
Silence began to stretch out. Before Arthur had too long to figure out what he’d done to upset Merlin, Merlin was finally speaking again.
“So, I told you a little bit about my parents. You should return the favor.”
“Anything worth knowing about Uther Pendragon, you can get from his Wikipedia entry.”
Merlin snorted. “Both my parents have Wiki pages, too. That’s hardly all there is to know about them.”
“Really? Your parents have their own pages?”
“Well, mom’s a pretty well regarded Classicist, and she’s been on the History channel a few times as an expert in Saxon warfare. Dad’s worked in New York for years, so he’s on a few restaurant pages, too. But really, Arthur, tell me something.”
“My mom died when I was one. My father started a relationship with Morgana’s mother, who was my mother’s best friend, and they tried to be married for two years or so. I went to Columbia. I’ve been playing baseball since I was six and started in little league, but I was a better fencer. I’m really boring, Merlin. All I do is work.”
Merlin turned around long enough to frown at him. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Arthur.”
“Tell me more about your parents,” he said, to get the conversation away from him and from possibly getting into difficult topics in regards to his relationship with Uther that he preferred to just avoid entirely. He could see Merlin roll his shoulders as though he was agreeing to let Arthur drop the subject.
“A lot of people don’t understand why they’re still married, since they live on opposite coasts. Especially since mom is always trying to set dad up on dates, because she doesn’t want him to be lonely while they’re apart. Mom had a job teaching at Mills and dad’s a New Yorker by birth and was more suited to the restaurant scene there. So they decided that the best way to love each other was to let the other be the best they could be. They get together a couple times a year and for vacations. Dad travels more for his work these days, so he’s trying to convince mom to take a sabbatical and join him on the road. I think she will once she’s done with her latest book.”
“Do you ever see your father?”
“It’s been a while. I was thinking of going out when the show airs. I’d like to see what he thinks of me following in his footsteps.”
“Maybe we can take a camera crew out and have a father-son moment for the DVD extras.”
Merlin laughed. “Be sure you call ahead for anything like that. He doesn’t do unscheduled publicity.” Merlin hauled the pot off the stove and poured out the water. Arthur watched as the steam rose up and created a cloud around Merlin. He thought it might make an interesting visual for the show, given the star’s name. It had that feel of something magical.
“Can you take our dishes and the wine to the table? I’ll be ready to join you in just a minute.”
Arthur did, arranging their seats to be a little closer than he probably should. He refilled their wine and resisted the urge to find candles. Merlin was barely a minute behind him, carrying the two plates with the mysterious box wedged against his side with his elbow.
“So, this is fettuccine with a sage and garlic butter sauce topped with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.” He placed the plates, put the box off to the side and sat, finally able to eat himself.
While they ate, they avoided talking about their families. Arthur told stories about the team, and what it was like to win the World Series, Merlin talked about the band, and the restaurant.
Arthur took to heart Merlin’s intent with the dinner, and focused on just tasting everything. The pasta surprised him. He was used to tomato or cream-based sauces, maybe pesto if he was feeling daring, but knowing that it was just butter left him floored. It was rich, and almost too much, but it was also delicate, and the sage and garlic were more subtle then he expected. When he drank his wine, he realized that it was meant to be paired with the pasta more then the salad, and everything he had experienced previously was amplified now.
By the time he was done, and finally made eye contact with Merlin, Merlin was grinning like a loon. “I told you so.”
“Yes, fine, food is a spiritual experience.”
“Now, I have one more thing before I have pack up and head home. Your publicist hates me and has scheduled an 8 a.m. photo shoot.”
“Merlin! If you have bags under your eyes, don’t blame me.”
“Don’t worry about it. People expect chefs to look like they’ve lived a hard life of hedonism and tortured genius.”
“I don’t know if you could look like you’ve had a hard life, Merlin. You’re pretty as a girl.” Arthur flushed as his brain caught up to his mouth.
Merlin just grinned. “I think you’ll like dessert. Though if I were doing this with proper beverage pairings I would have espresso for us, we’ll just have to make do. Gwen’s a budding chocolatier and she made these for me to bring,” he said as he finally opened the black box. Inside were four squares of extremely dark chocolate topped with what looked like rock salt. “Close your eyes again, ‘cause you’re going to want to savor this.”
Arthur did, and opened his mouth, half-convinced that Merlin wouldn’t actually feed him, now that it would have to be by hand instead of with a fork, but he was wrong. He could feel Merlin’s fingers against his lips as the chocolate slid onto his tongue. A hand brushed his jaw and then gently pushed up to close his mouth. Hesitantly, Arthur pressed the candy against the roof of his mouth, the salt and the creamy chocolate melting together as he rubbed it with his tongue. It was nice, but nothing new, he thought. But then he realized there was another flavor. The candy had a caramel center and he hummed with contentment as it mingled together with the salt and chocolate, and slid down his throat. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes to find Merlin staring at him with a look he couldn’t place.
Embarrassed, Arthur couldn’t meet his eyes. “You’d probably better go. If I keep you much later, you really will have bags under your eyes and our publicist will come after me for it. I’ll get your coat for you.”
Merlin frowned and stood up. “Yeah. Thanks. You can keep the leftovers.” He scooped everything back into his pot and put the dishes in the sink. Taking his coat from Arthur, he walked out the door without making more eye contact then he absolutely had too. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Sure, we can work something out.” Arthur said, as he closed the door.
Arthur walked back to his kitchen, tossed the leftovers in the fridge and sat at his table to finish the bottle of wine. He really needed to stop embarrassing Merlin, since it seemed pretty obvious he had done something wrong. He put the lid back on the chocolates, sure that he’d never be able to eat another caramel without becoming achingly hard.
The first real day of filming took place on a Saturday. It was decided that since the show was centered around the daily specials, and since the specials theoretically depended on what was in season, the best way to do that would be to ground the show firmly in a place. And few places screamed Bay Area food scene quite like the Ferry Plaza farmer’s market.
So here Merlin was, awake and over the bridge at the ass-crack of dawn for set up, watching the crew get establishing shots of vendors as they set up for the morning. He almost never came to this market, preferring to stick closer to home, since just about every vendor could be found somewhere else. This was more like the foodie equivalent of the hot night club. You went to rub elbows to see and be seen. However, instead of schmoozing, Merlin was in the back of the producers’ van with too much time to think.
He was impressed at how fast things seemed to happen once Arthur got the go-ahead to create the show. The restaurant was suddenly full of people making schedules, checking lighting, looking for the best angles for shooting and the best power sources. Through it all, they had to keep serving meals and anticipate that once filming began in earnest, everything would become a thousand times more difficult. Not all their customers would be thrilled at the prospect of being on television, but once word got out, there was the very real chance the place would be swarming with customers who would be. The release forms that everyone coming in the door were asked to sign were just a bonus.
There were episodes to plan, and suddenly Merlin had to think of every special he could possibly run for the next 6 months (good thing Percy had an encyclopedic knowledge of seasonal produce). He had a leather journal covered in post-its, pictures ripped out of magazines, computer printouts, and his own hurried scrawl, that Gwen had taken to calling the
magic book. He came to work early and left late, experimenting with the dishes he developed. Gaius kicked him out of the kitchen after 3 days of mess and told him go home, that he had a week to do it, and not to come back before then. He supposed he should just be grateful that Gwen had all but moved in with Lance, and didn’t see the mess he’d made of their kitchen.
And Merlin knew that there was just as much happening elsewhere that he wasn’t seeing. He knew that there were marketing campaigns, ads sold, and time slots planned, and many other technical things being handled by professionals. The major result of which meant that he hadn’t seen or really spoken to Arthur since the night he cooked for him. That whole episode had thrown him off-balance.
Morgana had phoned him a few days after that night at the club, when he’d run into her for the first time in years, because she knew that she had given him a bad impression of her brother and thought she should fix it. He supposed it was possible the Arthur he’d met that night was vastly different from the Arthur Morgana had told him stories about.
Merlin still didn’t know how to define his relationship with Morgana. He supposed it would be easiest to say they’d not been ready to stay friends. She’d been angry at the world then, tired of always being dismissed, and he never quite knew what the truth was with her. But she had told him two things about Arthur that he remembered, primarily because they sounded like truth. One, that he had been an ass when she’d told him she was bisexual, while trying to figure out if she was really a lesbian who was afraid of coming out, or if she was just being trendy. Two, that Arthur was, in all likelihood, according to Morgana, gay and terrified of telling their father, which in turn meant afraid of telling anyone.
Merlin wasn’t sure about the gay thing now, though. He had been pretty unsubtle about trying to get into Arthur’s pants, to no avail. Although, if Arthur knew he was bi, that might be enough reason for Arthur to avoid him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He’d never had this much trouble hooking up before. Gwen called it his winsome charm, and Gwaine said it was because he looked like he needed to be debauched, never mind that he was one of the biggest deviants that Gwaine knew. The only other person he knew who had turned him down had been Lance.
After Lance had also ignored Gwaine’s increasingly ridiculous flirting, they realized that he had to be one of those mythological straight people that they had heard about. Gwen had taken that as her cue, to ask Lance out. That they’d stayed together, with something close to exclusivity, surprised everyone.
Eventually, with filming preparations complete, the crew tossed him out of the van, and he and Percy were sent off to market. Merlin decided they should start by the prepared food stands, work their way up one side, around the front, back through the Ferry Building itself, and then back through a second time to all the vendors he would have to stop and spend time with, because it would be too rude not to.
Every 20 minutes or so, the production assistant would stop them and slather Merlin with more sunblock. At least it was just his face and hands. It had been determined that he should wear his black chef’s coat (something about blinding everyone in the sun if he wore white) even though he normally only trotted that out for special events like the half-dozen or so times a year Gaius decided he was also a caterer. And since it was a long-sleeved, high-necked jacket, very little of him was left exposed to bake in the sun. Although he suspected that as it got closer to noon, the assistant would probably come after him with an umbrella to really shield him from the sun when the cameras were off. It was apparently the traditional early fall heat wave that was technically as close to summer as it ever got, but at least the rainy season hadn’t started yet. He would much rather have the umbrella mean he was in danger of being burnt, than have to reschedule until they found a dry enough day to film.
They stopped at booths and made a show of selecting produce, relying on the fact that distance and angles would keep anything from looking less then perfect. Most of it was amazing, and what wasn’t pretty was discounted for being ugly (which Merlin had always found slightly ridiculous). Appearance didn’t matter once you cooked it, and pretty only mattered when it came to plating. Taste was its own beast.
They faked going to a few of the booths several times to select different items. They picked up bread from Acme, and cheese from Cowgirl Creamery. They got mushrooms and preserves and fancy salts. They got meat, and fish, and olive oil.
Around eleven, Merlin begged to stop for lunch, and immediately made a beeline to the Blue Bottle coffee cart in front of the building. The cart was in an alcove, and not only would it provide his much-needed caffeine hit, it would also hide him from anyone he knew who might want to ask too many questions about why he was wandering around the market with a camera crew in tow. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about it necessarily, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop, and he would get so caught up in the gossip that he would very likely not be back to film in anything like a reasonable amount of time. Anything he could do to avoid coming out here again was an admirable goal in his book.
It was there, in the shadows behind the cart, that the Great Dragon found him.
“Hello, young chef. I see that after all this time spent running from your destiny, you’ve finally decided to follow in your father’s footsteps.” The Dragon gripped his arm and leaned too far into his personal space. The old bastard reeked of smoked things, woodsmoke and meat, and quite a bit like pot. That, at least, made this whole encounter understandable.
“It’s not just me. The show’s about the restaurant. I’m on it because of Gaius, not my dad,” Merlin said, trying to pull away.
“That old fool realizes your potential for greatness, boy. Young Pendragon will one day rule a media empire that will make his father’s reign small and forgettable. What you do now will set the course of both of your destinies. You will make him great.”
“Riiiiiight. Ok, then. I can see you’ve totally let go of Uther firing you. I’m going to go back to work now...” Merlin finally got the Dragon to release his grip and began backing away.
“Uther Pendragon may have imprisoned me in this damnable city, but I can see the hand of fate will make me victorious in time. The sons will outshine their fathers.”
Merlin hurried back through the crowd, to find the crew, but he didn’t relax until he was safely back in Oakland.
Next
Merlin turned up on his doorstep carrying what, to Arthur, seemed like an excessively large pot for a meal for two people and wearing yet another bandanna around his neck. He also didn’t appear to have any other equipment or ingredients for a supposedly revelatory dinner, so Arthur could only assume Merlin had packed everything into the pot and wasn’t planning on throwing something together with what he found in Arthur’s fridge like a contestant on Iron Chef.
“I thought you only needed a skillet, a knife, and a spoon.” He hoped that Merlin was serious about that. Yesterday, He had had to go out and buy a skillet, and if Merlin needed anything beyond the handful of items Arthur actually had in his kitchen, it would bring this dinner to a halt while he sent Leon to find cookware and/or food. If it became necessary, he hoped he could strong-arm Merlin into getting delivery.
“Well, I may have oversimplified a little.” Merlin paused. “I can absolutely cook something amazing like that, but I thought I should put a little more effort into it, since I’m trying to prove a point. Although, really, it’s mostly because average people never have the right size pots to boil their pasta in.”
Arthur tried to look like he had the slightest clue about what Merlin meant, but he could tell it wasn’t working from the way Merlin rolled his eyes.
“Are you going to let me in? I’d like to do my miz and get started.”
“Your what?” Arthur suspected Merlin was using some sort of restaurant jargon, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Mise en place. It just means everything in it’s place. I want to set everything out, finish my prep work, and feed you. Also, I have a bottle of wine that needs to chill.” Merlin said, with a wide smile.
“Merlin, I have wine,” he said, stepping away from the door and motioning for Merlin to follow him to his kitchen.
“Yeah, I’m sure you do, but Lance, who is a trained professional by the way, told me to bring this wine. You can thank him later.”
Arthur took Merlin’s coat, and waved his hand in a way that meant Merlin should make himself at home. Grinning, Merlin set his pot on the counter and pulled his bandanna up over his hair. Arthur had a moment of feeling like an idiot, since it was obviously meant to keep his hair back, and not some horribly misguided fashion statement. It was an interesting look for Merlin. It made all his sharp angles stand out more.
Merlin opened his pot and began unpacking on the counter island. It was somewhat like watching a clown car empty. He pulled out a dozen or so containers in various sizes (one of which looked like it should hold jewelry) that had been sandwiched in between two cold packs, a bottle of Chardonnay that he stuck in the fridge, a pear, a cheese grater, a wedge of cheese, and a pepper mill. Arthur sat on one of his stools opposite Merlin and settled in to watch.
“I was going to do all the prep here,” Merlin said as he began opening the packages and arranging them. “But then I realized that I was way to picky about my knives and that I would really need to bring them with me, but I didn’t really want to carry them with me on BART. I mean I’d probably be ignored, because it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve carted them around with me on public transit, but I could just see this being the one time someone thought I looked suspicious, and I’d end up having to call you to come bail me out of jail. BART cops make me nervous anyway.” He carried the now empty pot to the sink and began filling it with water using the sprayer. “Do you have a pasta strainer?”
Arthur had to think for a moment. Morgana had found it hilarious for a period of about five years to buy him birthday gifts he never used but which she claimed normal people kept in their houses. Which was why he had a vacuum cleaner and a laundry basket, and any number of other things.
“You keep adding items to your list, Merlin,” he said, walking over to his kitchen cabinets to see if he could sneakily look for it without giving away that he wasn’t completely sure where the strainer was.
Merlin didn’t seem to notice, as he lifted the pot away from the sink and carried it to the stove. Arthur almost forgot what he was doing, seeing the way it made Merlin’s muscles pop. It wasn’t right that someone so thin could make that seem effortless. Merlin grabbed one of his packages and tossed in a handful of some white powder, put the lid back on and turned on the stove, then went back to puttering over the rest of the items on the counter.
“What was that?” Arthur asked wondering if strange white powders was what made the difference between gourmet and ordinary food.
“Hmmm?” Merlin asked, looking at him confusedly. “Oh! It works best with salt water.”
“I do have salt, Merlin.” Or at least Arthur assumed he did. It had been a while since he had so much as brought takeout back home, and heat-and-serve meals tended to have plenty of salt.
“I’m sure, but I didn’t know if you’d have kosher salt, and I like the flavor of it better, since I’ll need it for the salad too.”
“You can tell the difference between types of salt?”
“Anyone can if they care enough to start paying attention.” Merlin said with a grin.
Arthur was fairly sure that most foodies were lying about being able to taste the difference in things based on some arbitrary qualifier of freshness or quality. As far as he could tell, it was just another way for the elites to compete with each other. His skepticism must have shown on his face, because Merlin’s smile dimmed noticeably.
“See, the thing is, once you train yourself to notice the interplay of ingredients, it’s easy to tell when your taste buds are being tricked. Companies hire scientists to figure out how to make their products taste consistent in the cheapest, most shelf-stable way possible, but there comes a point when you can taste what they actually put in, not what your brain is tricked into thinking it is. Like how most fruit juices are a combination of grape and apple. Once you learn to pick out the flavors, it’ll never fool you that it’s cranberry.”
“I wasn’t expecting a dissertation, Merlin.”
His smile was back. “I was an engineer before I was a chef, Arthur. Old habits die hard. Do you have a large bowl?”
“Behind you, middle cabinet.” All of his plates and bowls were in the same place. “So what really made you change your career path?”
“I’d wanted to be a chef first, since it’s kind of the family business,” Merlin said, turning to grab the bowl. “My mom’s the only one that never had a knack for it. Her family owned the same pub in Wales for something like 10 generations, and my grandparents moved here to try their hand at the business in America. Most of the staff at Ambrosia are cousins that used to work at the original and just want residency.”
He paused as if he realized he’d gotten sidetracked. “When I was a senior, I was all ready to apply to the Culinary Institute of America, but then I wasn’t sure if anyone would ever take me seriously with my name, so I went for my second love of science instead, joined a frat, and became a vegetarian all in some misguided attempt at rebellion.” Merlin returned to the sink and began scrubbing his hands. It reminded Arthur of a surgeon.
“Vegetarian and in a frat don’t usually go together.”
“Well, wait till you meet my parents. Then you’ll understand. Dad’s primarily a French chef, and likes to say vegetarians are hypocrites because only privileged westerners have the luxury of turning away food. Mom went veg when I was twelve to spite him, she says that since westerners have the ability to choose what they eat, they have an obligation to choose wisely and in ways that limit their environmental impact. You can probably guess why joining a fraternity would be the only real way to rebel with them as parents.”
While Merlin spoke he was busy making what looked like a salad. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
“It’s a little late to ask, don’t you think? But no, Merlin, I’m not allergic to anything.”
“Good,” he said, returning to the cabinet and grabbing two shallow bowls. Leon had decided shortly after Arthur had moved in that the condo was perfect for dinner parties and had taken to buying Arthur dinnerware every time Leon was in Ikea. “Can you get the wine?”
Arthur stepped away from Merlin’s work space and set to getting their drinks ready. When he returned with the two glasses, Merlin was just finishing up the salads.
“Okay, so this is an arugula salad, with pear, prosciutto, aged gouda, and a sherry vinaigrette dressing.” He picked up the pepper mill and topped each with coarse ground pepper. “Where are the forks?”
“Top drawer on the right. Would you rather take this to the table?”
“Um, not just yet. I’m going to need to start the butter sauce for the pasta, and we’d have to shout across the room if we wanted to keep talking.” He picked up his wine glass and gestured to Arthur. “To good food.”
Arthur nodded. “To fame and fortune.”
They both drank. Arthur had never been a fan of white wine, and he tried not to make a face, but from Merlin’s expression he was pretty sure that he had been too obvious.
“It’ll be better with the food, promise.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and took a bite. It was good, but he still didn’t know what he was supposed to be experiencing other than better than average food. “It’s delicious.”
Merlin shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think for a second you really know why, though. Here. Give me your fork and close your eyes.”
Arthur was skeptical, but Merlin looked sincere, so he did it. He could hear Merlin’s laugh and shuffling noises.
“So, I’m getting a little bit of everything on your fork. You need to go slow while you chew and be sure to use your tongue to hold the food against the roof of your mouth and also to move it to your teeth. That way, you’ll experience the flavor combinations properly. Open up,” he said, sliding the fork into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur chewed slowly, working his tongue as he’d been told, noticing for the first time that there were many different elements in the dish and the interplay between them.
“Swallow, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice was low, almost teasing.
Arthur swallowed, and felt like his Adam's apple was too big, that Merlin would notice that it was bobbing harder than necessary for one bite of food.
“Now take a sip of your wine. Keep your eyes closed if you can. Just focus on the taste of everything. And try and inhale before you drink so that you get the scent of the wine before you get the flavor.”
Arthur followed the instruction, and the sip he took was like a burst of perfection. He had that moment of clarity where he actually understood why people babbled about food and wine pairings. He had never realized that if done correctly, the wine acted like an additional ingredient to the dish.
“Okay, open up again.” Merlin slid the fork into Arthur’s mouth again, and he closed his lips around it, pulling the food into his mouth. “So, now I want you to find the flavors in it. Tell me what you’re tasting, Arthur.”
Arthur chewed slowly and cataloged as best he could, and when he swallowed again, he opened his eyes, so he could see Merlin as he told him, “There was something zesty? And I could taste the pear, and the cheese.”
“That’s the arugula. Anything else?”
“I think the vinegar, it was a little like balsamic.” Which, honestly, was the only vinegar Arthur knew.
“You’re a pretty quick study. Did you notice the prosciutto?”
“Yeah. It was salty, but in a good way.”
A blush spread across Merlin’s cheeks and he stood up, took a large drink of his wine and stepped away from the counter. “The water’s about to boil. I should get started on the sauce.” He grabbed Arthur’s new skillet and set it on the stove, turning back just long enough to grab a few items from his set up.
Silence began to stretch out. Before Arthur had too long to figure out what he’d done to upset Merlin, Merlin was finally speaking again.
“So, I told you a little bit about my parents. You should return the favor.”
“Anything worth knowing about Uther Pendragon, you can get from his Wikipedia entry.”
Merlin snorted. “Both my parents have Wiki pages, too. That’s hardly all there is to know about them.”
“Really? Your parents have their own pages?”
“Well, mom’s a pretty well regarded Classicist, and she’s been on the History channel a few times as an expert in Saxon warfare. Dad’s worked in New York for years, so he’s on a few restaurant pages, too. But really, Arthur, tell me something.”
“My mom died when I was one. My father started a relationship with Morgana’s mother, who was my mother’s best friend, and they tried to be married for two years or so. I went to Columbia. I’ve been playing baseball since I was six and started in little league, but I was a better fencer. I’m really boring, Merlin. All I do is work.”
Merlin turned around long enough to frown at him. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Arthur.”
“Tell me more about your parents,” he said, to get the conversation away from him and from possibly getting into difficult topics in regards to his relationship with Uther that he preferred to just avoid entirely. He could see Merlin roll his shoulders as though he was agreeing to let Arthur drop the subject.
“A lot of people don’t understand why they’re still married, since they live on opposite coasts. Especially since mom is always trying to set dad up on dates, because she doesn’t want him to be lonely while they’re apart. Mom had a job teaching at Mills and dad’s a New Yorker by birth and was more suited to the restaurant scene there. So they decided that the best way to love each other was to let the other be the best they could be. They get together a couple times a year and for vacations. Dad travels more for his work these days, so he’s trying to convince mom to take a sabbatical and join him on the road. I think she will once she’s done with her latest book.”
“Do you ever see your father?”
“It’s been a while. I was thinking of going out when the show airs. I’d like to see what he thinks of me following in his footsteps.”
“Maybe we can take a camera crew out and have a father-son moment for the DVD extras.”
Merlin laughed. “Be sure you call ahead for anything like that. He doesn’t do unscheduled publicity.” Merlin hauled the pot off the stove and poured out the water. Arthur watched as the steam rose up and created a cloud around Merlin. He thought it might make an interesting visual for the show, given the star’s name. It had that feel of something magical.
“Can you take our dishes and the wine to the table? I’ll be ready to join you in just a minute.”
Arthur did, arranging their seats to be a little closer than he probably should. He refilled their wine and resisted the urge to find candles. Merlin was barely a minute behind him, carrying the two plates with the mysterious box wedged against his side with his elbow.
“So, this is fettuccine with a sage and garlic butter sauce topped with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.” He placed the plates, put the box off to the side and sat, finally able to eat himself.
While they ate, they avoided talking about their families. Arthur told stories about the team, and what it was like to win the World Series, Merlin talked about the band, and the restaurant.
Arthur took to heart Merlin’s intent with the dinner, and focused on just tasting everything. The pasta surprised him. He was used to tomato or cream-based sauces, maybe pesto if he was feeling daring, but knowing that it was just butter left him floored. It was rich, and almost too much, but it was also delicate, and the sage and garlic were more subtle then he expected. When he drank his wine, he realized that it was meant to be paired with the pasta more then the salad, and everything he had experienced previously was amplified now.
By the time he was done, and finally made eye contact with Merlin, Merlin was grinning like a loon. “I told you so.”
“Yes, fine, food is a spiritual experience.”
“Now, I have one more thing before I have pack up and head home. Your publicist hates me and has scheduled an 8 a.m. photo shoot.”
“Merlin! If you have bags under your eyes, don’t blame me.”
“Don’t worry about it. People expect chefs to look like they’ve lived a hard life of hedonism and tortured genius.”
“I don’t know if you could look like you’ve had a hard life, Merlin. You’re pretty as a girl.” Arthur flushed as his brain caught up to his mouth.
Merlin just grinned. “I think you’ll like dessert. Though if I were doing this with proper beverage pairings I would have espresso for us, we’ll just have to make do. Gwen’s a budding chocolatier and she made these for me to bring,” he said as he finally opened the black box. Inside were four squares of extremely dark chocolate topped with what looked like rock salt. “Close your eyes again, ‘cause you’re going to want to savor this.”
Arthur did, and opened his mouth, half-convinced that Merlin wouldn’t actually feed him, now that it would have to be by hand instead of with a fork, but he was wrong. He could feel Merlin’s fingers against his lips as the chocolate slid onto his tongue. A hand brushed his jaw and then gently pushed up to close his mouth. Hesitantly, Arthur pressed the candy against the roof of his mouth, the salt and the creamy chocolate melting together as he rubbed it with his tongue. It was nice, but nothing new, he thought. But then he realized there was another flavor. The candy had a caramel center and he hummed with contentment as it mingled together with the salt and chocolate, and slid down his throat. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes to find Merlin staring at him with a look he couldn’t place.
Embarrassed, Arthur couldn’t meet his eyes. “You’d probably better go. If I keep you much later, you really will have bags under your eyes and our publicist will come after me for it. I’ll get your coat for you.”
Merlin frowned and stood up. “Yeah. Thanks. You can keep the leftovers.” He scooped everything back into his pot and put the dishes in the sink. Taking his coat from Arthur, he walked out the door without making more eye contact then he absolutely had too. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Sure, we can work something out.” Arthur said, as he closed the door.
Arthur walked back to his kitchen, tossed the leftovers in the fridge and sat at his table to finish the bottle of wine. He really needed to stop embarrassing Merlin, since it seemed pretty obvious he had done something wrong. He put the lid back on the chocolates, sure that he’d never be able to eat another caramel without becoming achingly hard.
The first real day of filming took place on a Saturday. It was decided that since the show was centered around the daily specials, and since the specials theoretically depended on what was in season, the best way to do that would be to ground the show firmly in a place. And few places screamed Bay Area food scene quite like the Ferry Plaza farmer’s market.
So here Merlin was, awake and over the bridge at the ass-crack of dawn for set up, watching the crew get establishing shots of vendors as they set up for the morning. He almost never came to this market, preferring to stick closer to home, since just about every vendor could be found somewhere else. This was more like the foodie equivalent of the hot night club. You went to rub elbows to see and be seen. However, instead of schmoozing, Merlin was in the back of the producers’ van with too much time to think.
He was impressed at how fast things seemed to happen once Arthur got the go-ahead to create the show. The restaurant was suddenly full of people making schedules, checking lighting, looking for the best angles for shooting and the best power sources. Through it all, they had to keep serving meals and anticipate that once filming began in earnest, everything would become a thousand times more difficult. Not all their customers would be thrilled at the prospect of being on television, but once word got out, there was the very real chance the place would be swarming with customers who would be. The release forms that everyone coming in the door were asked to sign were just a bonus.
There were episodes to plan, and suddenly Merlin had to think of every special he could possibly run for the next 6 months (good thing Percy had an encyclopedic knowledge of seasonal produce). He had a leather journal covered in post-its, pictures ripped out of magazines, computer printouts, and his own hurried scrawl, that Gwen had taken to calling the
magic book. He came to work early and left late, experimenting with the dishes he developed. Gaius kicked him out of the kitchen after 3 days of mess and told him go home, that he had a week to do it, and not to come back before then. He supposed he should just be grateful that Gwen had all but moved in with Lance, and didn’t see the mess he’d made of their kitchen.
And Merlin knew that there was just as much happening elsewhere that he wasn’t seeing. He knew that there were marketing campaigns, ads sold, and time slots planned, and many other technical things being handled by professionals. The major result of which meant that he hadn’t seen or really spoken to Arthur since the night he cooked for him. That whole episode had thrown him off-balance.
Morgana had phoned him a few days after that night at the club, when he’d run into her for the first time in years, because she knew that she had given him a bad impression of her brother and thought she should fix it. He supposed it was possible the Arthur he’d met that night was vastly different from the Arthur Morgana had told him stories about.
Merlin still didn’t know how to define his relationship with Morgana. He supposed it would be easiest to say they’d not been ready to stay friends. She’d been angry at the world then, tired of always being dismissed, and he never quite knew what the truth was with her. But she had told him two things about Arthur that he remembered, primarily because they sounded like truth. One, that he had been an ass when she’d told him she was bisexual, while trying to figure out if she was really a lesbian who was afraid of coming out, or if she was just being trendy. Two, that Arthur was, in all likelihood, according to Morgana, gay and terrified of telling their father, which in turn meant afraid of telling anyone.
Merlin wasn’t sure about the gay thing now, though. He had been pretty unsubtle about trying to get into Arthur’s pants, to no avail. Although, if Arthur knew he was bi, that might be enough reason for Arthur to avoid him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He’d never had this much trouble hooking up before. Gwen called it his winsome charm, and Gwaine said it was because he looked like he needed to be debauched, never mind that he was one of the biggest deviants that Gwaine knew. The only other person he knew who had turned him down had been Lance.
After Lance had also ignored Gwaine’s increasingly ridiculous flirting, they realized that he had to be one of those mythological straight people that they had heard about. Gwen had taken that as her cue, to ask Lance out. That they’d stayed together, with something close to exclusivity, surprised everyone.
Eventually, with filming preparations complete, the crew tossed him out of the van, and he and Percy were sent off to market. Merlin decided they should start by the prepared food stands, work their way up one side, around the front, back through the Ferry Building itself, and then back through a second time to all the vendors he would have to stop and spend time with, because it would be too rude not to.
Every 20 minutes or so, the production assistant would stop them and slather Merlin with more sunblock. At least it was just his face and hands. It had been determined that he should wear his black chef’s coat (something about blinding everyone in the sun if he wore white) even though he normally only trotted that out for special events like the half-dozen or so times a year Gaius decided he was also a caterer. And since it was a long-sleeved, high-necked jacket, very little of him was left exposed to bake in the sun. Although he suspected that as it got closer to noon, the assistant would probably come after him with an umbrella to really shield him from the sun when the cameras were off. It was apparently the traditional early fall heat wave that was technically as close to summer as it ever got, but at least the rainy season hadn’t started yet. He would much rather have the umbrella mean he was in danger of being burnt, than have to reschedule until they found a dry enough day to film.
They stopped at booths and made a show of selecting produce, relying on the fact that distance and angles would keep anything from looking less then perfect. Most of it was amazing, and what wasn’t pretty was discounted for being ugly (which Merlin had always found slightly ridiculous). Appearance didn’t matter once you cooked it, and pretty only mattered when it came to plating. Taste was its own beast.
They faked going to a few of the booths several times to select different items. They picked up bread from Acme, and cheese from Cowgirl Creamery. They got mushrooms and preserves and fancy salts. They got meat, and fish, and olive oil.
Around eleven, Merlin begged to stop for lunch, and immediately made a beeline to the Blue Bottle coffee cart in front of the building. The cart was in an alcove, and not only would it provide his much-needed caffeine hit, it would also hide him from anyone he knew who might want to ask too many questions about why he was wandering around the market with a camera crew in tow. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about it necessarily, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop, and he would get so caught up in the gossip that he would very likely not be back to film in anything like a reasonable amount of time. Anything he could do to avoid coming out here again was an admirable goal in his book.
It was there, in the shadows behind the cart, that the Great Dragon found him.
“Hello, young chef. I see that after all this time spent running from your destiny, you’ve finally decided to follow in your father’s footsteps.” The Dragon gripped his arm and leaned too far into his personal space. The old bastard reeked of smoked things, woodsmoke and meat, and quite a bit like pot. That, at least, made this whole encounter understandable.
“It’s not just me. The show’s about the restaurant. I’m on it because of Gaius, not my dad,” Merlin said, trying to pull away.
“That old fool realizes your potential for greatness, boy. Young Pendragon will one day rule a media empire that will make his father’s reign small and forgettable. What you do now will set the course of both of your destinies. You will make him great.”
“Riiiiiight. Ok, then. I can see you’ve totally let go of Uther firing you. I’m going to go back to work now...” Merlin finally got the Dragon to release his grip and began backing away.
“Uther Pendragon may have imprisoned me in this damnable city, but I can see the hand of fate will make me victorious in time. The sons will outshine their fathers.”
Merlin hurried back through the crowd, to find the crew, but he didn’t relax until he was safely back in Oakland.
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