Punk | Joey Ritchie (oioioi) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-04-17 14:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | punk |
Who: Punk (oioioi) & Lydia [NPC] (myrddin)
What: One cranky old bat stops by for a meal from the other.
Where: Masque
When: Saturday's dinner crowd.
Warnings: A moose died for this meal.
Moose steak, white asparagus, subric of ramp tops and pearl onions in sauce soubise.
Masque traditionally ran menu choices by its owner, but tonight's special was special indeed. Sous-chef Ritchie, who bristled at authority figures on the best of days, slid Bullwinkle right past the boss lady. If she flipped her shit, so be it; after finding a fucking moose in his crash pad, the DIY subculture deity-thing wasn't about to let a good opportunity be wasted. Sato was left uninformed as the restaurant's kitchen staff dragged the over-sized cow out into the streets and on toward their butcher.
A few days later, moose was on the menu.
A more patient man would have let the end result age, but Punk was not known for willingness to wait. The musical side of his existence was in a state of flux thanks to a combination of Malcolm McLaren's death -- there went one more old-schooler -- and a vague sense of pushpressurepush he felt from new blood's album releases. Left with something not unlike a sinus headache, the grizzled old-young god dealt by ducking his graying head and hunkering down in the kitchen. The work was demanding, so precise that he shouldn't even have been able to do it, but the end results were things of reckless loveliness which invariably saw themselves destroyed by a hungry mob.
Toward the end of the evening, Punk stood cross-armed at the kitchen's door and watched his art fall to pieces beneath merciless cutlery. The murals which painted Masque's walls reacted by displaying swaths of color, jabs of vividness shot through with pale exhaustion and coppery bitterness. What should have been discomfiting only added to the ambiance.
The men and women in the dining room, after all, cared little for the musician-chef in their midst. They barely contributed a whit to Punk as a being, and only paid his rent thanks to their open-hearted gluttony. Only the waitstaff noticed his overlooking of things, and they wisely avoided him altogether. Much safer to tout the evening's menu than chance eye contact with Sous-chef Ritchie.