Hana "Hannah" Sato (night_yen) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-04-20 12:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | sato |
I'm smitten, I'm bitten, I'm hooked, I'm cooked. I'm stuck like glue, you make me hungry for you
Who: Sato, Mischa (NPC) and a smorgasboard of folk.
What: What did you think she's been doing?
When: Monday, noon (lunchtime!)
Where: Murasaki Gallery (office)
Why: A monster's has to be true to her nature.
WARNING: Food pr0n?
How to begin?
She sat, one elbow folded on the desk, the other stretched out to tip-tap the laptop. Relaxed. Calm. Sated. On the glossy screen the cursor blinked innocently. Finally, she pressed down on the key, making the first letter. Then the second, the third, fourth…
Paris is a movable feast, but New York is a big apple. The apple. Guzzle all the appletinis and fill up on Starbucks foam, but eventually flavoring won’t be enough; you’re going to need the real, pure thing—a bite of a genuine wonder. Sooner or later, everyone yields to New York’s temptations.
She smiled.
Why resist? Deprivation is so last season it’s practically medieval. Usher in a flock of duck liver pate canapes with orange marmalade. Layer it thinly, fit to nibble, no matter what the beefier famished gourmands cry. The taste is apocalyptic. Don’t be shy; be insatiable! Spicy vats of pork and melted cheese ladled over crunchy sourdough—or crackly roasted pork, squeezed into a wickedly fresh ciabatta bun. No guilt, all flavor. It’s a harsh, murderously gluten-free world out beyond the diner’s gates; seize comfort however you can: lush globes of sweetbread bruschetta and baked rigatoni with milky Berkshire pork, Swiss chard, and a prodigious lick of lemon: crunchy slices of fried toast buried in Indian-summer tomatoes.
And so on, so on. She listed noodles and blitzes, creams and pigs feet, lard and wine, wrapping up the ethereal in flour and salt. This was the true language of love, the unordained mathematics of desire, the poetry of teeth.
This was what she’d come for.
Go off the radar. Sink underground to explore the dark possibilities of nasturtium butter and ginger drops. Forego the passé risk of absinthe; indulge in the thin, sinuous cool of Don Julio tequila and pomegranate juice. Bar the wolf from your door with a well lubed and liberally stuffed veal cutlet (plus a judicious smear of pork-liver pâté). Lift the door flap when it’s time for hanger steak with slow-roasted shallots. It’ll keep company the rejuvinating boxy sandwich, bursting with crumbly grilled pork, spicy headcheese, pork roll, and verdant abundance of obligatory veggies.
Why all the fuss about “getting away with murder”, she wondered. Good eating was clearly the better sin to hide. A good dinner, after all, was a contract between you and your core—and potentially as damning as anything in Faust’s history.
Embrace a rhapsody of textured ragùs served over a nest of fusilli and lush, cheesy caciocavallo fonduta, the chubby tortelli cunningly stuffed with tomato, onion, and cured pork jowls, even the occasional imprudent pear salad. Fear nothing, no matter how red the dish. Nothing’s more complex, more involved, more historically absorbing than the taste of blood oranges. Dig into the skin till sweet, sweet juice stains your thumb and palm. Lick it off with a wicked gleam. Who cares if you can’t recognize the dessert? A chewy, sticky hockey puck of joy, packed out with almond shards and embossed with chocolate sorbet. Spoon up the best bread pudding in Christendom, its expanse plated in crème anglaise and speckled with candied pecans. Savor the brilliant architecture of a crispy base, a moussey middle, and a few opportune chocolate lea—
A cup clinked down gently beside her elbow. “Making a new menu, I see.”
“Mmm?” She reached for the tea, eyes distracted. “What gives you that thought, precious?”
“Because you look…” Mischa made a vague impatient gesture, an unconscious mimicry of the other woman’s body language.
“Happy?”
“Deranged.” One black brow arched. The blond shrugged, unrepentant. “But peaceably so.”
“It’s not nice to doubt your employer’s sanity, Mi-chan. For one thing, it upsets the holiday bonus something awful.” She tried the tea. Lapsang Souchong, perfectly brewed. No buns or cookies, though. Her precocious assistant was still feeling a wee resentful, it seemed. “Never mind: I forgive all. You’re lucky to be working for so merciful a heart.”
“Downright blessed,” Mischa said, irony slathered over every syllable. “Don’t forget: you have the Madrid-Bristol conference at two. Andres just emailed to say he’ll be sitting in from Amsterdam.”
“Did he mention anything about my rugs?”
“Nothing major. He’s still hoping to talk the owner into putting up the rest of the house on market.” Mischa picked up a stack of folders from the desk, reshuffling them to suit. She paused at lifting the last one, distracted by the sudden gleam of color. “That’s a pretty piece, is it new?”
“What—oh, that.” Pale lips thinned into wry bow. “Old, but quite fake. It has its uses, though."
“Really? That’s a pity.” But the young woman’s eyes were already forgetting the item, preoccupied with looking ahead at the week’s looming appointments and calamities. “I’ll have Roscoe ready at two, then?”
“Sounds lovely, thank you.” The dark head bend back down over the laptop, dismissal clearly written in the curve of her shoulders. Mischa hesitated, hand in the air and something unspoken in the corner of her mouth, but then turned away resolutely. The door closed with nary a click behind her.
1 Mississippi…2 Mississippi…3 Mississippi… She made it all the way to nine before turning to the box. “Don’t even think about it. Touch that child and I’ll use you for a rat trap. Understand?” She spread her hand over the cool, gilded surface (wholly covering the cameo that bore a suspicious resemblance to her blond assistant) and felt an answering—what? A prickle of awareness, a tickle of sentience. It was too muddy a sensation to judge rationally.
That is, unless one was used to judging much more obscure sentiments…like dreams. The fingers relaxed, curving to stroke the pretty lid in consolation. “Don’t sulk. I’ll find you something much nicer tonight. Something wonderful.”
Sato smiled. “Sounds yummy, non?”
[OOC: Questions? Complaints? Seconds? Let me know.]