Beau (invisibleman) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-08-23 20:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | colwyn driscoll, gabriel allen |
Who: Colwyn and Gabriel
What: My compliments to the chef
When: (Backdated) August 19, 1888
Where: L'orangerie
Warning: None
When Gabriel saw the advertisement for a new French restaurant, his curiosity was decidedly piqued -- the Head Chef was Welsh by the sound of him, but he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt.
His waiter was quite young and eager, and while he wasn’t French either, he was knowledgeable enough. He recommended the bouchées la Reine, and after the first few mouthfuls, Gabriel slathered him in enough praise to leave him red-faced and grinning, and once he’d cleaned his plate, he’d insisted on meeting the head chef.
The waiter, who was pleased enough that Gabriel was very nearly tempted to ask when his shift was over, was more than happy to comply.
He walked back through the swinging doors, and the waiter, still grinning ear to ear, pointed out the (also quite young) Head Chef, and Gabriel waited until he looked up from the plating he was supervising.
“Chef Driscoll?” Gabriel asked.
The opening of L’orangerie was going fantastically well. Better than what Colwyn had hoped for. The dining room wasn’t overly packed, but they were busy enough that the kitchen had yet to come to a standstill. The waitstaff was coming back with near excellent ratings on the dishes being served. He couldn’t be more pleased, he didn’t think.
The night was nearing it’s end, however, and he was sending the last plate out. He was looking it over and speaking in French to the one who had put it together, a Frenchman who Colwyn had stolen from Paris to come work here. He’d just sent him on his way when he heard his name spoken.
He turned to look at the gentleman, wondering why someone was in his kitchen that shouldn’t be, and found himself looking at a rather nice looking gentleman.
“Yes?” He wiped his hands on an apron and stepped towards him. “What can I help you with?”
Gabriel had been beyond pleased to hear the young chef speaking so fluently in French (albeit with that Welsh sing-song intonation, which was endlessly charming,) that he immediately slipped into French himself.
“Chef Driscoll, I wanted to meet the man who made such a magnificent bouchée. Such a delightful treatment of sweetbreads I have not seen the like of in this town. And from a Welshman, of all things! Magnificent. Utterly magnificent.” He smiled slipping back into English. “I realize you’re no end of busy, but my heartiest compliments indeed.”
The man speaking French threw him off, but only for a moment. For him, it was easy to switch back and forth between the languages and he had no issues at all. He beamed at the compliment and dipped his head in a nod of thanks.
“Thank you,” he spoke in French. “I’m delighted that you enjoyed your meal. And that I was able to bring to you a little bit of home?” He smiled and switched back to English. “I assume that you are from France? Or at least called it home once?”
Gabriel laughed, patting the younger man on the back, pleased. “My mother, whom I adored, was from there,” he said, “and I must admit, I am quite partial to the food, because it reminds me of her. So yes, it most certainly was a taste of home, and you did it justice.” He grinned. “You are a pleasant surprise, sir. How on earth did you manage to pick up such a delightfully refined palate? And you are so very young too -- what an honor to be Head Chef so soon.”
The pat on the back was also something unexpected, but pleasant in the same way. “Oh, I see,” he nodded. “I am happy that I did your meal justice, especially when the memory of a mother is at stake,” he stated. “I studied in France for a couple of years and then came to London to study some more,” he explained about his skills. “Young, maybe, and I am sure there are chefs more experienced than me that could do this job justice, but I was sought after and I couldn’t turn it down,” he said with a shake of his head. “Knowing French food helps me,” he smiled. “Much to my parents dismay, I seem to do pretty well for myself,” he shrugged. “I don’t think I got your name, sir?”
“Mr Allen,” Gabriel replied, grinning. “I shall be back, and often, and bring a great many friends with me, just so you’re aware. And your parents certainly ought to be proud, if there’s any justice in the world,” he laughed. “Head chef at your age, sought after, and well worth the praise. Lord, I can’t wait to try your beef. They boil it something awful everywhere else.”
Colwyn took the name and filed it away for future purposes. It was always nice to know the names of people who enjoyed your food. “My beef will not be boiled, I can assure you,” he said. “And I guarantee you it will be the best tasting in this city,” he smirked as the implication wasn’t lost on him and that he was quite confident when it came to cooking. “My parents didn’t want this life for me, but we are at odds for way more than just my choice in career,” he shook his head. “Please make sure you tell all of your friends, and even your enemies, about L’orangerie and how great the food is here,” he chuckled. “And if you find someone that is fantastic with desserts you send them my way, as I can do them well but I’d like someone that specializes in them.”
“I most certainly shall,” Gabriel replied with a grin. “My dear sir, I’m sure you’re no end of busy, and I’d hate to keep you from your kingdom, especially during such a vital opening weekend -- but please do know I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, and shall sing your praises to anyone who’ll hear it. Next time I’m by, I’ll most certainly let you know.”
Colwyn smiled and offered his hand in farewell. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Allen, and I look forward to your next visit.” He did have quite a lot to do before his night was finally over. “Until next time.”