A Matter of Taste (Part 1 of 2)

Posted on 10 May 2012 @ 7:22am by Lieutenant JG Brayden White Ph.D. & Ansen Pawlak
Edited on on 10 May 2012 @ 12:34pm

3,032 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: Episode 01 - Project Sienna
Location: USS Galileo: Deck 2, Mess Hall
Timeline: MD05 - 1100 hrs

[ON]

At a quarter til, Brayden put on his shoes, picked up his PADD, and headed to the Mess Hall. The chef had explained in his message that he'd be happy to do his psych evaluation, but if he wanted to schedule more than fifteen minutes, he'd need to have their 'tete a tete', as he called it, in the kitchen. The tables were mostly empty when he walked in, a couple of crew members littered here or there with late breakfasts or cups of coffee. There were two in a rather serious looking chess match. Brayden passed the empty buffet line and pushed open the door to the kitchen.

Inside, the relative tranquility of the mess hall seemed a mile away. There were pots steaming, bubbling, and boiling, ovens churning out delicious smells along with hums of different pitches, a table full of an assortment of different plants being alternately spritzed with different liquids and heated with a variety of colored lights, and the heavy beat undertone of a rhythmic song in a language that sounded like leaves being brushed along pavement by a breeze. At the far end of the center island, the chef's dark, shaggy head kept the bass beat of the song, murmuring the words along with it, as he chopped piles of herbs with a large chef's knife and an apparent disregard for his fingertips.

Brayden took in the room and its proprietor. "Ansen Pawlak?"

Ansen glanced up momentarily from the pile of parsley and lovage he was mincing, then looked back down to finish getting the greenery into the appropriate size. The counselor was a little ahead of their scheduled meeting time; he knew that because he'd given himself time to get the sauce for the perch on the stove and he still had a little ways to go. When the herbs were done, he looked again, canting his head to the side to watch the shorter man watching him. On a slow blink, he carried the cutting board over to the stove and brushed the herbs into a pot already simmering. "Pavlak. The w's a v sound. Polish." He lifted a spoon and began stirring the herbs into the sauce. "Computer, can we turn the music down?" Immediately, the volume lowered. "Hi."

"Hi," Brayden replied. "I'm Brayden." Turning the music down hadn't silenced the room. It was still a mass of bubbling, whirring, dripping, and whooshing, all with the constant heavy beat of the lowered music - though that was more a feeling than a sound; a far cry from the white-noise generated quiet of his office. He rather liked it, he found. And the smells. How could any one room smell like so many things and still smell so good? "The song was Polish, too, wasn't it?"

"Tak," Ansen said, looking up from the pot curiously. "Mowisz po polsku?"

"I... have no idea what you just said."

"An answer in itself," the Polish man smiled and turned back to the pot. "There's a stool by the herbal regulator. What do you want to know?"

"What you said, first," Brayden said, retrieving the mentioned stool from the corner near the plant-laden table.

"I asked if you spoke Polish," Ansen replied, placing a lid over the pot and setting the stove to the right temperature. "You don't. But you've got an ear, being able to tell what language the song was. That's a good sign."

"More intuition and guesswork than ear, but thank you," the Australian laughed, setting the stool beside the center island and sitting down. "Why is it a good sign?"

"Shows you're listening." Ansen grabbed a PADD from the counter and started re-checking the ingredients list for the day's mid-Alpha meal. "That's what you do, isn't it? Listen to people?"

"I try," Brayden said, curiously peering down the island at whatever was holding the Polish man's attention. "They really keep you busy in here, don't they?"

"I keep myself busy," Ansen answered, and - satisfied that the list was accurate - sent the timed request to the replicator from his PADD, setting the mechanism aside. For a while, he simply looked at Brayden in silence, considering the best way to explain, but he got distracted about a minute in trying to decide whether the man's hair was actually blond or brown. It was a nice color - whatever it was - as was the man's skin, a healthy sort of flushed tan that wasn't something Ansen normally saw in the personnel who usually worked the starships. "A lot of ships have stopped bringing cooks on. The replicators feed people just fine and they've got those ration bars if anything goes off with the machines. Thus," he gestured around the kitchen. "Today, though," he said, a smile blossoming, "I'm preparing a special meal for our Tarkannan guest, so it's a little busier than normal. Have you eaten?"

Brayden loved people, generally, and the people he'd met on this crew, specifically. They were all so interesting and complex in such different ways. But it had been a while since he'd met anyone who was content to sit in silence - well, relative silence - for any amount of time. Especially with him. They all seemed so concerned that he was going to either try to manipulate them or say something negative about them in a report that they got jittery in a moment without speech. "Had a mango and coffee for breakfast," he answered, anticipating he was about to be offered one of the things that was making the room smell like savory ambrosia and hoping he was right.

Ansen considered the counselor solemnly. "How do you feel about seafood?"

There was a three year old's joke hidden in the question, but Brayden refrained from voicing it. "Love it."

"I'd like to test my menu on you," Ansen pointed at him thoughtfully and turned away to start gathering items to plates. "The one I'm planning to use this evening. Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

"Would you like the wine courses? I can't uncork the bottles, but-"

"Not at all," Brayden said again, leaning forward on the island. "How many courses are we talking here?"

"Only eight," Ansen said on a sigh. "The coffee and tea course never counts. I'd wanted at least nine, that's the appropriate number for a delegate meal, but I couldn't get any quidan transported in and you have to start with them live. The replicators don't present the right texture."

"Eight?" he asked, bewildered. "Only eight? How much does this guest eat?"

Ansen laughed, carefully wiping the edge of the plate he'd just prepared and bringing it over. "They're small courses; it's a tasting menu." The plate he set in front of Brayden held a small shiny crisp topped with a spoonful of black bubbles, a skewer of fruit and roasted mussels, a couple small dipping bowls, and an oyster with a light green sauce inside it. "Paddefish caviar on a crisp salmon skin," Ansen pointed. "Skewer of Adoros bulbette, Bilikian fig, and mussels, with rosemary-cucumber kimchi and Orion whiskey-blood orange chutney, and a Jalaad Bay mollusk with sorrel sauce. You're sure you don't want wine? I can replicate semi-equivalents of tanin and depth."

"Water would be fine," Brayden assured him, trying not to gape at the plate. "There's seven more of these?" He lifted the skewer and took a bite of the bulbette. It was like nothing he'd ever tasted; honeyed, but starchy so it wasn't too sweet. The fig, on the other hand, was extremely sweet, and the mussel's texture against either flavor was delicious. He steered around the chutney, but the kimchi was delicious. As was the mollusk. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Ansen grabbed a glass from the washing deck, filled it with water, and sliced some lemon for it, winding by the herbal regulator for a few leaves of orange mint. "Yes," he answered with a laugh. "You don't have to eat all of it." He set the glass down next to the Australian along with a napkin and a fork. The dinner would have all the forks and spoons required of a state dinner, but he didn't see the point in mussing a bunch of silverware for one man who clearly was happy to eat with his hands. Watching him enjoy the offering was gratifying enough that Ansen just stood and did so for a moment before turning to set up the next plate. "A little here, a little there," he answered the question as he plucked one of the uncooked puffed pastries from the freezing cabinet and placed it on a dish to bake in the thermoclave. "Most of it on a ship a little larger than this one." He leaned back against the counter as he waited for the pastry to bake. "You won't even try my chutney?"

"Whisky, you said," Brayden wiped his fingertips off on the napkin. "I don't take inebriates. The rest was... more than enough. Incredible, really."

"At all?" the Pole asked, curious.

"Never have." Brayden smiled sideways at the look he was getting.

"Ever?" Ansen gaped. Out of all the actually alien things he'd encountered in his life, this was quite possibly the most foreign. He sometimes had vodka for breakfast, granted that was usually when he hadn't yet gone to bed but still.

"Ever," Brayden agreed, chuckling. The shocked look on the other man's broad-featured face was terribly funny.

Ansen shook himself out of his stare and grabbed a pair of tongs to pluck the freshly baked triangular pastry from the thermoclave. "I've never met anyone who hasn't ever had a drink. Not even one?" He brought the small blue plate over and set it in front of Brayden, taking the finished one over to the sonic washer. "Do you mind if I ask why?"

Despite the fork, Brayden picked up the pastry, but the question made him pause. He supposed it was fair to tell the truth, since he went around expecting others to tell him theirs. "My mom died of it, when I was very young," he said it simply. He'd had a long time to come to terms with her death. "So I made a choice." He held up the pastry, "Are you going to tell me what this is?"

Ansen blinked slowly, carefully considering the counselor's face. He didn't seem upset. More... matter of fact? Sober. Sober was a good word for it. "It's a boletus and oscoid handkerchief, with a whipped chervil-chive butter."

"I hope you realize I have no idea what you just said," the Australian said wryly as he bit into the flakey pastry. Whatever was inside it, it was soft, rich, and warm with a hint of onion and parsley. "But I officially don't care."

Ansen watched the look of pleasure pass over the other man's face with a gleam of pride. "Oscoid is the name of a crustacean from Betazed, rather like crab. Boletus is a mushroom, from Earth. As are chervil and chive, both herbs." He went to start the next plate, stopped and turned back. "I'm sorry, about your mother."

Brayden wiped his lower lip as he finished chewing the remainder of the pastry, then took a sip of water. "Thank you," he said, the slight frown between his brows and in his eyes not quite reaching his mouth. "I'm sorry, too." He took another swig of the water and wiped his fingers again on the napkin. "I don't remember much about her. She died when I was six." And this wasn't how this was supposed to be going at all. Weren't they supposed to be talking about Ansen's life, not the other way around?

"I lost my mother when I was six, too," Ansen commiserated. Although she hadn't died then, she'd been ripped from his life just the same. Or rather, she'd ripped herself out of his life. Either way. "Still miss her." He paused. "Not her. What she might have been. She wasn't very good for anyone, not even herself." He lifted his brows, done with his retrospection, and went back to the task of prepping the next plate.

There they were. Back in the saddle. Brayden rested his elbows on the island, watching the chef's back. His instincts as a therapist urged him to continue down that line of questioning, but his counselor training held him back. He wasn't here to delve into the other man's history. His only task with this meeting was to ascertain if the man was healthy and satisfied in his work. He certainly seemed to enjoy his work, and performed his duties with great skill and artistry. He showed empathy, patience, pride. All good things. "It's hard to lose a loved one," Brayden offered, gently leaving the door open for Ansen to offer more if he wanted to.

"It's hard to love some people," Ansen countered, his voice still and deep as a pond on a clear day. He placed a stuffed squash blossom in the thermoclave and stepped back, leaning against the counter. "Either way, we survive," he pressed his lips together solemnly. "Enjoying it so far?"

"I've never tasted anything like it. You've got a real talent. Ever think about opening a restaurant somewhere?"

Ansen shook his head, "Not unless my brother gets discharged or retires. Then, maybe. We'll see."

"Right; your brother's in... Security?" Brayden asked, trying to remember the information from the file.

Ansen nodded, pulling the plate from the thermoclave and bringing it over to the island. "Spiny lobe-fish in a squash blossom with lemon-thyme. Careful, it's hot," he warned, taking the used plate away to clean.

"You've always worked where he was?" Brayden asked, picking up the fork to cut the bloom open to reveal a feathery white substance dotted with bits of leaves. The steam that rose smelled like sweet lemons and butter.

"I haven't always worked," Ansen murmured with a wry tilt of his lips. "But yes. Always together."

"Touche." He wondered what that would be like. To spend his whole life alongside one person. He was almost ten years older than Ansen, but the other man had almost definitely spent more days with his brother than Brayden had spent with his own. And consecutively. Was it maddening? He thought about his brothers and sister. None of them lived where they'd started. They were close, in his estimation. He spoke with them all at least once a week, by mail if nothing more. His children, who contacted him more or less often depending on how busy they were, and whether they wanted him to speak on their behalf to their mothers for something even though they knew he didn't really have a say; he hadn't seen them in person in years. He cut a portion of the cooling squash blossom and took a bite. His eyes actually rolled back in his head as a low sigh escaped him. It was light as air and rich as cream, dissolving on his tongue like hot snow. And the lemon gave it just enough bite to keep reminding him that yes, the flavor in his mouth was actually real and really happening.

Ansen inclined his head and turned to set up the next plate. He oiled a skillet, placed the sea urchin in with little sprinkle of minced garlic and salt, and stir-fried it. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder to look at the counselor, but the man seemed deep in thought. Ansen was a firm believer in letting people have their time with their thoughts. That, and the introspective tilt of the Australian man's brows was... interesting. All right, more than interesting. Intriguing. Sexy, in a thoughtful sort of way. Sexy, period, he thought, turning back to the skillet. Introspection or no introspection. A few minutes later, the sound of a sigh, drew Ansen's attention back to the island; he broke out in a grin at the look on Brayden's face. "I am a god," he agreed, a laugh in his voice. "I know."

Brayden pointed wordlessly with his fork, swallowing.

"I know," Ansen said again, still grinning from ear to ear. "It's a gift. I'm a genius. Some credit goes to the lobe-fish. Very hard to get ahold of, but I always try to keep a small portion on hand. For dignitaries or the captain. It's a delicacy."

"That..." he said, swallowing again, unwilling to give up the flavor just yet. "-should be illegal."

"It is, in a couple places. Mostly because of trade restrictions, though. Not because of the flavor. Brilliant, isn't it? It took me two years to figure out the trick to cooking it. Wasted so much money on batches of it before I figured it out. No one will tell you, but once you know..." he snapped his fingers. "Presto."

"What is it?"

"Spiny lobe-fish."

"No. The secret."

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Ansen lifted a brow at him. "And then I'd never pass my psych evaluation. Go on, finish up, I've got another plate coming."

"Don't rush me," Brayden said, feeling very protective of the decadent goodness on his plate.

"You want to save it for later? I can give you a take-away container."

"It won't be the same," he lamented.

"What century are you living in? Stay Fresh containers put the food in a stasis lock. Keeps it from changing temperature, consistency, everything. It'll be the same as it is right now, but later.*" Ansen procured one of the containers, partitioned to allow for more than one item to be placed inside, and placed it on the island next to Brayden before returning to the stove, turning the sea urchin one more time and removing it to a plate. "You'll like this."

"I already like this," Brayden insisted, but dutifully placed the remainder of the decadently stuffed squash blossom into the stasis container and sealed it. "What's next?"

(*insert wink to the camera for product placement here)
--
[TBC]

Brayden White, Ph.D. (pNPC Kestra Orexil)
Counselor
USS Galileo

Ansen Pawlak (pNPC Lilou Peers)
Chef
USS Galileo

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