A Matter of Taste (Part 2 of 2)

Posted on 10 May 2012 @ 7:23am by Lieutenant JG Brayden White Ph.D. & Ansen Pawlak
Edited on on 10 May 2012 @ 12:34pm

1,955 words; about a 10 minute read

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

[ON, Continued...]

"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?"

"This is a stir-fried Palamarian sea urchin," Ansen said, carefully seating the red meat in a cool purple puree and drizzling a thick, bright green sauce from the simmering stove pot over it. "On a salsify puree with a moon grass, lovage, and parsley sauce."

Eyeing the plate, Brayden glanced at the Polish man. "Generally those colors combined are ones I would avoid putting in my mouth." He cut a bit of the sea urchin with the fork, dipped up some of the puree and the sauce and ate. He blinked twice. Then ate a little of each separately. The sea urchin was rich and velvety and gently flavored with garlic. The purple stuff was a little sweet, with a flavor sort of like fresh, impeccable oysters, but not quite. And the sauce... herbal, sweet and savory at the same time. "It's good," he said, a little surprised, despite himself.

"I know."

"I have to say, not as good as the stone-fish."

"Lobe-fish."

"Right." Brayden took another bite. "Still... really good. I bet your brother eats like this every day."

Ansen laughed. "No." He took the lobe-fish plate to the sonic cleaner and went to prep the next dish.

"What do you mean, 'no'? Doesn't he know you cook like this?" Brayden watched the Polish man move automatically back to the work counter and shook his head, "Slow down, will you? I might float away."

"He knows," Ansen said, then sighed and held his hands up, leaning back against the counter to watch Brayden curiously.

"And he doesn't get you to feed him on a daily basis?" he asked, then quirked a brow. "What?"

"You really like food."

"Correction: I really love food," Brayden said archly. "Your food, however, I might try to marry."

"Some wedding night your spouse has to look forward to," Ansen chuckled. "Being devoured."

"Respectfully."

"Oh, well," Ansen rolled his eyes, amused. "That makes all the difference."

"So why don't you feed your brother?" Brayden smiled, sitting back from the plate and taking a sip of water. "You thought you'd distracted me."

"I did."

"I can be quite tenacious."

"Can you?" Ansen asked and proceeded to stare silently at the counselor for almost a minute. Not too surprisingly, the counselor stared right back. Ansen nodded slightly, giving in, "Marek... eats to live. He doesn't live to eat. He actually likes ration bars." He shrugged. "To each their own."

"And you?"

"Me," Ansen closed his eyes thoughtfully. "I taste so many things while cooking, I'm not usually hungry enough to sit down to a whole meal."

Brayden held out his plate, "Want some?"

Ansen shook his head on a laugh, "No. But thank you. I know it's good."

The man had a very healthy ego, perhaps a little too well fed, but... well. Gauging from the few things he'd tasted, the self-assessment was deserved. "You work in the science department, too?"

"Technically," Ansen equivocated. "More research than science. And less research than..." he turned to the work counter, using tongs to pull a fat Bajoran shrimp from one of the pots on the stove. "I can figure out languages fairly easily. It's a bozy dar... a knack. I'm mostly here, unless they need me to translate a specific idiom or unfold a subtlety the universal translator is missing." He ladled about a cup of bean salad onto the plate along side the shrimp and carried it over, "There's not much it misses."

Brayden stared at the plate. The single shrimp was as thick as his wrist and longer than his hand. "I can't eat all this."

"You don't have to. Taste. Save the rest for later." Ansen pointed, "Bajoran shrimp, braised in olive oil and thyme. Tongue-of-fire bean salad."

Tongue of fire? That didn't sound like a good idea. "First of all, that's not a shrimp; that's a mutant. And second, I like my taste buds."

Ansen chuckled. "They're from earth, the beans. They're called that because, look," he pointed at one bean, "they're pale with little lashes of red. They look like flames. Not spicy. At least, they weren't before I cooked them with onions, garlic, lemon, and white and black pepper. Now, they might be, but hardly."

Brayden looked at him skeptically and cut a small portion of the massive shrimp - oxymoron anyone? - with a bite of the beans. "That is not shrimp," he said when he was done. "It tastes like steak. But pink."

"It's Bajoran shrimp," Ansen shrugged. "Good?"

"Of course it's good. You're a glutton for compliments, aren't you?"

"I am," Ansen admitted guiltlessly.

"It's still not shrimp."

"You're entitled to your opinion," the chef murmured. "Your opinion just happens to be wrong," he added with a satisfied smile. "If you think this is odd, you should taste Vulcan shrimp. It's a little like venison, but fattier. Closer to elk, really."

Brayden laughed, folding his hands together, "All right. Tell me something. How do you find these things?"

Ansen tilted his head to the side, waiting for more of an explanation.

"You must have ingredients from every quadrant here," Brayden detailed. "And there must be hundreds of billions of different edible herbs and meats, etcetera, out there. So how do you find out about all these different things?"

Ansen considered the question, absently running his fingers along the line of his jaw through his beard. "I eat everything."

"Everything," Brayden repeated, dubiously. The man was tall and broad, but gaunt. His cheeks a little hollow; his build clearly more due to bone structure than fat.

"Everything that's edible, that I come across, I try. Everywhere we go. Everyone I meet who's been somewhere I haven't, tried something I haven't. I seek it out and taste test it. Sometimes, they're great. Sometimes... not." Ansen made a slightly sour face and nodded to the plate. "Done? Want to take it with you?"

Brayden looked dolefully at the plate. "How many more things are you going to feed me?"

"Three plates, small portions."

Sighing, Brayden removed what was left on the plate to the take away container and handed over the bare plate. "What was the face about?"

Ansen shrugged, taking the plate away and going to prep the final plates.

"What's the worst thing you've ever tasted?"

The chef laughed, "That is a hard question. Slug liver is rancid. Moonsnake blood was..." he shuddered. "Flavorless, slimy, and leaves a gel on your teeth for about twenty-four hours. It does, however, have the aphrodisiac qualities it's known for. Unfortunately." He cleared his throat, moving to the third plate. "The worst, I think, was the Drovol mud flea." He brought the plates over. "Here. This one is a little bit of truffled espra cheese served with a desert king fig and a dot of Tarkannan honey. This is a Gamzian-wine poached pear..." he sighed, pulling the plate back, "which you won't eat."

"It does look good," Brayden said with an apologetic smile.

"It is," Ansen assured him. "And that is the dessert anthology: blackberry-ginger ice cream in a Vak clover 'cone', a pear souffle with orange thyme custard sauce, and a small icoberry and uttaberry cobbler with cinnamon-basil cream." He picked up a fork and dug into the pear.

The blond man took a bite of each of the desserts, emitting little hums of pleasure after each one, and then combining them in different ways. "What was so bad about the mud flea? And why would anyone want to eat a mud flea in the first place?"

"Well... the flea was about this size," Ansen held up his thumb. "You have to eat it alive. It squirms and bites you while it goes down your throat. And then you have a week of vivid hallucinations accompanied by nausea and copious sweating; I lost whole chunks of time that I will probably never remember and have had an odd aversion to rabbits ever since. As to why... I imagine it has to do with the hallucinations. They were... very interesting. Those that I remember. Not quite worth the cost."

"Ooo-kay," Brayden said, choking a little. "That sounds horrifying. Not one part of that experience sounds remotely positive."

"To be fair, I did get a very visceral hallucination of three or four Betazoids feeding me bursting grapes and bathing me in moon sugar and brandy," Ansen murmured thoughtfully, "among other things." He hummed, taking another bite of the pear. "But still. Not quite worth it."

"I'll be avoiding those, then. No mud fleas. Even if I'd been tempted."

"A wise decision," Ansen concurred, chuckling. "What do you think of the honey?"

"It's good. Very good. Different." Brayden rubbed a tine of the fork in the remainder of the honey drop on the plate. "It tastes familiar somehow."

"I've always tasted notes of vanilla, cherries, wildflowers, and a little sage." The chef sighed. "One of my favorite things, Tarkannan honey. Too rich for my credit, though."

"Expensive?"

"Awfully."

Brayden considered the amber colored residue on the plate. "I wonder why."

"Ask me in an hour. That's when the aftertaste kicks in."

"An hour later?"

"The Tarkannan are a very patient people."

Brayden tucked that bit of information away. He still had to meet with the Tarkannan cadet, if not her mentor. What was the protocol over psych evaluations for dignitaries, he wondered. He doubted they were subjected to the same rigors. They remained in silence for a long while. Brayden watched his glass sweat, sated, overfull, and content.

Ansen returned to the stove and stirred what needed stirring. The oven made a chirping sound and he pulled several racks of ribs out and moved them into a warming field.

"I did not expect you to feed me half the kitchen," Brayden said finally.

"It's what I do." Ansen watched the counselor for a long while, enjoying the subtle tug of war that came from the staring contest. He could have spent a great deal longer in the silent battle of wills, but an alarm from the second oven and then from his PADD notified him the midday meal rush was swift approaching. He blinked slowly, drawing out of the game, and crossed to the second oven.

"I'll let you get back to work, but if you ever need my services, you know where to find me." Brayden took his used dishes over to the sonic washer and retrieved the take-away box. "Thank you."

Ansen waved off the gratitude, before retrieving and shaking a tray full of herbed sweet potato fries. "I probably won't," he said simply shaking the fries into a metal trough.

"Probably not," Brayden agreed amiably and lifted the take-away container. "Thank you again."

"Brayden-" Ansen said absently as the Australian headed for the door. "I might find you anyway."

The counselor paused, smiled without looking back, and pushed through the swinging door as the music grew louder behind him.

--
[OFF]

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

Ansen Pawlak (pNPC Lilou Peers)
Chef
USS Galileo

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