When he had been contacted to have Gordon Ramsay over for dinner, Hannibal Lecter was, quite frankly, unimpressed. He had seen the British cook on television in brief intervals, annoyed by how easily the man angered and how vulgar he could be. However, if Hannibal was given the opportunity to cook for someone, he always jumped at the chance. He loved testing out new recipes on people. He also enjoyed letting others taste it as well.
After a full day of preparations, Hannibal was ready to begin his art. He sautéed, boiled, seasoned, and plated to his heart's content, making sure the presentation and taste was nothing but exquisite. As he was drying the last of the pots and pans, the doorbell rang.
Hannibal slipped off his apron, which read "kiss the cook" but had cook crossed out and replaced with "cannibal." He only wore it when he cooked new dishes, as a sort of good luck charm.
When Hannibal opened the door he found the platinum haired chef standing calmly on his doorstep.
"Hello, I'm Gordon Ramsay," the other man extended his hand, "Pleasure to meet you Dr. Lecter. I hear you're quite the chef."
Shaking his hand, Hannibal smiled politely, "I look forward to you forming your own opinion of my food. Do come in."
A short time later they were seated at Hannibal's dinner table, which was elegantly decorated as always.
"Tonight we'll be dining on loin served with a Cumberland sauce of red fruits," Hannibal said, placing the two plates down at their respective place mats.
"And, what kind of loin am I about to eat?" Gordon questioned, placing his napkin on his lap and looking up at Hannibal expectantly.
"Pork."
Gordon delicately cut into the meat and took a bite. It tasted good, very refined and fresh, but there was something . . . off about the meat Hannibal had suggested.
"Pork . . ." Gordon trailed off, staring at his plate and taking another bite. The question was evident in his statement.
"Doubting my butcher Mr. Ramsay?" Hannibal ate another forkful of food, glancing at the other chef.
"Do I look like I'm unintelligent? Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?" Gordon put down his knife and fork aggressively, his anger level quickly rising, "This isn't pork, Dr. Lecter."
Hannibal calmly chewed his food, studying Gordon intently. He really should manage his anger better.
"What is it then? Lamb?" Gordon questioned, staring at Hannibal.
"No."
"Chicken?"
"No."
"Duck?"
"No."
"Rabbit?" Gordon was exasperated and awaiting a straight answer.
"No."
"Venison?"
"No."
"Is it bloody fucking peacock?" Gordon yelled, his anger and rage getting the best of him, "What the fuck am I eating?"
Ever the cool cucumber, Hannibal replied, "You're being rather rude, Mr. Ramsay."
"I wouldn't be if you'd tell me what the bloody hell I'm eating!"
"Mr. Ramsay, I can assure you it's something you've never had before and will never taste again unless I cook for you in the future. Now, can you please finish your meal and stop using such vulgar language?"
Gordon eyed him suspiciously, but picked up his fork and knife once more, "it is quite good, regardless of what meat it is or is not."
"Thank you, Mr. Ramsay. And once you've finished, we can move onto dessert."
"What, does that have some mystery main ingredient as well?" Gordon chuckled.
Hannibal smirked, "why not at all. More Chianti, Mr. Ramsay?"
"Don't mind if I do."
After that dinner party, Gordon Ramsay and Hannibal Lecter became the best of friends. They swapped recipes with each other constantly and invited one another over frequently for dinner parties. Although Hannibal still refused to indulge what meat he used in his dishes to Gordon.