"And in the fucking kitchen today...this miserable lot of shit."
Usually the Uppers kitchen was a haven when it came to ingredients and extra touches but it seemed that for Elliott, the 'river' was running dry as he couldn't locate any hint of spice nor herb anywhere; in fact, it seemed the only foodstuffs available for the taking were those most suited for baking.
But the worst part was that he was having to share the kitchen with his least favourite person in the world.
"Brown sugar, icing sugar, lemon juice," He said out loud, reading the labels of each picked-up container and sounding quite unimpressed. "What am I supposed to fucking do with these, Frog? Give some shithead diabetes? Ugh, nasty frou frou shit!"
"Now Monsieur Elliott, if you're going to carry on helping me, I'm afraid foul language isn't in any of the recipes. Is all the cursing really necessary?"
Despite his attempts to keep on the hot-tempered male's good side, Maurice sometimes couldn't help teasing the other chef about the fact that he was generally regarded as the more skilled of the two by the clan. And it often met with explosive results.
"Oh FUCK OFF," the other male snapped, deliberately raising his voice. "If you don't like my fucking 'cursing', well...I honestly don't give a shit. Not like you have something fucking important to do."
"Actually I do, Monsieur," Maurice responded, beginning to locate and lay down on the counter what seemed like a gold-coated baking tray. "I have confectionery to prepare."
"You do know if that gold peels off and merges with the ingredients, you'll fucking poison someone?" Elliott stated, knocking the baking tray off the table in one irritated swipe and glancing down at it in a slightly victorious way. "There, I just possibly fucking saved some wanker's life."
Shaking his head with a somewhat humoured 'tsk', the French Upper immediately bent down to recover his 'fallen' instrument.
"Monsieur, could you be so kind as to see whether there's any vegetable oil so I can grease my baking tray?"
"Ooooh, I'm sorry, Frog. Seems there's no oil here at all," he said, sounding quite surprised, yet he was soon staring donning an insulted expression when he noticed the suspicious look in Maurice's eyes. "I'm seriously not fucking around with you. There's no oil in this cupboard, unless you want to try and grease that shitter with fucking Activia or something...and what the fuck are those things?!"
"French Fancies. I'm just finishing off the last batch for Madame Bianca's dinner party tonight," Maurice explained, pointing out the group of fancy-filled plates on the nearby 'holding' table. "Apparently she has a soft spot towards all kinds of European confectionery, so I hope these go down well."
"Well I hope they don't," Elliott retorted, without guilt or remorse.
"You certainly don't let anyone put words into your mouth," the Frenchman stated, unable to keep himself from chuckling at the predictability of it all. "Perhaps you should put a Fancy in there. Go on, try one, I'm sure Madame wouldn't notice just one missing."
"Ok...you're actually asking me to fucking poison myself," Elliott said, scoffing as he noticed his fellow Upper looking at him quite in a bemused way; sighing, he then gently prised one of the tiny treats from the nearest plate, head tilted slightly like a curious hound.
"I can assure you, no one will be poisoning themselves," Maurice responded, laying down the baking tray down on the counter and beginning to remove his oven gloves. "Unless you have a nut allergy. I used the last of the nutmeg in those."
"I'm not a fucking pussy, Frog," the shorter male retorted, now holding the cake between his finger and thumb. "So if I die, it's completely, entirely and utterly your fucking fault. Oh well, here's to my death."
Looking as if he was immediately about to regret it, Elliott looked as if he was about to retch upon the first bite; disgust slowly turning to hesitant delight as he swallowed down the entire fancy, much to his fellow Upper's surprise.
"Is this...is this some sort of fucking joke?!"
"Excuse me, Monsieur?"
"You've cooked nothing but disgusting, frou-frou shit and nonsense since you've arrived, and yet when it fucking matters because I'm about to taste it...you actually fucking come through. Give me some sugar, Frog."
"Pardon moi, but I'm afraid I might have used it all up with this last batch of fancies," was the somewhat apologetic reply; shaking the empty paper-esque bag, Maurice's sympathetic look soon turned to one of slight tension when he noticed Elliott shaking his head in slight expectancy and irritation.
"Never fucking mind, I...what are you doing?"
"I didn't know you made chocolate, Monsieur. Though it seems to have melted a bit. "
It wasn't often that Elliott made a dish that wasn't immediately eaten within the first few hours of it's existence, so he was soon trying to think back to when he made the brown dollop that was sat on the plate; noticing what looked like a small, pink, dog hair stuck on the edge of the mess, he couldn't help shuddering slightly in disgust, especially when he sensed the Frenchman was about to try and take a taste for himself.
"I wouldn't fucking eat that if I were you," he suddenly warned, sounding unusually anxious as he snatched the plate away from any regrettable mistakes. "We've already got one freaky eater for tonight's bash, we don't need your secret Frenchie Frog habits adding to it."
"Excuse me, Monsieur?"
"Oh dear fucking Jesus...you really don't know who the little bitch is bringing, do you?"
-
"Bianca...it's nice to invite me to this big dinner and all, but I really don't belong here."
It wasn't often that the Uppers allowed non-clan guests but as the opera singer had been the one organizing the whole affair, the clan had allowed the fact that she'd invited the Montana's infamous cannibal; having grown close to Tino (she pushed his habits aside in belief that she was the best he'd probably have), she felt a little civil company would do him the world of good.
"Nonsense," she said, gently leaning her head against the blonde's shoulder, much to the disgust of her fellow Uppers. "This dinner was my idea, I want you here and if they can't accept that...then as the common man would say, screw them."
"Well, I guess Maurice was kind enough to even consider my Zuppi di Cosse, though I suspect there's someone at this table who's allergic to shellfish."
"You cook?"
They'd all been thinking it but it was Pallack who'd dared to speak out loud; almost dropping his wine in shock, he now held the glass' neck tightly between his fingers, with one eyebrow raised as if he was about to face a story he'd been dying to hear.
"Just because I don't eat the normal fodder myself, doesn't mean I don't make it," he responded, with a grin and a chuckle. "Though I look at you and I can think of at least a good dozen recipes just for me, despite the fact you're just a string bean and a fellow Italian."
"Believe me, there's nothing fellow between us," was the subtle, disgusted reply.
"Pallack, do not ruin this for me!" Bianca hissed, sounding rather agitated and pointing at him in a rather accusing way; a smile soon forming on her face once more when she was soon cut short by Maurice's expected arrival.
"Voilà, monsieurs et madames. Dinner is served."
Back at the Montana's HQ, Tino would have been the first to start stuffing his face (except on Spaghetti night, when that honour went to Spiaghi) but in this posh atmosphere of things, he realised there was nothing for him to stuff his face with; a meat-eater's dream and vegetarian's worst nightmare laid out on the table infront of him, it wasn't until he was addressed by the chef that he dared to say anything.
"Is there something wrong, Monsieur Martino?"
"Yeah, I'm a humanitarian," he gently explained, though his gentleness was coated heavily with sarcasm. "Do you have anything with flesh in it, perhaps?"
"It's all flesh," was the swift, honest reply. "Cow flesh, duck flesh, pig flesh. How much more flesh do you need?"
"Frenchie seriously doesn't know by now?"
"Oh he knows," Bianca said, though her irked stare was strictly aimed at Maurice. "Some just choose to stay ignorant out of their own sensitivity."
"Madame Bianca, you're perfectly aware that I won't serve a species their own kind on a plate, even if they freely partake in it."
"It's either that or fried chicken," she then said with a smirk, causing the French chef to almost yelp a little with shock; it was a well known fact amongst the clan that Maurice actually feared common food, as if he felt merely thinking about it would cost him his work and force him into a fast food job.
"Besides, you're a world class chef," Tino said, sounding genuinely complimentary. "Making human meat look gourmet should be child's play for you."
"We're actually going to have flesh at the table," Zatman suddenly said, sounding somewhat irritated. "And yet when I suggest a little human cattle for dinner, they start having a go at me."
"They don't!" The blonde replied, sounding rather shocked at the fact that a fellow 'humanitarian' was being punished for simply making a suggestion.
"They do!" The Upper retorted, giving a single, determined nod. "It's like they think I should be locked up in a mental asylum or something!"
"Tino, amichetto," Bianca piped up, gently placing her hand on his shoulder as she interrupted the two males. "The sick thing is that when Patrick wants to consume 'human cattle', he tries to force everyone else into it."
The Montana's irked look initially directed at the female, he couldn't help switching his attention to Zatman in a rather disapproving way.
"Now that's not on."
"Oh wah, wah, wah, Bianca's opinion," was Zatman's bored reply.
"And that's not on either," the blonde then said, his tone sounding rather scolding.
"These guys just find it so difficult to be nice to me," Bianca began to explain, shooting her male clan members a rather dark look and even hitting Zatman in the forehead with her thrown fork. "Yet you find it ever so easy. Why is that?"
"Because you're gorgeous and I'd do anything for you," Tino responded, looking her straight in the eye and yet managing to seem gentle about it; even sneaking in a quick kiss and taking his girlfriend by surprise.
"Slow down there, Linguini!" Zatman piped up, glancing up from his meal. "Hate to disappoint you but Bianca's not on the menu."
The whole situation would have been laughed off with a shrug and a grin had a certain influential not opened his mouth.
"I'm just surprised lack of talent is so appetizing."
Any other time, the Italian would have been quick to throw himself over the table and start a fight with the 'bastardo' who made his opinions known. But at the risk of allowing his lady to be insulted, the dinner running smoothly was Bianca's biggest aim of the night. So with a single glare and a 'v' in Dorian's direction, Tino managed to contain himself without too much trouble.
Besides...the night was still young. And just desserts would be the sweetest dish of all.