HI EVERYONE! I am back, and this time with Avengers-fic. Aw yiss.
This AU has been nibbling (pun intended) ever since I saw the prompt floating around tumblr. Anyone got a favourite dish? I'll add it in!
Not mine. Abloobuhbloohoo.
AL DENTE
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Chapter One
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Amuse-bouche
"No."
"Nick, we need him. You said it yourself, the site is toxic. The previous three restaurants folded one after the other. Three."
"I can count, Coulson."
"Can you count how much money we'll make if we get him behind the stove?"
Nick Fury, owner of SHIELD Restaurant and Catering, rubbed at his face and looked up at his accounts manager. "He's a fucking TV chef. He hasn't been making real food for years."
"Not what I hear. He's got the dog-and-pony show for the luddites, sure." Coulson swivelled back to his computer screen, minimised the MYOB window and opened up a picture file. "But have you seen anything like this in the last five years? Hell, Boss, you seen anything like this ever?"
Nick leaned over Coulson's shoulder, and his eye widened. He'd lost the other one in an incident involving goose fat, a load of swordfish, and a whisk. Clint and Natasha were never allowed to mention it ever again. "Shit. This is Stark's stuff?"
"That's what I'm told."
"Fuck me drunk, that's beautiful." A plate of gloriously teased, wire-thin filaments curled protectively around a succulent-looking little trout medallion encrusted in Sel de Bretagne and holy shit, that was seaweed and chives mixed with that criminally expensive salt, that was against goddamned nature. It looked obscenely delicious. Underneath, a carefully layered strata of raw fennel and pureed Jerusalem artichoke, flecks of red roe shone in a swirl of rich-looking demiglace... and was that wasabi? Wasabi and Jerusalem motherfuckingchoke? Fuck.
"He's been doing these on the sly, so we're told. Not for the muppets at home, but for the cooks. Rhodes posted this on Facebook the other day."
"We're sure it's Stark's?"
"Yes."
"Well. That's a far cry from easy-roast-chicken-with-two -veg made with his signature shitty cookware line."
"He might be doing Food Network now, but he was a cook once. He was a brilliant cook."
"I hate him. I hate him and his face and his books and his show and his father and that fucking beautiful fish. Go talk to him."
"You're the boss, Boss."
"Damn straight."
Steve wiped off his face and looked around his kitchen. Grill station was getting slammed tonight, and he was fed up.
Frankly, these days, he was always fed up. If it weren't for his crew he'd have been out of this shitheap light-years ago. Hell, he'd had a name once. He'd been on his way – he'd been one of the up and coming stars of New York's culinary underbelly. And now he was stuck in this timewarp of a restaurant, searing every goddamned boring non-threatening chop to a hockey puck.
What had happened?
He'd been a perfect fit for this place at first. He had a love of the old classics: the big, hearty, French Bistro fare full of marrow bones and red wine and rich sauces that made the arteries clang just to look at them. It had been wonderful for a couple of years. Philips had been everything a new Head Chef wants out of an owner – an asshole, but an honest one. He'd taken a chance on Steve (a newbie in those days, but trained by the phenomenal Joe Erskine) and so Steve had worked his ass to the bone until it paid off. Good reviews, nice write-ups online, happy owner, great crowds, regular customers. Everything was gravy. Good times.
Then the Schmidt Corporation bought them out from under their feet, and it all went to hell. The regulars left like rats escaping a sinking ship. Write-ups used words like 'disappointing' and 'let-down', and then had stopped writing about them altogether. And then had come the menu directives and Steve had wanted to cry with rage. He was the goddamned Head Chef, the menu was his. But their new lords and masters had clamped down brutally, the fascists, and in the end Steve had come to the choice – the food, or his team. He picked the team.
He didn't regret sticking by his crew, but Jesus. Walking 'safe,' non-scary T-Bones across a grill was not what he wanted out of his life. Especially when every rube out there wanted theirs burned to charcoal.
Sometimes he wanted to vault over the kitchen window and howl, "haven't any of you morons heard that it tastes better rare?"
What had once been French Resistance, a gutsy Parisian-style bistro with brass fittings, dark woods, chipped black and white tiles and a damned fine wine selection, was now The Hydra's Head, a cheesy theme restaurant sent straight out of Steve's own nightmares. From honest, down-to-earth chipped tiles and paint-scraped walls had blossomed fake chandeliers and 'velvet' wallpaper and pretend 1940's decor and prints of silver-screen starlets and not a single fucking interesting thing on the menu. Nope - it had to be 'but the punters will want a steak item!' or 'they won't eat squab, just change it to chicken,' or 'everyone knows that salmon sells!' Not a single peep for the classic, humble workingman's dishes of his heart – no easy and delicious coq au vin, no confit duck legs or rillettes, not even a goddamned bowl of moules marinieres.
"Good to go on Table nine!" yelled Bucky, his fry man and sous, and Steve snapped back to the present.
"Table nine, go!" he yelled back above the groaning wheeze of the range hood, and Dugan, his blunt, aggressive runner (he loved that asshole, he really did) plated up like a champion as the dishes came together. Jones on sauté was lagging in the weeds, so Bucky stepped in to help him out, whisking up the sauce still reducing in a saucepan with practiced flicks of his wrist.
"Who's the screecher tonight?" asked Bucky, grinning at the runner, and Dugan groaned loudly.
"Jessica Fuckin' Rabbit is back on the stage. Dino behind the bar said she said she'd been gettin' lessons. Yeah well, I'm guessing the lessons weren't in singing. The notes she's hitting are bending cutlery. It's a nightmare out there – you're better off in here."
"You can have it!" hollered his saucier and fellow French Culinary Institute graduate, Gabriel Jones. "If I have to slap another perfectly cooked piece of a frankly fuckin' noble cow in the jukebox one more time, I will show you a fuckin' French revolution, my friend."
(Steve and Gabe had bonded over long, wistful conversations of saddle of rabbit and country-style pork terrines and soupe de poisson and holy sweet mercy, daube of beef, ratatouille, pot-au-feu,tuna livornaise, bouillabaisse, a perfect, simple and heartbreaking oxtail ragoût. It was enough to make a strong man cry.)
"Gabe, you're in the weeds, shut up and get back to work. You don't have the time to be storming Bastilles," Steve said, and squinted at the next dupe. Oh fabulous, an eight-top. All steak and chicken and salmon. Could someone, for once, please order the lovely braised pork belly he'd had to fight tooth and nail to get put on the menu?
Spinning the pans towards Izzy Cohen at the sink, he unwittingly let out a long sigh. Izzy gave him a raised eyebrow. "Hey, Chef, could be worse. This could be war, and you could be on my salary."
"Words of wisdom, Iz." Steve yanked a clean pan from the pile tottering beside the sink, and grabbed a new stack of cloths, only to nearly slam into someone's chest.
"Jeez! Say 'behind' or 'here' or something, this is a kitchen!" he wheezed. "What if I'd been holding a knife?"
"We'd have an alternative to the supermarket steak on the menu," Izzy drawled.
"Sorry Chef," said Rebel Ralston, his favourite waiter, "but um. Table seven said the steak wasn't done enough, and..." In his hand, he held two plates. Bites had been cut from the T-Bones, which were already well-done. In Steve's miffed opinion, they had been practically burned to death.
"Oh god," Steve sighed. "Give them here."
Gabe pointed a slim Global knife covered in parsley at Rebel, his eyes flinty. "French. Revolution."
"Gabe," Steve said, and held out his hand. "Look. I'll just do it."
"Jesus," Gabe spat, and Bucky made a growling sound of agreement from his fryer. "Hey Izzy, move your ass before I tap it with my shiny love stick here. Sharps comin' through. I said move, Izzy."
Gabe barged the dishwasher aside from the sink to mutter angrily under his breath as he rinsed his knife, and Steve slapped the well-done T-Bones back on the fire. He felt his heart break a little more.
This ritzy fake 1940's prison was going to bury him alive. He needed to make classic, real food again, find the fire and passion for cooking he'd once had before he began to freeze solid. He needed to get out of this shithole before he did something rash, like pass out in the coolroom or join the goddamned Army.
But he couldn't leave his men behind.
"He can't be Head Chef."
"What? But Boss, he's..."
"I know who he is. I'm not having him as Head Chef. He can be sous."
Coulson laughed. "Yeah right. Him? A sous-chef? Boss, that's never going to happen and you know it. Stark doesn't have the temperament to be a sous."
"He doesn't have the temperament to be anything other than the spoiled fuckin' brat he is. It's sous or nothing. He'll play nice with others or he's out on his ass."
"Bruce..."
A knife was sticking two inches into the wall, quivering gently. Betty took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. "Bruce..."
"This isn't working," came the mutter from behind the stainless steel bench.
"Really?" she said dryly. "Because it all looks peachy from here."
A slightly-hysterical laugh was her answer.
She leaned against the bench and took his hands. They were covered in icing sugar, and it was also dusted in his curly hair as he slumped heavily against the walk-in door. "I really thought I could do it again, you know?"
She flicked some of the icing sugar out of his hair and smiled. "What was it going to be?"
His answering smile was wry. "It was going to be... well. Funny you should have mentioned peaches, because..."
She let him ramble for a few moments, stroking his hair, before he steeled himself visibly and turned with dead eyes back to the collapsing mess in the pan. He'd been so talented, once. He'd been the best pâtissier anyone had ever seen, nearly a fucking chemist. His steady hands, his minute and painstaking attention to detail, his exact measurements – he'd been a wonder, a revelation. He'd made chocolate bow before him, cream had virtually rolled over and begged, and egg whites became so stiff they were practically having erections in his presence. His tarts and crumbles had made the hardest, coldest evillest bastards weep openly and promise to be better people for the rest of their life if they could only have another bite. Exotic creations made of spun sugar and hazelnuts and pandan had stunned critics nearly silent, and jellies of Lady Grey tea and berry coulis so flavourful it beat the palate into submission had made them pant and salivate in fulsome prose. The most delicate of sorbets accompanied by crystallised mint and silky 85% Valrhona chocolate tempered into airy swirls had made them howl wildly for more, more, more.
It was a goddamned crime, what had happened.
Betty let her hand slide over his tense shoulder, and he took a deep, shuddery breath before tipping out the pan into the garbage. "It's okay," she whispered.
"I can't do it anymore, Betts," he said, and ran his sugar-covered hands through his hair, undoing all her grooming. "I just... I can't see where it goes anymore. Where it all fits together."
"It'll come back," she soothed, and he bit off a strangled noise.
"I don't think so," he said, and drew a random pattern in the sugar left on the bench. "I don't think so. It's gone."
"Tell me what happened?" she said, and made him face her once more.
"I..." He stopped and looked up at his knife still shuddering in the wall. "Shit. Lucky that wasn't the door. Or, y'know. You."
"Bruce."
"Right. I... well, it seemed to be going okay. It was just a tart tartin. Something easy, you know. Simple. Home food. I didn't want to push it."
Just a tart tartin. As though his tart tartin hadn't once been the fantasy last meal for an entire kitchen full of pâtissiers. "Right. Okay?"
"I lost it," he admitted quietly. "I had it, and I lost it."
His ruined and shaking hands wrapped tightly around the edge of the bench, and she put hers over his knuckles and smoothed them gently. "It's okay," she whispered again. "It's okay."
"I just want to be left alone right now, Betts. Sorry."
She stifled the little howl in her chest, and nodded. "I'll... I'll be in the shop. Come in when you're ready."
He smiled, but there was no humour in it. "I think I'll churn out some more linguine. Nothing like balling dough when you're pissed."
She stepped back from him and her fingers twitched. "Still angry, huh?"
His hands, ruined and shaking but still so abnormally strong from the years of kneading bread and pasta dough in silent shame and resentment, reached for the flour cup. He paused, and then looked up at her from underneath his curly bangs. "I'm always angry."
"So we got Clint?"
"Who else?"
"Well, there's lots of talk about the sommelier over at the Mockingbird right now, somebody Morse..."
"You think some other joker can compare to Clint? He always gets it right. No matter what crazy goddamned thing you put on a plate, Clint can pick the right fucking wine. Remember the saké?"
"Not a thing," Coulson said, smiling faintly. "That was a good night."
"It was a motherfucking scampi dish with a froofy mayonnaise and that Australian stuff, those finger-lime pearl things. And he picked a motherfucking saké to match it, and it was goddamned divine and I heard the voice of God. I honestly did. Clint always, always nails it."
"That's sort of part of the problem, Boss," said Coulson, flipping his laptop around to show Fury the headline of 'THREE-STAR FIASCO: BARMAN PUNCHES CRITIC IN THE FACE.'
"Laufeyson had it coming."
"And that's a wrap!"
Tony shook out the fixed grin and slumped against his glossy marble benchtop as around them the techs cleaned and bustled and... did whatever techs normally did. He picked up JARVIS and gave it a few strops on the steel, before putting him back in his custom knife-roll. "How many's that, Pepper?"
"Looks like we're going to have Christmas after all, Mister Stark," she said, her heels clicking on the studio floor. "And that was the last one. Twenty four episodes recorded, another season in the can."
"Hooray," he said dryly, and pulled her close. "I never want to see another camera again."
"You should have thought of that before you signed the contract."
"I didn't sign it, Obie signed it, I was drunk, I don't remember, it wasn't me - it was my evil twin, and can we please get out of here? I'm a grown chef, please don't make me beg, I have standards to uphold."
"No you don't," she said with a little half-smile.
"All right, no I don't," he said, shrugging. "But the point stands: can we pretty please with a glace cherry on top leave? I am wearing make-up, it's making me look orange, I have been Food Networked to death, I feel dirty, I need to wash."
"Hmm." Pepper, his long-suffering, hard-working PA (and girlfriend, but the network didn't want that publicised. Tony was a cash-magnet, and part of that was his reputation and appeal) flicked a lock of his styled, shiny hair off his orange-tinted face and gave him an amused look. "Eager."
"Always," he leered. "Come oooooon, Pep. Let's make like an egg and beat it."
"No after-wrap party this time?"
"Feh. Who needs a party? I am the party. Leaving? Now? Before I have a heart attack?"
She gave him a shrewd look, her lovely eyes narrowing. "Tony. You've got something big happening, don't you?"
Ice splashed down his spine. "Shh," he growled, and grabbed her hand to yank her out of the studio and down the hall to his dressing room. Closing the door behind them, he turned. "Yeah."
"Yeah? Wait, this is an answer to the question?" Pepper put her hands on her hips. "Don't overwhelm me with details or anything, Tony, my poor non-culinary mind can't take it."
"Okay, okay..." He bit his lip, and then he caught sight of his orange face in the mirror. "Ugh. Wait, hang on, I have to de-Valentino. I look like an Oompa-Loompa."
"Tony..." Pepper said warningly.
He rubbed at his face with a cleansing wipe, and grimaced as the caked stuff came off. "I've been hearing some rumours," he decided to begin with. "You know I've been wanting to get back in the jungle."
"Tony, we've talked about this. You're a TV chef now, not a cook, and it's practically impossible to wind that clock backwards. Restaurants want TV chefs as menu consultants, but not behind a station. They'd treat you like a publicity stunt and not a cook on the line. Your dad..."
"I don't care," he interrupted, scrubbing harder at his face. "I really don't. I know I'm a TV chef, Pep. I've had the fact crammed down my throat for the last ten years."
She leaned against the makeup counter, and covered his hand with gentle fingers, stopping him from scrubbing his own skin clean off. "And?" she prompted.
He paused, meeting his own eyes in the mirror, raking over his glossy, styled back hair, his neat goatee, his orange-tinted skin. "But at heart, I've always been a cook. That's what I do – what I've always wanted to do. At the end of it all, it's about the food. Not – not this." He waved a hand at his reflection.
"Has Rhodey been speaking to you again?" she asked, sliding next to him on the padded bench.
He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. "Maybe, maybe not."
"Oh, Tony," she sighed, and stroked his hair. It must have felt fairly disgusting from all the product, but she never hesitated.
"He just sounds so happy," Tony said, and there was a wistful little note in his voice. Damn it.
Rhodey and Tony had come up through CIA together, and then moved on to working as commis side-by-side. Those had been fun years – booze everywhere and fucking the waitresses in the dry-store and drugs on the benchtops and always, always the food. Everywhere, the food. Tony'd been gladhanded and side-eyed by a few big-name greats. He'd been making interesting and exciting dishes. He'd been lauded a genius for his way with seafood and the more delicate game birds. He'd created stunning and intricate dishes using molecular gastronomy, foams and aspics and insane taste combinations that shouldn't have worked, but did. He'd started to build his rep. He earned his spurs. He began to rise, and rise, and rise...
Then Tony's dad had died, and everything turned to shit tartare.
Tony inherited Howard's, a lumbering old-boys-club dinosaur of a two-star restaurant with its green leather wingback chairs and table-side carving and its starch-shirted, white-gloved serving staff. He'd had such big plans for that prehistoric place, starting with bring Rhodey in on grill! But Obadiah had had other ideas, and now Rhodey worked happily amongst the no-nonsense military precision cookies at the Tango Charlie Foxtrot, and Tony was a famous international television success.
And a laughingstock amongst real chefs.
"I just want to cook again," he muttered.
"I know," Pepper said, and he turned his face up to look at her. "Stop that. I don't know what those big puppy eyes want, but they're not getting it."
"I don't want anything! Except to work a fucking real kitchen again... and to bask in the glory of your presence, naturally," he said, batting his eyelashes.
"Wait... what did you do?" Shit. Pepper knew him entirely too well.
"Remember I said that I'd been hearing things?"
"You might want to see someone about that."
"Ha ha. Anyway, Rhodey put out some feelers for me, dropped a few hints here and there. Get this: Fury is opening a new place."
Pepper pulled back to look at him, her eyes wide with astonishment. "No!"
"I shit you not. Fury, badass restaurateur extraordinaire, is opening a new pirate ship. I intend to be hoisting that flag and scaling that rigging."
"Tony, he'd never..."
"I know, I know!" he hissed, and dropped his voice down a little lower. "So I leaked a few photos. Of the trout, and the confit lamb, and maybe... the quail. Y'know."
"You idiot, the Network is going to shoot you," Pepper groaned. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Er... would you like an itemised list by alphabetical order, or organised by body part? I mean," he added hurriedly, "you will run everything with the total competence and terrifying attention to things like dead trees and other people that I so woefully lack?"
"Better," she grunted. "Tony, what about Obie?"
He let his head rest against her shoulder again, and tried to repress his rising guilt. Obie wasn't going to like it.
"I don't care," he said anyway. "I've got to do this. I've just got to."
"Who else have you found?" Fury rubbed at his shaved scalp and slumped back. Reams upon reams of paperwork shifted in its stacks before him. Coulson's lips pursed. He'd spent ages working out that goddamned system.
It had always been a mystery to him that people went into the restaurant industry to get away from paperwork.
"Well, you're not going to like this."
"I'm not liking any of it so far. Maybe this will be the news that turns it around for the better."
"Laufeyson's brother for garde manger," Coulson said, and then winced.
Fury seemed to have fossilised on the spot. His jaw rippled, and then he grated, "Oh look. I was wrong."
"He hasn't been able to land a kitchen job here in the US. He's from... Norway? Sweden? Somewhere Scandinavian. Anyway, they tell me the guy's a wizard with charcuterie."
Interest sparked in Fury's eye. "Charcuterie."
"His name's Odinson. Thor Odinson."
"Thor, no fuckin' way, are you serious? You're serious. All right, I'm listening."
"So what's your story, stranger?"
The man opposite Clint grunted and dragged his stool closer to the bar. "Cute. Just get me what I need."
Clint sized the guy up. Small, but nuggety. Scars over his wrists and hands, reaching all the way up his forearms. Black hair in a weird winged shape, and sideburns overgrown and bristly. He had a piercing blue stare that was currently drilling holes in Clint's nice bartop. The accent – Canadian?
Turning to the rows upon rows of bottles, his hand hovered over the beer fridge for a moment. He had a gorgeous microbrew in from New Zealand; hoppy, full-bodied, and damned strong. But that didn't feel quite right.
"Before I die of old age," the guy growled, and Clint made up his mind.
Reaching above his head, he pulled down a dusty bottle. Pouring two fingers, he slid the glass down the bench to the man, who stopped it with his hand and regarded it suspiciously. "Whisky."
"Right."
The guy sniffed it, and his cynical eyes went wide. "Bub, that is..."
"Whisky," Clint said innocently, and polished a glass.
Taking a sip, the guy almost fell back in shock and delight. His eyelids lowered in appreciation, and he licked his lips. "Holy mother of god."
Clint put the glass into the hanging rack with a nearly-silent chink, and smiled to himself. "Yeah. I hear that a lot."
The guy sat, hunched almost protectively over his glass for about twenty minutes, when another one came and sat beside him. "What'll you have?" Clint asked politely, because this one was huge and hairy, despite the teeny fussy little glasses.
"I hear you're the one I should be asking that," the guy said, inclining his head. Then he glanced over at the first man. "Logan. What an unexpected pleasure."
"Piss off. I'm communing with my drink."
"Suit yourself."
"Shouldn't you be at work?" The first guy, Logan, finally looked up from his glass.
"Charles gave me the night. Ororo's on."
"Poor 'Ro."
"Induibitably."
"You guys work together?" Clint said, studying the big guy. Damn, he was freakin' huge.
"Over at Xavier's, yeah," Logan grunted. "I'm usually on brunch, but I had night shift. Fuckin' Summers."
"Hank McCoy," the big guy said, holding out his massive paw. "I'm maître d'hôtel."
"Clint," he replied, shaking the hand. Interesting. The big guy was front of house, huh? And those glasses suggested 'intellectual'. The voice was cultured and genial, and his smile was broad and quick. He flipped through his mental rolodex of beverages, and the perfect match sprang to mind immediately. He nodded to the guy. "So what brings you guys to my little corner of town?"
"Heard about you," said Logan. "Heard you had some sorta magic gift, able to match anyone and anything to a bottle."
"I can usually hit the bullseye," Clint replied mildly. "You done with that whisky?"
Logan's hands curled around his glass and he honest-to-fuck growled.
"So, would you do me the inexpressible honour of selecting me a tipple?" Hank said, giving him a smile.
"Be my genuine pleasure," Clint said, and grinned. In a flash, wine was standing in front of Hank, ruby-red in the bottom of a sparkling Riedel glass.
"Smug," Hank commented, and raised an eyebrow. "You'd already picked it."
"Picked it three minutes ago," Clint said, and returned to polishing industriously. "Thought you boys might be here to test me."
"How could you tell?" Logan asked as Hank swirled his wine, watching the 'ropes' forming with a knowledgeable eye.
"Oooh," the big guy breathed. "Well now."
"Your hands." Clint nodded to Logan's mitts, still cradling his tumbler. "You don't get hands like that unless you've been near kitchens. Plus that's a knife-callus on your right thumb. That's from fast dicing. You've heard the goss and come to scope me out."
"To be fair," Hank said, "everyone's heard of you."
Clint's face darkened. "Thanks a fucking bundle."
"Not that!" Hank protested. "Not what Laufeyson wrote... more, the industry just hears about you. You're like a secret only we know about, a rumour, almost like... a spy. We all know you're the best sommelier in New York. Kitty wishes with all her heart she could see what you can see so easily."
"That's Pryde, right?"
Logan looked up from where he had been communicating with his whisky again. "Careful, bub," he snarled. "You only say good things about Kitty."
"Hey, she's good," Clint said, holding his hands up. "She can breeze through all this, no problems. It's just... I dunno."
Logan tilted his head. "You gonna give us your worldly wisdom?"
Clint snorted. "If I had any, sure."
"Is it true you were a waiter?" Hank asked, eyeing the colour of his wine in the light.
"Hell, I've been everything. Started as a runner. Did tables, did dishwashing, hell, I was a night porter for a while. Jumped through so many fuckin' hoops I used to joke that I was some sorta acrobat. I like it backstage, but. Yeah. I was a chef first, before I was a sommelier, but I needed the distance. I still keep my hand in the kitchen so I can be first on board with the new tastes and trends. That keeps me sharp, but yeah. I like front-of-house. I like being able to watch the whole dining room. I like being able to read people... and I guess I can just see it."
Hank took an airy slurp of his wine, and almost melted into a hairy puddle. "Ohhh," he said blissfully. "I'll say."
"Holy fuck, you shut up the windbag," Logan said, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. "Can you come work for us?"
"I'm Fury's man," Clint said, and gave a half-shrug. "I only work Fury's restaurants. So nah."
"Pity," Hank mumbled, his eyes dazed, a goofy smile adorning his face.
"Are we sure about Romanov?"
"What do you mean?" Fury paused in cracking open a beer and his eye narrowed. "Romanov's been working in my kitchens for years. She could make a sauce so damned subtle it'd make these arrogant fuckfaces go home and wipe their asses with their resumes. She's one of the best – never late, never an excuse, always does the job. She's in."
"Okay," said Coulson, and sighed. "Only the next one would most likely want to bring his sauté man with him, and there might be a conflict of interest there."
Fury scowled and took a sip. "I don't care if he's fucking Escoffier. Romanov stays."
"Even if he's Steve Rogers?"
Fury sprayed beer all over the stacks of paperwork.
"Little brother..." Thor said once more into the receiver, and flinched when the dial tone greeted him.
Well, that had gone swimmingly.
"Thor!" hollered Selvig from the massive refrigerated barn that was their storeroom. "Thor, get in here! Quick!"
With a heavy sigh, Thor shoved his mobile phone back into his pocket and plastered a grin on his face. He strode out into the area, only to be greeted by unfamiliar faces – three men, and a woman. "Ah! Hello, my friends! What is it we can do for you?"
"Wouldja get a load of Goldilocks here," growled the biggest man, folding his arms. "Just get on with it. I got stuff ta do."
Selvig grabbed his arm and stood on tiptoe to mutter into his ear, "Thor, they want more of the duck terrine, the foie gras terrine, the smoked rabbit pâté, the pheasant galantine, the cured pike, the venison sweetbreads, all of the sausages and the marinated lamb's brains. Get stalling!"
Thor's practised grin didn't falter. "Ah."
Selvig beamed at the customers, who were shivering in the cold of the storeroom and eyeing the hanging carcasses suspiciously. "Thor here will look after you!" he said, and began to back away. "I'll just be in the office if you need me. I'll leave you in his capable hands, shall I?"
Selvig disappeared, and Thor had to stifle another sigh. Selvig was a clever and polished meat salesman, but he didn't quite know what to make of Thor's particular brand of customer. He normally sold to restaurants which weren't nearly so... specialised. "When would you like your product?" he asked politely.
"Yesterday," said the oldest of the three men.
"Reed!" hissed the woman. Then she turned to Thor with a pleasant smile. "As soon as you can have it available," she said. "We've had an incredible reaction to your goods."
"You have bought from us before, then?" Thor said, his hands busy as he readied the order sheet and groped about for a pencil. He found one in his apron pocket.
"Made the order on Tuesday, sold out by Thursday," said the youngest of the men cheerfully, and Thor looked up in surprise.
"That is very gratifying to hear," he said, his chest inflating a little from pride. The biggest man grunted loudly.
"Almost made food cost, too," grumbled the woman, and the older man, the one with the white streaks in his dark hair, winced slightly.
"Darling, it is worth the cost," he said. "My menu-"
"Seventy percent," she retorted. "Seventy percent. Who was it who was talking about getting cost down to twenty-eight percent per dish only last month?"
"If you are looking to make further orders with us, perhaps we can organise some sort of discount?" Thor said with as much dignity as he could muster – which was a lot. "I hope you understand that these products are not exactly wholesale."
"Hells yeah. Boutique and hot as hell right now," said the youngest man, and he grinned. "Don't sweat, Sis. We'll make it back on the bar."
"Johnny, not everything can be solved by alcohol set alight," muttered the woman.
"Says you."
Thor looked between them – it felt rather like refereeing a tennis match. "So are you looking to match your previous order? What is your restaurant name, please?"
"No, we'll," the older man cleared his throat. "We'll be doubling it. And it's Blue Baxter's, on Yancy Street."
Thor blinked. They had ordered a lot last time. A doubled order meant a hell of a long time for him to be standing in the freezing cold, wielding Mjolnir. "I... I mean we can have that for you by Monday. Maybe. Perhaps."
"Perhaps!" the man said, desperation lighting his face.
"Reed," the woman sighed.
"Sue, my menu. My work! My experiments!" he snarled. "I need that stuff and I need it now!"
"Awright then," said the biggest man, shouldering his way to the front of the little pack. "You! Big blond Eurovision reject! We got an order, so you gotta fill it. Getcher men onto it!"
"I am afraid there are no ''men'," Thor said, trying valiantly to hold onto his temper. It was hair-trigger at the best of times, and Selvig wouldn't be pleased if he lost it (again) at (another) customer. "There is only myself."
The kid's jaw dropped. "You're the one who makes all this stuff?"
Thor inclined his head, his eyes cool. "Yes."
"What the hell are you doin' workin' in a supply butchery?" said the big man, his rough face the very picture of incredulity. "You're a freakin' master!"
"Your chefs do not seem to feel that the Kulinarisk Akademi of Olso can compare to your local American culinary schools," he said, trying to keep the bitterness and the lilt of contempt from his voice. He'd been told it came across as arrogant.
(Still, who did these Americans think they were? He came from a European tradition of cooking a thousand years old, these idiots, these haughty, supercilious, blinkered imbeciles, these -)
With a wrench, Thor broke off his train of thought and smiled frostily. "I can have your produce ready by Monday at the soonest."
"Thank you, we'll take it," said the woman hastily, and grabbed the arm of the older man, dragging him away. "Come on, Reed, and don't argue!"
"But..."
"Thanks!" the young guy said, and winked before sauntering after them.
"Hey, blondie," said the big man, scratching at his head. "You wanna... I got sorta an interest in charcuterie myself, y'know. What are you using to slice that parma ham? Cos I ain't ever seen anything like it."
The corner of Thor's mouth lifted. "You would not believe me, my friend."
"How come you came over here anyway? Seems like you'd do pretty well back home, man o' yer talents."
"It... is a long story," Thor said, and squashed yet another sigh. "Suffice to say, my brother and I did not part on amicable terms with our parents. We both moved to America, and..."
"Brother? Is he looking for work? Cos if he's anything like you..."
"He is nothing like me," Thor snapped. Then he softened. "He never had a true talent at cooking. His gifts lay elsewhere. It was... it was the main source of contention between himself and my father."
"Say no more," said the big man. "I'm Ben, by the way."
"Thor."
"Thor? No fuckin' way, are you serious?" When he was greeted by a flatly unamused expression, Ben shrugged. "Damn, no wonder you didn't get along with yer folks. Thor, Jaysus."
"Steve Rogers," Fury said flatly. "Steve Rogers. As in five years ago, the côte de boeuf from heaven Steve Rogers."
"I think you've grasped the concept, yes," said Coulson.
"Thought he'd disappeared off the face of the planet. Fell down some goddamned crevasse or something. No-one's heard from him since."
"He never moved on," Coulson said, and flipped to a tab open in his browser. "He stuck by his restaurant, even when it began to turn bad on him."
Fury leaned forward to read the old review, and then sat back with an exhalation. "Well now," he said. "Steve goddamned Rogers."
"Yep."
"He can't be happy where he is."
"I think he'd probably appreciate a change of scene. Along with half of his proven crew."
"That's more like it." Fury stood, staring at the review, and then nodded sharply. "Phil, you just found me my Chef de cuisine."
"Oh, Stark isn't going to like that, Boss."
"You would be amazed at how blithely unconcerned I am regarding Stark's likes or dislikes."
"It's not going to wo-ork," sing-songed Anatoly.
"It will," said Natasha serenely.
"Chicken livers pureed in a sauce? No punter'll buy that. They see the word 'liver' they run for the hills," said Anatoly, flipping his pan into the sink, where it hissed as it sank under the suds. The dishwasher eyed it despairingly and gingerly put his hands back into the now-scorching water.
Natasha simply flipped a couple of cubes of butter into her sauce and kept thickening it.
"Shouldn't let you do this," Anatoly continued. She rather thought he was enjoying it. "But it seems that this cocky little girl needs to be taught a lesson or two about cookin' in New York, huh? Well, I'll let you test it out. See? That's me co-operating, you tell that one-eyed creep boss of yours. Never say I don't do anythin' for him."
Natasha's face remained calm, her movements practiced and nearly balletic as she made her way silently back to her mise-en-place and selected a pinch of saffron.
The special cleared out in record time. Every plate that had been drizzled with the sauce came back spotless. The runner, Rossovitch (known as the Red Omega for his serious octopus-like tendencies) reported that people in the dining room were actually licking the plates clean.
Anatoly sent a look filled with daggers to Natasha, who flipped her knife with her usual frightening precision into her hand-carved block (a spider. She'd made it herself).
"You shouldn't question me," she said, just as serene as before, "when it comes to sauces."
Anatoly growled under his breath.
"Thank you for your co-operation," she added sweetly.
"Who's left in your headhunting list?"
"Uh."
"I know that 'uh.' That is not a good 'uh'. Say it."
"Well."
"Not an improvement. Spit it out, Coulson."
Coulson looked down at his neat list, and then decided to make a brave fist of it. "Banner."
"You... are kidding right? That's a funny joke?"
Coulson gave him a faint smile. "He's not working kitchens at the moment, and..."
"Well of course he's not! After what happened at-"
"He'd be a great asset, Boss."
Fury pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Sure, if anyone could get him makin' pastry again, which isn't going to happen because the guy wigs out and starts throwing things! He is a certifiable fuckin' nutcase, Coulson!"
"He has a few... problems, yes, but that's not exactly his fault."
"Regardless of whose fault it is, Banner can't work in kitchens anymore! His hands..."
"Would be too unsteady for patisserie, sure. But he's been known to work grill before."
Fury paused. "The guy isn't just a patissier?"
For a second Coulson had to mourn the injustice of an artist like Bruce Banner referred to as 'just a patissier'. "No Boss. He's classically trained. Institute of Culinary Education here in NYC. He decided to specialise in pastry after a decade or so on the line."
"Shit. Okay. So he can run a station?"
"He's been on the line. He can hold his end, as long as it doesn't come anywhere near the cake displays."
Fury deliberately reached into the fridge and yanked out another beer. Tossing it to Coulson, he said, "All right. He's grillardin. So that's the dinner team sorted: Chef, sous, sauté, sommelier, grill, and garde manger. Now all we gotta do is put 'em together, and all they gotta do is not kill each other."
"Room full of superheated liquids and sharp objects and open flame and specialist power tools and egos the size of Belgium," Coulson said. "I don't see how this could possibly go wrong."
"Goddamn it," Fury snapped, and then glared some more at his accounts manager. "You sonovabitch."
"That's what they say," Coulson agreed placidly.
"This is the one I've always wanted to open, Phil. The one restaurant I've always wanted to run. If this fuckin' bunch of hooligans don't pull together, the whole damn ship goes under."
"Still, at least she'll be captained by Steve Rogers."
"You really think you can get him?"
"I can try."
Fury tipped his head back for a moment, before holding out his half-finished beer. "Well. We got our crew."
"Yes, sir," Coulson said, and tapped his can against Fury's. "Now we find out if she sails, or sinks."
TBC...
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A KITCHEN PHRASEBOOK (SORTA-ISH)
In the weeds/in the shit: falling behind, lagging
8-top: a table with 8 plates (similarly, six-top, three-top etc)
Grill/grillardin: a traditional station in brigade cooking. Does the grilled (duh) dishes.
Runner: specialist waiter/kitchen runner. Answers directly to the Chef, tells them what's going on front-of-house.
Sauté/saucier: a traditional station in brigade cooking. Sautés, prepares sauces, hot foods, yadda. Highly respected position.
Mise en place: station essentials. Pepper, salt, fine-chopped parsley, oils, butter etc. Everything you need on your bench in an easy-to-reach spot. Do not fuck with another cook's meez.
Commis: junior chef (sometimes apprentice).
Sous-Chef: the First Mate. Second in command. Runs the kitchen under the Chef de Cuisine.
Jukebox: microwave.
Night porter: the guy who cleans the restaurant at night (poor bastard).
Knife: every chef's baby. Touch it and die.
Pâtissier: Pastry chef. The anal-retentive, finicky mad scientists of the kitchen.
Finger-lime: is fucking delicious.
Sommelier: Wine and booze pairing expert, often runs the restaurant's drink selection and storage. Often a shit-hot bartender and barista too. Sometimes doubles as maître d'hôtel. On that note...
Maître d'hôtel: Host/hostess. Runs the floor.
Front of house: the dining room/lobby/bar. Anywhere the customer can see.
Back of house/backstage: kitchen, dry store, coolrooms etc. Anywhere they can't.
Asshole: term of affectionate abuse. Sometimes a term of abuse-abuse. It depends on context (whether you're being punched or not).
Molecular gastronomy: is freaking insane omg. No. Ouch.
Dishwasher: the lowest of the low in the kitchen. Sometimes an apprentice. A good one is worth their weight in beer.
Charcuterie: is also fucking delicious. The art of prepared meat products such as terrines, sausages, pâtés, galantines and forcemeats. Also, smoked meats and fish. MEAT STUFF. Aw yiss.
Fuck: a word generally used as random punctuation.
Food cost: the obsession of every head chef. If the combined product used in one dish costs more than 50% of the finished item's sale price, you are taking a shitbath my son.
Chef de Cuisine/Head Chef: this is the Big Cheese. The guy/gal who can wear The Hat and not get the shit kicked out of him/her. Their menu, their rules, their responsibility, their ass on the line, their name over the door.
Kill it: well-done.
Amuse-bouche: Little nommy things served at the start of the meal. Literally means 'mouth amuser', which sounds vaguely sexy to me. Just me?
Garde manger: Preps cold dishes, including charcuterie (depends, I suppose), and supervises the stores and coolrooms. Garde manger tend to be giants. You need to be as strong as an ox to wrestle huge cans of oil or twenty-kilo bags of rice down stairs all day.
85% Valrhona chocolate: oh. Oh GOD, uh. Excuse me, I just need to... to.. *drools*
I'd love to hear what you think! Reviews make me happy like a big bowl of paella with chorizo.