Never, ever, EVER... Salt your soup in front of the cook... It's just bad manners...
Bruce woke up to his alarm, letting him know it was time to take the first shift in the Wayne family business. Dick would be waiting in the lair, no doubt. Last night had been a bust, the lead Oracle had given led to an old Joker hideout, empty save for some pictures of Batman pinned to wall with targets painted over the photos, pinned by darts. There wasn't a shortage of other criminals running amok, but it was disappointing to not catch the clown. Unnerving, too. The Joker never laid low this long, usually he was more direct in his plans, striking not too long after escaping Arkham. The other Rouges, too, had been oddly silent. It worried Bruce, they must be planning something big. Hopefully they weren't planning on working together. The house smelled amazing.
It took Bruce a moment to remember that Miss Fox was here, cooking a feast downstairs. While he had suspicions about her, he would deny that her food smelled divine. Grabbing a public appropriate suit from the closet, he made his way downstairs. Appearances had to be upheld. He could hear the chefs barked orders over the clatter of the kitchen. Alfred was in the adjacent dinning hall, directing workers on how to set up the temporary tables for tonights dinner, where plates should be set, how the silverware should lie. It made him uneasy having so many strangers in his home, but he knew they wouldn't find anything incriminating. No one could fault his paranoia though, if they knew his secret. Know Alfred could manage things in his absence, Bruce walked into the kitchen. You could imagine his surprise to not only find the kitchen abuzz with the flurry of food, pots, and steam, but his youngest son Damien, in the think of it, clothed in a white jacket that matched the adults in the room. He was standing on a step stool, leaned over to watch as the only woman in the vicinity spooned a golden liquid over something colourful in a high sided pan.
"-the pan tilted, it keeps the meat off direct heat, and allows you to baste whatevers cooking with your sauce." The chef slid the pan in a half circle, allowing Damien to take over, spooning butter over the food, just how she had done.
"Are you certain this much butter is necessary?" Damien asked as the woman moved over to an oven, pulling a tray of steaming squash out.
"Butter is life, Smokebomb. Ask anyone what makes their food so damn good, and chances are they'll answer salt or butter." The chef pulled a long, thin metal rod from her pockets, poking the gourd easily into the side. "Besides, nothing is life is good without a little fat."
"What do you mean, fat?"
"Fat. Fat checks, fatty food, Fat Bottom Girls."
"I hope your not encouraging my son in wrong ways." Bruce interrupted, wanting to see what exactly his son was doing. Alexandera looked over briefly, shrugging her shoulders as she set the baking sheet down on a towel.
"Sorry, Mr. Wayne, but he's in a public school. It ain't the first time he's heard it." The chef pulled another baking dish from who knows wheres, laden with apples, and slid it easily into the oven.
"Gotham Academy is a private school, Lady Chef." Damien supplied, never stopping with his methodical movements.
"No wonder you talk all fancy, Kid." Damien sighed heavily at the nickname. "Did you need something Mr. Wayne?" The chef finally moved from the blizzard of movement, standing a respectable distance from the Eldest Wayne, though annoyance was clear on her face.
"Ah, no. I just wanted to check to see how things were going." Bruce did his best to seem nervous, women liked it when he was sheepish he noticed. The chef, ever the conundrum, scowl faintly.
"You hired me to cook, if you didn't trust me to do that right, then you shouldn't have hired me at all." Bruce could see the faint shaking of Damien's shoulders.
"Oh, um, right." Bruce rubbed his neck. "What's Damien up to?" Alexandera tilted her head.
"He's cooking. He helps me out sometimes." A thumb was jabbed over her shoulder lazily. "He's got the coat to prove it." With that the chef moved, striding over to one of her men, tasting a portion of carrots before seasoning it with something from her other pocket. Bruce, understanding that was her way of a dismissal, if a little put off by her attitude, moved to stand beside Damien, watching him spoon butter over a large chunk of browned meat.
"May I help you, Father?" Damien never slowed in his movements, only stopping to flip the meat over only to start basting again.
"When did you start cooking?"
"Thanksgiving." His tone sounded curt, as if Bruce should have know. To be fair, Bruce had forgotten about the holiday. "Lady Chef, how will I know when the meat is done?" Bruce took notice of the logo on his coat.
"Fingers and thumbs. Pinch your middle finger and thumb together and feel the muscle there," The chef held her hands up in an example briefly. "if the meat feels similar, then its somewhere close to medium or medium rare. Pull it off." Damien mimicked the action before turning the heat off. He turned, holding the pan by the handle.
"Excuse me, Father. I need you to stand aside, lest I accidentally burn you." Bruce back stepped, making room for his son to carefully step down from his perch, placing the hot pan on a towel, like the chef had done earlier. Bruce read the coat.
"Thief?" Damien crossed his arms indignantly, seeming to think on his answer.
"Kid keeps stealing my time, seemed appropriate." Bruce didn't notice the wink Alexandera gave Damien, to which he nodded. "I'm gonna need to to get behind the island, you're in the way."
"I'm sorry. I need to get going anyway, gotta get to the office."
"Don't let me keep you waiting." The chef handed Damien a thermometer, not looking at Bruce as he began walking away.
"Damien, don't forget to clean up before dinner." The hidden meaning wasn't lost on Damien.
"Yes, Father." Faintly he heard his sons voice as Bruce rounded the corner. "What did you mean by fat bottomed girls?"
"WHAT?! Marcus, give me your phone!" Bruce smiled at the shocked voice. "Kids way too sheltered!"
Dick stood near the entrance of Wayne Manor, his brothers standing close by, as he greeted the guests in his father's stead. His childhood home was looking especially cozy. Wreaths hung on doors and hallway walls, a large Christmas tree was in every room, bedecked in beautiful lights and baubles. Garland and tinsel wrapped around doorways and the length of the railing of the stair case. Even the rarely used fireplaces were lit, cheerfully adding their light to the picturesque scene. Not in many years had the Wayne Manor felt so... homey. Even when Dick lived here as a child was the house so lively. Alfred always made an effort to decorate, but that was restricted to the more used rooms in the house. Alfred had really outdone himself, and in such little time really. The dining room was currently barred off as the chef and her men began to lay out trays of food. All the better, he feared her attitude might insult the upper crust of Gotham.
"Well, well! I haven't seen you in many years!" A familiar redhead stepped through the front door, handing an old, but not tattered, coat to Alfred to carefully hang. Vicki Vale hadn't changed much in Dick's years away, her hair was shorter, and there was a ring on her finger and a man on her arm.
"Vicki, hi!" Dick shook her hand jovially before doing the same for the man next to her. "Didn't think you'd be here!" Vicki grinned, showing perfectly straight teeth.
"My husband had an invitation to come, and you know I'm always ready for a good story." Dick tried not to roll his eyes. Yeah, professional gossip.
"Well, feel free to mingle on the first floor, dinner should be served in about half an hour." Vicki slid by him, eyes sizing up who was milling about, and with who. To her companions credit, he did stay by her side. Maybe he'd curb her curiosity. Dick turned to look over at his younger brothers. Tim was hamming it up with the other guests, greeting them and subtly sucking up, keeping them in a good mood. He was always good with people so this was his element. Damien on the other hand was doing his best to avoid anyone that came near him, sliding behind guests quietly and refusing to make eye contact. He didn't blame him, but he knew that Bruce had hoped to get Damien more used to people. Alfred came to Dick's side.
"Would you be so kind as to do me a small favor, Master Grayson?" Alfred placed a hand on Dick's shoulder, gently leading him aside the door.
"What's up?"
"I need to remain here, to put away our guests belongings. Would you please ask Miss Fox how she is fairing?" Oh. Oh no.
"I don't think she likes me much Alfred, maybe I could take care of the coats." He really didn't want to see that cook again.
"I have a system set up on how everything is placed, and who it belongs to. I would be remissed if someone received a jacket that didn't fit them." Subtle Alfred, real subtle.
"Alright, but if I come back bleeding you gotta patch me up." It was meant to be a joke, but his tone was a little too somber.
"I always do, Master Grayson." It was light in tone, but that didn't take the sting of guilt Dick felt. He nodded, making his way over to the kitchen door, which was currently closed. Pushing it open, and sending a prayer to whatever was out there, he stepped through. If the house smelled good out there, in the heat of the kitchen was amazing. Rolling carts were piled high with silver dome trays, scents wafting their way through to entice anyone that passed by. One man was carefully placing platters on another cart. A different man pushed a cart into the waiting dining hall. Dick followed after him, and watched as the third of the men placed heavy platters on the long spanning table. Its' crimson table clothe making a stark contrast to the silverware and green of wreaths. At the head of the table, standing infront of the large fireplace stood the blonde chef, the fire behind her casting a hellish scene instead of providing a cheer it should have. The chef was ordering her man on where to place the larger of the platters, before taking short bits of garland and wrapping it around the circumference it. Dick suddenly was struck at the irony of the situation. It was like the Grinch was making Christmas, without the triple sized heart.
"Hey, sorry to interrupt but Alfred wanted me to check on you." The chef looked up, eyeing him critically.
"Come here." Oh boy. Dick wandered closer, not really wanting to be there by her side. "You allergic to anything?"
"No?" It was said as if he questioned his own answer, slightly put off by the question.
"Good," The chef lifted a silver dome to reveal a beautifully arranged bowl of what looked like purple mashed potatoes. "Taste." The chef revealed a fork from one of her pockets, carefully lifting a small amount of fluffy mash, trying not to show any evidence of tampering.
"What is it?" Dick took the offered fork, placing it in his mouth. It tasted like sweet potatoes and coffee. A small sweet crunch of..something was there too. Dick couldn't help the sigh that left his lips. The chef, imposing in her stark white coat and fireplace background, smiled cockily.
"Taro root, spiced and bake with coffee liquor, mixed with pralines and topped with lightly sweetened whipped mascarpone cheese. I hate candied yams. This is Coffeed Yams."
"Holy shit." Dick couldn't get the stop his shocked reaction, even with the cackle the chef gave him.
"I know. It needs something though. Since you're here, cinnamon or hazelnut?"
"Uuuhhh..." Dick swallowed, "Hazelnuts?"
"Marcus!"
"Yes Chef." Marcus left, seeming to understand the unspoken request.
"Thanks, I couldn't decide." The chef tossed the fork Dick had been using on the cart behind him with a clatter. A pen was pulled from her pocket. "Foods almost done being set. We'll remove the garland caution tape from the door when its done, that way we won't be seen." the Chef began to write hazelnuts and a small folded card underneath the already written Coffeed Yams and its ingredients. Marcus came back in, holding a couple of hazelnuts and a microplane. The chef placed the card down and grabbed the nuts and tool, grating a fine powder on top of the dish.
"Tch, should've been roasted. Oh well."
"How did my dad come to hire you?" Dick watched as she covered the bowl again, before moving to another large platter, wrapping this too with a garland.
"Hmm? Oh, I know Damien." That's... odd. Damien didn't go out of his way to talk to people. Wasn't she a lead for Bruce? Dick noticed the hat on her head finally, he guessed he was used to it back in his academy days. "Did you go to Gotham Academy, too?"
"What is this, an interrogation?" Yes.
"No. I'm just curious." Dick watched as the chef straightened again, looking him in the eyes once more. It struck him with how apethetic she looked, a far cry from her irritation this morning.
"Look, I was hired to go a job. I'm not here to make friends, or do each other hair." The chef sigh running her hand over the hat. "I ain't trying to be rude but... Fuck it, I'm rude. No buts, I'm just here to get paid." How... honest.
"Wow... You're a bitch." The chef laughed loudly, eyes closing in glee.
"Ain't the last time I'll hear that." She settled down. "Yeah, but I'm honest, more so then your friends with the champagne in the other room." Dick smiled.
"Yeah... Thanks for that."
"Yep. Get out, we got shit do, and you ain't got a fancy coat like I do."
"I've got shiny cufflinks."
"Ooooh, I'm so impressed. Get out." It was sarcastic, but not mean.
Bruce arrived not a minute too late. Alfred greeted him at the door.
"Our guests have just sat down, you're here just time time to give a nice speech before we finally eat." Alfred took his coat and hung it in the overly full closet.
"How's everything?"
"Wonderful, Master Grayson and Master Drake have been charming as ever, Master Damien has been resolute in his attempts to avoid socializing. I beleive our guests assume him to be shy." Well... that's as good as it would get right now with Bruce's youngest son.
"Well let's get this show on the road." Bruce walked into the dining room, his guests were milling about, a few were sitting at chairs placed at the table but most seemed to be at a loss.
"Good evening everyone!" Bruce gave his most winning smile, walking in to the clapping of the uppercrust. A few cheers of his name resounded. "Hope there's plenty of leftovers for me!" A polite laugh rolled through the crowd. Cornell Williams, a local landowner clapped his back as Bruce walked by.
"We waited for you, it'd be rude to eat without our host." But it was okay to drink, Bruce thought, smelling the alcohol on the mans breath.
"I'm sorry I'm late, you wouldn't believe the paperwork at the office." Bruce gestured to the table. "Please, take a seat where ever you'd like." His sons were already seated towards the head of the table, leaving an empty seat open for Bruce, flanked on either side. As his guests took their seats, Bruce stood behind his chair at the head of the table.
"I'd like to thank all of you for joining me this evening for dinner. I know it's quite the drive to get here." A few lighthearted murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd, the shuffling of chairs slowly dying down. "I know tonight's a little different than the usual bashes I throw, but I thought it appropriate. This time of the year is my favorite, the lights and decorations always bring a smile to my face, the food always a little richer, even if I do end up gaining a few pounds by spring. But this time of the year is also a little bittersweet for me. Our city, while a beacon of technological advancement does have it's downsides. Our fellow city men are not as fortunate as us. Soup kitchens work tirelessly to feed the less fortunate, organizations setting up events to give clothes and essentials to anyone who shows up, never questioning their status or situation.
I admire their efforts make our city a better place, even when the volunteers themselves struggle with their own problems. I'd like to think that we, with our positions, can help in someway. That's why tonight, as we dine and have a good time, I'd like all of us to remember those off us not here to enjoy this wonderful spread, or the warmth of my home. To remember those who helped us on our path up the ladder while never advancing themselves. I'm not asking for you to donate, but if you feel that is something you'd like to do, to help Gotham in anyway we can, then thank you. Thank you anyway for filling my home with laughter and talk, with smiles and joy..." Bruce raised a glass in toast, other mimicking him. "To Gotham! Let our warmth spread to the farthest reaches of the city."
"To Gotham!" There was a few women with tears in their eyes, as men inclined their head in respect. With that said, Bruce sat down, gesturing to the beautiful array of food on the table.
"Please dig in!"
Alexandera leaned against the wall, out of sight but in earshot of the diners in the other room. She rolled her eyes at the speech, even if it did move her in a small way. The murmur of conversation struck up again, the cacophony of clinking utensils adding to the sound as people served themselves. Walking away and back to her boys in the old servants quarter of the mansion she removed her new hat, shaking her hair loose of its updo. Her job was finished for now. Marcus, Kyle and Gary were sitting around a small table, plates of their own food piled high as they ate voraciously. Alfred had his own plate, filled with much less food, but he was enjoying his food just as much as the boys. A lone plate sat near him, untouched and waiting.
"I assumed that you would also like to dine on your food. Which, I daresay is scrumptious" Alexandera smiled, shaking her head and unbuttoning her coat.
"Nah, I'm alright." Alfred raised his brow.
"Surely you must be hungry. With how much you got on Bruce's wards about breakfast, you must know how important it is to eat." Her boys snickered from their corner, making no effort to hide their delight in seeing Lady Boss getting told. Marcus, ever the loyal partner, spoke up, even if he himself was laughing too.
"She never eats when she's on the clock, Old Man."
"Oh?" Alfred narrowed his eyes sternly. For once in her life, Alexandera stepped down.
"I'm never hungry after cooking, it's always been that way. I'll eventually eat but I don't have an appetite." Alfred decided not to press the issue.
"Well whatever the case, you food is outstanding, I'm glad you agreed to work tonight." The Butler smiled as he bite into a sweet square of honeyed corn bread. "Damien seems to have really taken to cooking with you."
"Pfft, yeah, he didn't even complain when cleaning out the hens." the Chef poured herself a cup of cider, clinking her cup to Alfred's where it sat on the counter. Her boys mimicked the action with a bit more enthusiasm, spilling a small amount of the table. Conversation lulled for a time in the small room about light hearted topics. Alfred and Alexandera sharing tips on recipes when a phone hanging on the wall began to ring.
"Excuse me." Alfred moved to the phone, answering it with a polite, "Wayne Residence, Alfred speaking." His serene facial expression fell as he listened to the speaker. "Oh dear, allow me a moment, I'll alert him." Alfred hung the phone up, sighing softly.
"Problem?"
"Hmm? Oh no, no problem really, business matters for Master Wayne. I'll return shortly." With that, Alfred glided out the servants quarters, turning his way towards the dining room. Alexandera chugged her cider, fingers tapping the glass.
"Yoo 'kay, Chif?" Kyle asked, mouth over full of food. "Yoo figity" The goon had a worried look on his face.
"Yeah. Don't worry about it."
"Chef, you ain't never looked so... nervous." Gary piped up, while Marcus inclined his head towards Gary in agreement. The Chef rolled her eyes.
"I ain't nervous... I'm.. ansty."
"About?"
"Bunch of rich, stuck up Glitzies in there, eating my food..." The goons shared a look.
"Go sneak a peak, there's no harm in that." Kyle pulled a flask from his waistband, holding it out to the chef, which she took thankfully. Taking a swig of warm bourbon she hissed.
"You right. I'll be back." The chef walked back to her previous post, seeing Bruce Wayne turn the corner up ahead and out of her sight. Whatever that call was it must have been important. The chatter in the room was quieter than earlier but still she could hear some voices. Whispers that magically carried their way to her ears.
"The house looks beautiful!"
"Quite the turn out, isn't it?"
"Rebecca's dress is way too slutty for a party like this."
"This food is way too fatty for my diet."... Excuse me...
"It's such a... quaint menu."
"This looks like something my maid would cook. That's why she's my maid." Bitch!
"What's all this about donations. Isn't that what the Govenners for."
"Bruce would be such a catch, if it wasn't for his brats." Oh, hell no. The Chef tried to keep her anger in check, she wasn't getting paid by these assholes... But of course, there was always that one person...
"If Bruce wanted to help the poor, then he should've donated this food to those soup kitchens. Tastes like it should be there anyway."
"WHAT THE FUCK IS YA'LLS PROBLEM?!" The Chef swung around the corner, roaring with such ferocity that even those at the farthest end of the table jumped. "Ya'll eatin' free food, an' ya'll can't even be GRATEFUL!" The shocked looks of the upper class did nothing to curb the chef's anger.
"Excuse me, but who are you?" A particularly shiny women asked, wrist glittering with diamonds.
"I'm the fuckin' chef. The chef that worked for two days to make ya'lls asses food that yer eatin' for free!" The chef stomped cto the table, those closest to her leaning aside to make distance. "And here you Glitzies are, eating a free meal, supposed to be thinking of the less fortunate, while ya'll shit talk."
"Glitzies? Oooh, you're from downtown aren't you." Alexandera narrowed her eyes, not seeing who asked, not really caring.
"Bitch, I'm from the Narrows." A shocked gasp rose from the crowd, whether by her language or he admission to her home, the Chef didn't know.
"Bruce would never hire such..." A man started, only to have the blonde by his side, leaning over him threateningly.
"Fuckin' say it." The chef pointed towards the crowd. "You greedy motherfuckers don't know what ya'll are doing. I heard Wayne's little speech, but he was too fucking vague for yer asses. He's wants ya'll to help this shit hole of a city. Cuz ya'll never do anything to help. I ain't from Gotham and even I know why this time of year is so damn important to him."
"Oh yeah, why?" Someone challenged. Time to go in for the kill.
The Wayne sons were used to the high society gossip. They were used to the fake smiles and the double edged words. So when their father was called away for an important phone call, they locked eyes with each other. It was an unsaid agreement to not rise to the sharp words. They knew that if they intervened it would look bad on their father, and jeapordize the mission. The only reason half their guests even donated was to brag and one up the other. They hunkered down into their food, biding their time, riding out the storm until their father returned. They didn't expect a fury of a women to swoop in. Hair down and trailing her like a comet as her anger burned through the room, hotter than the squash that lay on several plate. Dick was shellshocked by her anger, Tim looked like her wanted to record what was happening on his phone, and Damien merely leaned back in his chair, watching his friend say what the Sons of Wayne had always wanted to say. Neither expected the next words from her mouth.
"You dumbfucks. Look over there." She was pointing in the sons direction, that was bad. They didn't want to be in the center of this. "See that fancy painting? That's Wayne's parents. His dead parents. His parents that died around this time of year!" Oh shit, she didn't just say that.
"I'm not even from Gotham, and even a street rat like me knows this shit. Ya'll so caught up in yer pissin' contests that you fucking missed the whole point of this dinner." The chef glanced down at Dick and Tim. Please don't... "Wayne fucking adopted two orphans like him, all cuz he probably felt just like them sitting in the blood of his parents. And here you all are..." The chef flipped the plate of someone near her, scaring the man who it belonged too. "Complaining about a little bit of butter. So here's what's gonna happen, ya'll gonna shut up and play nice for a night. Ya'll gonna eat the food me and my boys spent days makin', and when ya'll leave, throw on yer fake ass smiles, write a fucking blank check, and pretend yer decent fuckin' people." The chef crossed her arms, face red in anger as she glared won the inhabitants of the room.
"Why should we do that?" A popular model asked, sitting close to Damien. Damien tried not to roll his eyes.
"Bitch, like I said, I'm from the Narrows..." A truly twisted grin rose from the chef, "I got friends in very, very low places." It was a vague threat, but a threat nonetheless. Not waiting for a response, the blonde grabbed a glass of champagne from a random bystander, and walked out, leaving a stunned audience, and a grinning Damien. Lady Chef wasn't one to let an insult slide.
Vicki Vale loved a good story., no matter how scandalous it may be, and boy did she have a good scoop today.
'The Wayne fundraising dinner was a delight,' Vicki reported, smiling at camera two as she held onto her empty coffee mug. 'The manor was absolutely gorgeous, and the company was delightful. But the real star of the evening was the cook for the event. Her impassioned speech moved so many of us in ways we didn't expect. If my sources are right, and they always are, this was the most successful event Bruce had ever done. Far surpassing what he had hoped for. A chef from our very own city was the chef for the evening, and my guess this was something important to her. Whoever she is, her and her food was the star of the evening.'
Alexandera rolled her eyes, flipping a burger on her griddle, as her usuals howled with laughter at the t.v that was perched on a table. They got the real story from the chef herself, and found the spin on the story funny as hell. After her little episode, the chef stormed back to the servants quarter, as if nothing had happened. Because really nothing had happened., at least in her eyes. Wayne came back sometime later, and the guests rushed to give him money and checks, leaving in droves without the usual requests they might have given him. And Bruce was none the wiser, until Tim told him over the comm, as he swooped through the city on patrol. Even Damien chuckled as Tim retold what had happened, though the youngest Robin did have to clarify where his brother over exaggerated. Dick sheepishly avoided his father's eye, not wanting to out the chef. She didn't do anything too bad. Though her methods were a little volatile. Bruce sighed but said nothing. It had been a successful night...
And somewhere in the narrows, in a little diner that shone in bright colours in the grey of the city, filled to the brim with the worst criminals the city had to offer with laughter and howls, with delicious food flowing, a chef smiled at the brand new knife hanging from a magnet. It was a nice little souvenir from her night at Wayne Manor. Alfred would never notice it was missing.
Alfred couldn't find his favorite knife...