1965-01-14 - What Crepe?
Summary: These are not crepes, they're abominations that a scientist gets to dissect.
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remy-lebeau vesper 


Remy had a long night. He attempted to burgle a competitor's private safe, only to find that said competitor was home instead of out to dinner with a lady friend as the Cajun had been told. After a brief scuffle and a long, ungraceful descent (see: carefully controlled fall) he opted to get thoroughly drunk and check into a cheap hotel.

Cut to five hours later. It's late morning and he's already called Vesper to ask her for a breakfast date. He's chosen an unlikely locale, primarily due to the potency of his hangover.

The diner is less than perfect, but for him it seems to fit the moment. It's below he and Vesper's pay grade in many ways, which means slept-in clothes and an extra layer of stubble don't attract much notice. Neither does adding a liberal dose of bourbon to his coffee via a silver flask, though nimble hands make light work of a task like that.

Vesper counts as busy in every sense of the word. Lock into the Attilan Core to pursue hardcore computations? Check. Document required work for NYU? Check. Read through the latest events she has nothing to do with in the newspaper and reconsider getting out more? Yes, there are a few circled in black felt-tipped pen. There shall be plans! Plans only if the weather refuses to be miserable.

Hangover breakfasts are lost on her. Call it a plus of being able to metabolise high quantities of calories and alcohol. Regardless, calling her out to the back end of nowhere — Queens — calls for relying on more than busses and subways. Forget it. Remy has to deal with that purring beast pulled right up in front of the diner. Other vehicles, larger and clunkier, slink away in their spots. If this were Toon Town, they'd be fox whistling or their wobbly chrome bumpers drawn up as they weep oil from their headlights. Sleek, slope-backed, this thing screams fast more than anything else. A door opens and out steps the girl in a black sweater dress belted around her hourglass waist. She shuts it and saunters in, almost as glossy as the finish on Germany's second-finest export.

French chic, make that sticky menu and the dull-eyed waitresses double-take. She walks into the diner trailing a light air of jasmine blossoms on a background of deeper fragrances, one tobacco, another whispering spices of an exotic Persian garden. And that's the girl sitting across from Remy LeBeau a few moments later, keys jingling on her extended finger in lieu of a cigarette.

"Stop being so industrious," The thief insists. He massages the bridge of his nose, but isn't able to completely dispel a headache. Then again, that's what the coffee is for. He takes a medicinally large drink, then sets it back down and produces a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes from somewhere inside his coat. Unlike Vesper, he feels the need to smoke. Right now he needs to indulge in every vice he can think of. One is shook free, then he goes in search of matches. He comes up with one that had been floating around loose, which he unceremoniously strikes on the edge of the table.

Once he's properly lit, he takes a draw and then sets the cigarette aside in an ashtray. "I take the liberty of ordering us crepes," he says. "A taste of home, non? Well," he quickly glances around the diner. "Maybe."

Coffee really holds little fascination for anyone who knows its chemical signature. But scientists live off the swill. Vesper takes hers black without the adulteration of cream and sugar in a jar that hasn't been changed since it precipitated out of the ancient path. A bit of chipping with a fork frees up a sufficient chunk for whatever other purpose she has. She pours a bit into the water glass and stirs it up until the solution is properly dissolved and mixed. "Ask for a lemon and drink that. It will help." How does she know how to deal with hangovers?

Her legs cross under the table, the sticky vinyl booth barely worthy of contact. The brunette avoids touching anything if she can help it, but levitation comes hard. "You are a true hero, Monsieur LeBeau. A surprise, when they come."

Remy picks the glass up and peers at the contents curiously. "Unorthodox, but now I'm curious."

Luckily, they don't have to wait long for the crepes to arrive, such as they are. The order consists of several plates; some are overcooked enough that they resemble toasted tortillas. Others are so soft and spongy that the filling has begun to burst through. And the filling. A bastardized array of strawberry jam, grape jelly, chocolate syrup, and caramel ice cream sauce, all topped with entirely too much whipped cream.

""I…" the Cajun seems a bit distressed, but whatever he was about to say is stifled by a withering glare from the waitress. "Ahem. Look so lovely. Uh. Can I have some lemon, mademoiselle?"

Sugar water works for hummingbirds, why not hangovers? Replenishing the body's dehydrated state and raising blood sugar has an effect. "More palatable than other choices," says Vesper. Her hands rest in her lap once she has arranged everything to her liking. The desire to rise from the sticky seat increases. Piles of plates showing up curb the ambition. A chestnut brow hitches higher in limited inquiry, but one never questions the ordering party. Remy is safe for a moment.

"You are hungry, I hope," she replies blithe and proper at the waitress. Manners are her shield why the Cajun faces losing his head for insulting the tired, grey-haired woman ready to murder them both. "This is… very American. An experience for me, I think. Where do we begin?" The crepes she knows can be held in her hands. These might sink a battleship.

Once the somewhat haggard-looking waitress reaches a safe distance, Remy turns a critical on on the 'crepes.' "This not right," he mourns. "And it's definitely… What the hell is it, anyway? It isn't crepes."

He picks up a spoon and nudges an oversoft specimen around on its plate, which causes it to split and ooze a bit of jam. He's rescued from further comment or commitment by the arrival of his lemon. This, at least, looks potable. It seems natural to squeeze the lemon into his glass. With a now-or-never swoop, he picks up the glass and downs several swallows.

"I've had worse things in my mouth," he admits. "Much worse. But it tastes like it'll work."

"This," poked at by a fork, "is a mattress covered in dessert." They should be most unamused. The tines sink in uncomfortably and bleed out jelly, a violet spurting in the breached dam. She recoils in the seat, straightening up. "I think it is still alive." Another person might proceed to wildly cut to reveal the strawberry preserved organs below, but not the scientist in living detail there. Her slice will be precise, marked further down to see whether she can displace the arterial spray without shooting Remy in the face. Mostly. There will be a smug smile if he gets in front of a bursting gush, though.

Who eats such things? She isn't nose to plate, however, though the critical assessment requires surgery. Biology is her field, genetics an offshoot of biochemistry. Though no surgeon, the Gallic woman risks the integrity of her reputation and that fitted sweater dress to begin. First, napkins laid out to avoid being ruined. "You need more of these. No telling what might come out. I wish I had a scalpel and a gas burner." A bunsen burner, by any other name. "What bad things have you eaten? Tell me your worst. I already know the best."

Remy is staying at as much of a safe distance as their limited table space will allow. Experimentally, he pokes a crepe with his knife. It's one of the overcooked ones; the knife rebounds off of it, but not before the pressure pushes runny chocolate out of both ends. "Yuck," he says, at his most eloquent when hung over and presented with a mockery of food.

Shaking his head, he pushes the plate away where it can be added to the rest of Vesper's test subjects, though the mention of the best and worst things he's eaten does draw out a knowing laugh and smile. "I have a friend, he live on the West side. He make jambalaya. Not only does this fool not know Cajun from Creole, he make it with Polish sausage, of all things."

Yuck. How charming. This warrants a shy smile out of Vesper, distracted as she attempts to discover how mixed the caramel syrup and jam are with other unmentionable substances. A spoon soon enters the fray to open a gaping wound, albeit directed away from her own face just in case Remy decides to punch the odd wiggle within the crepe possibly indicative of a spasming organ still in its death throes. "I cannot decide the origins of this. Whether it came out of a fridge or a jar. Was the jar one of Livingstone's specimens?"

Terrible comfort, that. His expression being so dark brings a pause to the thought processes, hitched back on Polish sausage. "Is there a difference? Of Cajun or Creoloe other than spice?" Oh ignorance! But he knows her to have lived sheltered in a near nunnery for aeons, where books on Louisiana probably originate from the era of Louis XVII. "Did she give this to you because you are different?" We being not the indicative factor; hers is a hidden mutation until it's not.

No, the mischevous prince of thieves seems to have concluded his own experiments. Whatever they're looking at, the look on his face clearly states that he's not about to ingest it.

"You're positively adorable, mimi. How to describe? Creole is city people food. Fancy. And more tomatoes." He shrugs, as if to say 'to each their own.' "S'not bad, but s'not Cajun. Good Cajun cooking is what country folk and river rats like myself love so much. More rustic. Soulful." He lets out a small, wistful noise. "Makes me miss home."

"City people food, and Cajun is… rat?" Her confusion on this point begs to be explained. A wrinkle of her nose is pronounced for a moment. Vesper sits back and she puts aside her unwelcome serviettes, those napkins piled up with a spattering of jam and more of the inky caramel. "I could make some, maybe. Do you know how to? They have recipes, cookbooks? It cannot be so hard. If Julia can master French…" Then she can master anything. Hellooooo!

Forget all that food. She slides out from the booth and holds out her hand. "Let's find something lighter. Fresh air?"

"Cajun food isn't rat. Just people like me who eat it." Remy smiles, stands, and takes Vesper's hand in his. "I show you. We make etouffee. It means 'smothered.' Very delicious, no rats involved."

A few crisp bills are tossed out onto the table; more than enough to cover their 'meal' plus a generous tip. "You're right," he mutters as they leave. "That was very… American."

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