log - too tired for title whee - closed to B1 and A4, open to those likely to wander by

[conning]

Who: B1: Closed to Neal and residents; A4: open to B1 and those who wish to poke their heads in because socializing and open doors
When: Early September--on a Sunday and then the following Wednesday. Why the following Wednesday? Idk man I just picked something.
Where: B1 on Sunday, and A4 on Wednesday IG???
Summary: Meredith invited Neal to visit, and Neal suggested making it a mingle for both apartments. Then Malcolm invited Neal over and Neal decided to do a solo trial run or something like that.
Warnings: Not at the moment. except possibly meredith giving neal a shovel talk


B1 - SUNDAY

Okay, well, he meant to make it simple. But then he got carried away, because that's who he is as a person. So here is Neal managing two coolers, one slightly smaller than the other. He has to set one down in order to knock on the door.

The coolers themselves contain tiny servings of about a dozen different dishes, from tiny seasoned steak slices of varying doneness to little onigiri stuffed with lightly salted salmon. If it's stupidly elaborate, feel free to assume there is some dressed-down (read: locally available) version available in miniature.

The other cooler has small bottles of cheap wine and those little paper cups that barely hold a mouthful. He sets the wines with the foods that pair best.

Look this is who he is as a person, okay? At least he's dressed normally--turquoise sweater, close-cut jeans.

[ SUPPLY ACTIVITIES AS YOU WISH, both with Neal and each other. ]


B1/A4/Passerby - FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY

Okay, so the tiny food was a bit much. Only God can judge him.

At least this time it's a plain old cook-out with a grill on the patio of A4. Yes, the grill items include salmon, chicken, and... tofu in several marinades including citrus-chipotle.

Only God can judge him.

There's also a spread of perfectly ordinary salad-shaped objects and tiny pickles et cetera inside on the kitchen counter.

[ SUPPLY ACTIVITIES AS YOU WISH, both with Neal and each other. ]

Comments

[conning]

Neal sets the little plate down again. It's not polite for the chef, host, whatever role he's serving, to eat what someone else at the gathering can't.

"A couple." He pauses, studying Malcolm with his head slightly tilted. "Is it the pork or the plum or the rice you can't do? I can guide you away from things that won't sit well."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks uncomfortable. He’s afraid he’s going to offend.

“I just… find pork and beef…” Well, there are a lot of things about pork and beef that don’t sit well with him. “Nauseating.”

[conning]

"No problem," Neal says, not missing a beat or really reacting at all to the declaration. "Do you lean more vegetarian, pescatarian, pollotarian? Or is it more of a texture and density thing?"

He's already studying the other things on offer, looking for something suitable.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm just looks at him for a second. That’s it? He’s still standing here. Close enough to smell good, if he lets himself notice that, which he definitely doesn’t. Be cool.

And say something.

“Texture and density,” he finally manages.

[conning]

"My friend Mozzie insists he can't even have lactose around something he wants to eat. A little melodramatic, but better than the alternative."

He picks out a pair of tiny plates, offering one in each hand, wiggling each as he says what it is. "Slightly improvised truffle cream on brioche toast--had to substitute a Grana Padano taste-alike for the fresh truffles, but it's not bad. Or soy and butter poached halibut with pickled apples."

[abrightboy]

He considers them both.

"I'll try the halibut," he says, reaching for it. He pops it in his mouth. It's nice. Light. "That's good; thank you."

[conning]

Neal enjoys it when people like what he cooks. When people like things that he does. Most of the time it's a breezy smile and a thank you and that's that, but there are times when someone he actually wants to impress enjoys something, and those times. Well. There's a certain self-depreciation he can't help, a kind of pleased attempt to dismiss the compliments as unnecessary.

The way he kind of ducks his head with a real smile gives it away every time. "There's a couple other fish dishes you could try. One chicken, and it occurs to me that I should have made more poultry options."

[abrightboy]

“Oh! No. I mean. No, I like chicken, yeah, but three or four of these is probably the most I can manage in an evening, so… great variety is probably… a little wasted on me,” he admits. He takes a swallow of the wine Neal had offered. “The wine, on the other hand, is terrible. I’ll have another,” he says with a teasing smile, holding out his cup.

[conning]

Neal grins at that. Smart, curious, frank, and funny.

No.

He really needs to spend a night on the town or something.

Still, he fills Malcolm's cup with a reasonable serving and then tops off his own with that same decorous amount, turning it so he can look at the label. "Vidal Blanc circa... probably two months ago. An excellent vintage."

[abrightboy]

“Two whole months ago. That’s maybe five weeks of barrel aging. That must be where it picked up the faint notes of pine sap and galvanized steel,” he supposes. “A treat for the palate.”

[conning]

"I'm thinking they sloshed it around a few times, left it in the sun for a bit," he says sagely, hovering his nose over his own cup to take a whiff. "Definitely worth the eight dollars it went for."

[abrightboy]

“I’d have gone as high as ten if the label has a pretty picture on it,” Malcolm tells him with faux haughtiness. But then he laughs and looks at the cup, turning it this way and that.

“I think a better wine would be… not very this place,” he declares, looking up at Neal.

[conning]

Neal lifts his shoulders in a prolonged shrug. "Life shrinks or expands in proportion with one’s imagination. I think Anaïs Nin might object to my misquoting, but the sentiment is still true."

[abrightboy]

The thought sobers Malcolm a little and he takes a sip of wine before gesturing to the table.

“So… what did you bring with chicken?”

i'm too lazy to research this rn ok

[conning]

Neal points it out, explaining the ingredients, his substitutions, the dish's history, where he learned it. (This one in a little town outside of Berlin.) He can't help it, once he gets going. He loves talking about these things, and Malcolm has already proved himself an interested audience.

It’s always ok

[abrightboy]

And he follows the explanation, rapt, until it’s over and he picks one up, popping it in his mouth, nodding appreciatively.

“I can taste the gouda.”

[conning]

The expression on Malcolm's face as he listens gives Neal that giddy little flutter he's been trying very, very hard to ignore.

He samples a serving of the chicken himself, trying to think of something to say. He doesn't have trouble with small talk, but small talk doesn't feel right. They've already shared something heartbreaking. Backpedaling from there seems... wrong, somehow.

"It's been nice, in Paris, refreshing some of my skills. There were things in New York that were harder for me to get. Definitely some techniques I wanted to try that I couldn't with the equipment available."

[abrightboy]

“What sort of equipment did you have there that you couldn’t find in New York?” he asks curiously.

[conning]

Off he goes again, talking about specially designed equipment that achieves very specific textures or flavoring effects.

Half-way into explaining something that uses liquid nitrogen to flash-freeze desserts, he stops abruptly. “You don’t have to listen to all this.”

Does Neal look a little awkward for the first time, a little embarrassed? Maybe.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm, who was listening intently, blinks at the interruption.

“…Oh. Well. Can I anyway?” he asks.

neal, internally: FFFFFFFF--

[conning]

Neal gathers a breath to answer, taking a moment to steady himself, and then says, "What about you? You spotted me out there, profiled me, worked with the FBI for years. You consult now. What do you do for fun?"

[abrightboy]

“You just listed them all,” he jokes, then relents. “Okay, um. I collect antique weapons. I play squash recreationally. I throw axes competitively. I… read. Mostly about psychology and murder and the psychology of murder.”

[conning]

"You throw axes." It's both interested and incredulous. "I can hardly critique your reading when most of mine is history or art or the history of art. What kind of weapons?"

[abrightboy]

“All kinds. Blades mostly, but not exclusively. I have a morning star from the thirteenth century. And a collection of broad bladed axes of varying age and provenance that I occasionally throw,” he admits.

[conning]

"Battle axes or hewing?" Yes, Malcolm, he is very clearly and genuinely interested.