2019-06-07 - Culinary Evidence

It's after work on a Friday night, which for the boardwalk means it was a busy shift. It's unsurprising that Julia's here, taking advantage of the fact that she can get everything but the best fish and chips in town. And the fact that she doesn't have to smell it. Hair in a ponytail, she's still in her shorts and Fried Fish tee shirt, and has the faint smell of fry and fish grease about her. She's seated at the counter, digging into some pie and flicking her way through a book on an iPad.

Coming into the Grizzly, Michael glances around and walks up to the counter where the only available seat is. Taking a seat next to Julia, he flags down the waitress behind the counter when she wanders past and requests, "Coca-Cola, and the special, fries, medium," he wheels off and glances aside at the people nearby. For his part he is wearing a plain dark blue shirt and a pair of plain khaki pants, at his hip is a sidearm.

Julia glances aside at the man taking a seat next to her. "Officer Friendly." she greets with an easy smile, forking up a bit more of her marionberry pie. "Safe out there tonight?"

"Hello," Michael says with a smile back and looks her over, before turning his attention to the waitress as she comes over with his Coke. He strips the straw and drops it into his drink with a casual sort of ease, and thinks about her question, "The same as usual miss. Officer O'Malley," he introduces himself and taps the little name-plate on his shirt.

"Julia Velez." She raises her fork in greeting, inquiring, "Are you new? Most of the police in town stop by Fried Fish sooner or later, but I don't think I recognize you."

"I've been with the local PD about a month," Michael answers and adds, "Oh, and Michael, nice to meet you Julia, Ms. Velez," he says. Pulling the straw between his lips he sips at it mildly and sort of stares off into space for a moment or two. "So, 'the fried fish' is good?" he asks, and from that further deduces, "And you work there?" based on the fact that she was able to say he hadn't been there.

Julia shifts in her seat to present him with the front of her shirt; the name and location, along with the mermaid motif. "My family owns it. First responders get a free small popcorn shrimp once a day with ID. We're the best fish and chips in town, but if you want something a little different, ask for the chef special. They change every week, and it's usually something a bit more spectacular than fried seafood." Another bite of her pie. "New to Washington, or just Gray Harbor in particular?"

While he isn't sure that's strictly speaking legal, Michael isn't one to sit and rock the boat over popcorn shrimp. "Best in town, are there a lot of competitors?" he asks, not meaning it as an insult, just not sure how much of a brag it is to claim 'best' in Gray Harbor Washington. "I'm from Boston, so yeah, I'm new here, it's alright so far," he tells her, making some immediate judgments and sharing some of his initial impressions.

"Depends on how you look at it, I guess." says Julia with humor. "Some of the restaurants here do serve fish and chips, but we're on the boardwalk and we get our fish and seafood fresh daily. You'll find that most of these little towns along the Pac En Double-ewe coastline will have fish shacks a lot like ours. You can judge for yourself. What made you move out here? This must be so sleepy for you in comparison to Boston."

"Well, I got out of the Marines intact and went to college, finished that, and this was one of the three places that had an immediate opening and was willing to hire me on the spot. It was here, Detroit or middle of nowhere Nebraska," Mike explains idly as they sit there talking about fish spots and his choice to move here. "But yeah, it's a bit more sleepy than home," he confirms.

"Don't worry, we see our fair share of drugs, violence, and corruption." Julia says wryly. "So you won't wind up too homesick. It's basically like every sleepy town in every crime noir novel you've ever read - it all looks fine on the surface, but underneath there's definitely mud."

"Can you prove any of that?" Michael asks, only mildly interested. He expects most of what she is saying is second or third-hand and not from personal experiences. "And yeah, I'm sure like most places, there is business to be done in the interest of justice," he mentions. As he is thinking about that, the waitress comes over with his burger and fries and he sits there eating. "So, your parents run the place, what do you do exactly? Waiting tables? Cooking?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course not. But you don't have to take my word for it, you'll feel the mud squidging between your toes eventually." At the query, she seems amused, shaking her head. "You must think I'm eighteen or thereabouts? My grandparents established the shack, my father's out of the picture, my mother is on medical leave. I came back to town to run the place while she's recovering. I'm actually a chef." No, not a cook. A chef.

"Oh, fancy. And you're eating here? Wouldn't you rather make your own food? I feel like if I had the skills of a chef, I'd only ever make my own food," Michael surmises and looks her over when she asks about her age. "And yeah, you don't look old enough to be running your own restaurant. Where did you train?" he asks.

"Chef Apprentice School of the Arts in San Francisco. I got in when I was eighteen, I'm twenty-four now." she explains. "And sometimes, after a nine hour shift standing on my feet in front of a fryer, all I want is to sit down and have someone serve me some from scratch marionberry pie." She gestures to her plate with a flourish. "That's why there's a chef's special each week. So I don't lose my mind."

"Chef Apprentice School, that's an interestingly on the nose name, aren't they usually named something French sounding?" Michael isn't exactly teasing, but he's clearly having a bit of fun with it. He clearly doesn't know how to cook, so he's critiquing from a place of inferior knowledge. "That makes sense, I suppose, I mean, it doesn't apply to every profession, I wouldn't want to 'leave my security in the hands of someone else, but I can empathize. The pie is good then?" he asks, looking at her plate.

"The pie is good. Have you ever had marionberry? It's like a blueberry and a raspberry had a beautiful, delicious baby. They're native to the region." Julia affirms mock-solemnly, and then laughs. "That's okay. You don't exactly look grizzled yourself. But you're thinking of Cordon Bleu, am I right? Yeah, they're actually kind of a shit show. Most of their schools in North America have gone bankrupt. If you want proof of my abilities, I can always offer you dinner."

"Marrionberry, isn't that the name of a politician or something?" Michael questions and starts to pat around in his pockets for his phone, and pulling it out starts to Google that. "Is that what I was thinking of?" he questions and when she offers him food, he smiles at her. "That sounds nice, I mean, free popcorn shrimp, what's not to like, right?" he questions. "But you don't owe me proof, I'm just a potential customer, right?" he suggests.

"You're turning down a professional chef's offer to cook for you? Actual food, not what we make in the fryer. But suit yourself. The popcorn shrimp is pretty damn good. We have regular breading and spicy. The spicy is a recipe my abuelita brought with her from Cuba."

Julia seems relieved that he's not reading much into her offer, adding, "And you seemed very insistent on evidence, which is why I offered."

"I was? I didn't mean to be, maybe I'm still in cop-mode," Michael says with a laugh and smiles at her as he eats his burger. "And no, I'm not turning you down, but maybe when I come to your place, I'll let you know it's me, and you can do something then? And I'll pay, like a good customer," he is saying and stares down at the plate for a second as he adds a bit more ketchup to his plate. "So, what is your specialty then? Like, if you didn't have a restaurant with an established clientelle already, what would you open?"

"Well, farm-to-table is actually really interesting, but one day I'd like to open a little Cuban place. Maybe in Seattle. Most of the Latin American community in Washington is Mexican, so Cuban cuisine would be something different." Julia gets visibly engaged when talking about her career goals. "Although if you want to just come and pay, ask for the chef special of the week. It's usually something like ceviche, or a grilled spiced fish with cilantro and lime, you know - still street food, sure, but a little more interesting."

"See, now I feel like I want more evidence than that, but I'll take the chef's special as 'the evidence' if you think it's sufficient," Michael mentions with a grin and glances aside at her as he continues to finish off his burger and fries. "What's the biggest difference between Cuban and Mexican?" he asks, not really familiar with the differences.

Julia lets out a laugh at that. "That is not a simple question!" she declares. "I don't know how to explain to you just how complicated it is. I mean, sure, some of the staples are similar, but the flavor profiles, the spices used, they go in different directions. Cuba has a lot of tropical flavors, and Mexico leans a little more agrarian, maybe closer to surf and turf style. But Cuba's just an island, and Mexico is a big place, with a wide variety of regions and flavors. But I mean...the closest thing I can try to equate it to for you is that even though they're all American, people in New York and people in Boston have different cultures, right? It works that way with Latin American countries. Don't ever assume because you hear someone speaking Spanish they must automatically be from Mexico. Hell, just because two people are speaking Spanish to each other, don't assume they have the same country in their background." Which...might actually be helpful tip when it comes to dealing with locals.

"So, if they're that different and complicated, how are consumers going to identify the difference? I mean, I'm sure the people from those cultures know the difference, but I'd have no idea how to tell the difference myself if I were trying to recommend it.. in the case I ever try it," Michael mentions with a smile and looks at her for a moment as he finishes off his burger and fries.

"You're overthinking it, Mike." Julia mock-chides. "You hush up and finish your food." Digging into her purse, she pulls out her wallet and lays down smome cash for her pie. "And when it's my turn to feed you, I get to grill you with questions the way you just did me. Or worse, I'll set my abuelita on you." God save him from Cuban grandmas.

"Probably," Mike concedes and nods at her words. "I mean, I'd be glad to meet your abuelita," he mentions with a laugh and rises to his feet when she does, paying for his own food with a quick gesture, pulling his cash out of his wallet with a definitive quick little gesture.

"Oh, everyone loves her. But she could make a gold shield detective tremble with the force of her dedication to inquisition. You wouldn't stand a chance." Anyway," she slings her purse over her shoulder, "See you later, Mike."