2019-12-23 - Caveat Emptor Doesn't Work Here..

It's been a week or so since the silent auction, and Corey is finally settling down to the task of calling the buyer of his auction item; a three course meal for two. Normally this would be something he does with a casual ease, but the buyer is his boss. His boss who is known for his cultured palate and perfectionism. So it takes the student chef a few moments to compose himself, then he's dialling the numbers. Ring, ring.

Good to prepare before the dialing, because it doesn't ring long before a familiar voice inquires, "Hello?" No doubt Vyv knows precisely who it is -- or at least whose number it is -- given phone displays, but it sounds precisely as it would if he didn't.

"Bonsoir, Chef," Corey greets politely, sounding calm and collected. Sounding is the operative word there. "I was wondering if you've got some time to discuss the auction package you won, last week?" Short, sweet and to the point, so he's not wasting Vyv's time if he's busy.

"Ah, yes. Bonsoir, Mr. Jones." There's a pause, Vyv perhaps taking stock of his schedule or whatever he'd had planned for the near future before he says, "Yes, I believe I could fit that in. I'm just about finished here."

Nodding, then realising Vyv can't see that response, Corey voices, "Okay, good. Would you like to come to me, or shall I meet you somewhere?" he asks, and then assuming that he'll be the one travelling adds, "I can come to the shop or your apartment, whatever suits."

"Well, I'm at the shop, but I was just finishing up," Vyv replies. Generally speaking, it's a good assumption that he's going to expect Corey -- or most people -- to come to him, but this particular time, there's another small pause, and a note of curiosity in, "As I haven't actually got round to implanting a tracking device in your arm yet, perhaps we could begin by establishing where you actually are?"

There's a slightly apologetic sound from Corey - not quite a word, but a sound nonetheless. "I'm at home; I live on Oak Avenue. Number seven." Of course, Vyv could've looked that up once he'd confirmed where he was, but let's not make the head chef do any more pointless admin, right?

The shop, Oak, and Bayside make a triangle, with Bayside being nearly the middle point. If Vyv was intending to head home, it's definitely out of his way; the most logical option would be meeting at his own place. But maybe he has other business out that way -- or maybe he's just in a particularly inquisitive mood. It's not as though he has many other reasons he might drop by, after all. And the streets between the three are the ones that get cleared first and best. Otherwise it's unlikely he'd decide, "I'm already out, so I suppose I might as well. Seven, mm? I'll be there shortly."

Oh, shit. Vyv is coming here? It's just as well that the housemates of #7 Oak are reasonably tidy and clean - because if the Maître Pâtissier is nearby, Corey has mere minutes to do a quick whip-around for any dirty plates or such. "Sure thing, Chef," he agrees perhaps just a half-note too cheerfully. "See you soon." Then he hangs up, and begins a world-record-breaking sprint around the downstairs of the house, looking for anything out of place or untoward. Other than the lamps, anyway.

Let this be a lesson: never give an option if it might result in sudden half-panicked fits of cardio. At least, not if they'd be on your part. But so it is that, perhaps fifteen minutes later -- snow's on Corey's side here, even with the streets cleared -- a dark green vintage Jaguar convertible (top currently up, obviously) parks and disgorges the chef in question. He's properly attired for the weather, except for the hat that would be more than reasonable, and picks his way carefully through whatever paths exist in the snow toward the porch, to ring the bell.

It is perhaps fortunate that Corey keeps himself in decent shape; by the time Vyv gets here, any offending articles have been cleared away - or at least hidden - and he's had the chance to change out of his lounging-around-the-house gear. It's not a huge step up, because he's wearing black jeans and a grey t-shirt with 'Just Roux It' on, and a ladle drawn in the style of the Nike 'swoosh'. But hey, it's tidy, and he didn't make the mistake of wearing the 'Prick with a Fork' one that was grabbed first.

So it is that when the winter-swaddled Maître Pâtissier arrives, things are calm. Corey opens the door when he sees the jaguar pull up, and yes the path has been semi-recently cleared, so the footing is decent. "Welcome to my home, chef," he greets, stepping back to invite the older man in. "Can I get you a cup of tea, or some other refreshment?"

The house is bigger than Vyv might have imagined, though the mention of Oak might have been a warning on that. It's not a large town, and he's been here long enough to have a grasp on the neighbourhoods. It of course gets an assessing look as he approaches, because really, virtually everything does. This includes both Corey and the interior of the house, as he steps in, gaze passing critically over the furniture he can see from where he is, probably cataloguing each scuff and flaw, and catching inevitably on Howard the Ducklamp. It gets an arched brow, and then a momentary smirk. "Mm. Not quite a gooseneck lamp," he observes as he draws off his gloves and gets to unbuttoning the camel coat.

"Thank you. Tea would be lovely." The t-shirt gets a tiny upward flicker at one corner of his mouth, and, "Do you also have one that says 'You'll roux the day you crust me'?" Is it improved any by the fact that he asks it in a purely curious tone, with no overt indication it might be a joke? Gloves go in pockets, scarf hung with the coat wherever such things appear to belong, and he's left in a brown donegal tweed three-piece suit with a white shirt and a silk paisley tie, its dark brown background barely visible under the pattern in its tones of tan and yellow and orange and blue. There's a plaid pocket square in the same colour scheme. Snow days are no excuse to lower one's standards.

The house is big - how the heck can a student afford this? By having three housemates; there is evidence of a number of styles and tastes in the way of furniture and decor, but it seems to hang together well enough. "Hm? Oh, that's just Howard," Corey observes as Vyv makes the gooseneck comment, a brief grin surfacing through the nerves. It would seem that the lamps are at least in part his doing, and he's proud of them. "No, but that's going on the list," he then decides with regards to the suggestion of a t-shirt; he does have an immense collection of cooking and baking shirts after all, and it would be a shame to miss that one.

He leads the way through towards the kitchen, trying hard not to look like he's watching his guest's assessing gaze. Being students, pretty much everything in the lounge and nook is second hand, so scuffs and wear and stains are par for the course, though everything is at least clean and tidy. Then into his domain, and he heads over to put the kettle on, motioning to the table in the adjacent nook as a suggestion for Vyv to make himself comfortable. There is, one might note, the aroma of recent baking activities lingering; clearly he doesn't slouch on his days off.

Arguably, quite a lot of Vyv's own furnishings could be described as second-(at least)-hand. On the other hand, they could also generally be described as 'antique' or at least 'expensively vintage', which is not quite the same family as college-student-thrift-store. Still, it's possible he takes likely-available-options into consideration, isn't it? If Corey is indeed watching that gaze, he might notice that the places things hang together particularly well, even if they're a bit worn, get slightly more attention... and the ones where they do it worst or there are stains, do as well. Many people would not catch the nuances between one glance and the other. Many people do not work in Vyv's kitchen. The clearest reactions are to the lamps they pass: another flicker of faint amusement for Adam & Steve, a faintly disapproving look for Black Betty, and mild horror for Rave Jesus. "I hope that one's someone's art class project," he says dryly, "though I hesitate to ask the grade."

Nothing else draws immediate comment, though when they enter the kitchen -- well, if part of the place is getting a passing grade itself, Corey's domain is surely the one to pick, yes? Baking smells are promising, and this room is clearly where effort's been spent. He can appreciate that. "How do you find this layout?" he inquires, moving toward the table and pulling out a chair, settling there to... watch Corey make tea. Very relaxing, surely.

"Not a class project, but my sister is pretty arty. Apparently this house needs Jesus, but he's got to be ready to party all the same," Corey explains with a lazy smile, sorting out a cup of tea in accordance with the preferences Vyv has expressed at work, and bringing it over. Along with the drink is a small plate with three sablés on, the traditional cross-hatch pattern pressed into the tops.

"I like it, actually; it's got a good triangle workflow," he muses, motioning to the sink, stovetop and fridge, all on different walls. "And lots of counter space." Fetching himself a glass of orange juice, he then settles down at right-angles to his guest, a small notepad and pencil already on the table top for note-taking with.

"Well, at least there's a rationale, I suppose," Vyv says, glancing back toward the lamp in question resides, even -- maybe especially -- if it isn't actually visible from where he sits, "and I'm sure if the original dropped by he'd be inclined to turn the other cheek." 'So that he can't see it' is carried only by the tone, but so's faint amusement again.

"Ta," he says as the tea and biscuits are brought, and studies them for a moment as he sips the tea. Unlike the lamp, it meets with approval. A glance to follow the triangle gesture, and he nods, satisfied with that answer, before picking up one of the cookies and breaking it lightly in half to glance at the inside. There are, clearly, no answers coming until the questions are actually asked. That would be too easy!

There's a brief grin as Vyv accepts the explanation for Rave Jesus, and Corey muses, "Possibly, Sparrow just likes a lot of colour. The basement is painted up in all sorts of shades, she's got a whole mural thing going on." He sounds proud of his twin, even if he's not the arty sort himself.

The biscuit snaps easily, crumbling with a faint whiff of almond. Just a touch of flavouring. Or cyanide, but that would be an extreme way of getting out of cooking, right? So it's probably just flavouring. "So, the three course meal for two," Corey murmurs after a sip from his orange juice. "Did you buy it with an event or particular company in mind, do you have any thoughts on what you'd like to have served?" He opens his notebook, but doesn't write anything down just yet.

"Mm." Vyv likes colour. He just likes colour to behave. It should hang about with appropriate other shades and with neutrals that let it pop, not simply be deployed willy-nilly! He does not at this time ask to see the basement.

He focuses instead on the sablé, appraising the crumb before he takes a bite from one of the halves. It melts appropriately in his mouth, which leads to a quietly pleased expression, and the eating of the remainder of that half. "No, no particular event," he says, taking another sip of tea. "And I suppose either Hyacinth or Ginger." A beat of consideration. "Probably Hyacinth." Predicting what details might bother his cousin seems like a lot of work.

"As far as what's served..." A small smile, identifiable as such, and he quirks a brow, "I want to see what you'll choose if left to your own devices. What's the best meal you can make?" A beat. "I don't mean tell me which things you're most adept at," he adds, with a small, vague gesture. "I want to see what you can do."

And he takes a bite of the other half of that sablé. "Which butter did you work with?" He likely has at least a strong suspicion.

It's probably a good thing that Corey has no strong opinions about colour, living as he does with an artist who enjoys using pretty much every shade in whatever combination makes sense to her at the time. He's usually dressed in monochrome, maybe with a dark blue or green now and then, suggesting he's fairly unadventurous when it comes to hue and shade. "Okay," he murmurs, then tilts his head slightly at Vyv. "Do you or Hyacinth have any food allergies or strong dislikes?"

The question about the butter draws his smile back. "French. I try not to make the same mistake twice," he comments, suggesting he has indeed made that mistake before and regretted it. "Those are half of an experiment - almond works, though it's not exactly groundbreaking. Calamansi does not - to get enough of the flavour, you get too much of the sour. Still, lessons learned."

As long as he's appropriately adventurous when it comes to food. "Pine nuts," he answers, without specifying which of them that's an issue for, "otherwise, not that I'm aware of." A faint smile. He's not including a strong dislike for poorly done food on both their parts. That can be taken as read. And of course he knows that.

The butter gets an approving nod, though it must have been fairly clear already. "Yes," he says, considering the the mentioned experience. "Marmalade or a curd might work, though it would likely need to be the center of a sandwich rather than actually within the cookie. More concentrated flavour, easier to modulate the sourness. But... not quite the same, no." He might end up thinking on it more. Could be an interesting challenge.

"The next step was going to be to try them half dipped in dark chocolate, with calamansi flavouring in the chocolate," Corey admits. It may not work, but experimentation is it's own reward. "Alright. No pine nuts. Where will the meal be taking place?" he then asks, needing to take into account available kitchen space and potential need to transport things prepared beforehand.

He scribbles a few things down on his notepad, lips pursing for a moment as he considers ideas.

"A good thought," Vyv says, "A caramel might also be interesting." He picks up another of the biscuits and has another sip of the tea, considering Corey. "My place, I think," he says, "...or perhaps Hya's. Hmm." This necessitates some thought. Is he all right with giving Corey sufficient run of his kitchen? Things would be there and adequate. Corey would understand where things ought to be. But it does mean someone else using his kitchen. On the other hand... has Hya's kitchen ever even been used? Making drinks doesn't count. A very faint sigh. "Mine, I think. At least you won't need a u-haul to be sure you've got the necessary tools. And my ovens are accurate."

It is a dilemma. Corey has banned his housemates from doing anything more complicated than cereal and hot drinks in this kitchen, because god only knows what they'd end up doing to his pans and knives, not to mention things being put in the wrong place. He nods as Vyv decides on the side of his own kitchen despite this, looking faintly relieved. He's seen it, he knows it's more than adequate to the task.

"In fairness, one of the nicest meals I've ever made is a sourdough grilled cheese with gouda, cheddar and mozzarella, with home-made tomato soup. Only takes basic equipment. So I figure I'd cope, but it is nice not to have to," Corey allows with another lazy smile. He figures this meal admission is probably not going to meet with approval - but then again, he's confident in his cooking. It probably did taste damned good, for grilled cheese.

Vyv is not thrilled with the idea of Someone Else in His Kitchen. But sacrifices have to be made in one direction or another, and right now that seems like the simplest one. Only time will tell whether he regrets that. He half-smiles at the description of the meal, giving a small inclination of his head and asking the most important question: "Did you make the sourdough?" Is this the important issue for whether or not he approves? Possibly. But at least grilled cheese (with three proper cheeses and home-made soup) is not inherently unreasonably declasse.

The question gets a brief, slightly surprised laugh from Corey. "I did not," he admits, shaking his head slightly. "It was somewhat short notice, so I went with what I had in." So by that notion, he must regularly stock a variety of cheese? Well, it wouldn't be the strangest habit. "Maybe I'll bake some sourdough and reprise it for you and your fellow diner," he then adds, his tone suggesting he's jesting, albeit lightly. "Finally, when would you like this to be done?"

There are much weirder things to stock than multiple varieties of cheese. Vyv probably has several in his fridge himself! The answer gets a "Mn," as though maybe Corey ought to have been prepared with sourdough at all times, but alas, the world is not a perfect place and it's far too late to fix it now. "Shame. But for an emergency grilled cheese and soup, it sounds a good solution." He sips the tea, giving no indication whatsoever whether there might have been humour in that or not, and considers for a few moments. "The night of a day you're not scheduled, before another you're not. Next Sunday, perhaps?"

"Sunday 29th? Yeah, that works," Corey confirms with a nod, jotting the date down and circling it. "I wouldn't usually ask this, but. Do you want to preview and approve the menu before I gather the ingredients?" Normally, it would be entirely his prerogative, secure in the knowledge that he's a lot more knowledgeable about food than whoever he's cooking for. Just.. not this time. So the offer is made, and he's in two minds as to which answer he'd prefer.

Vyv considers the question -- and considers Corey, over the rim of the cup. Some might find it unsettling; like he's looking for something, trying to read something in the younger man's expression or mien. "Mm," does not answer in any useful way, but a second or two later, "...No. I think I'd rather be surprised." This likely does not seem like a sentence he probably says much. A sip of tea, and a tiny smile. "So surprise me, aspiring research and development chef." Brows lift slightly, and he takes a bite of the second sablé. No further comment on them, but that is two.