The unlikely pair made their way to the mess hall. Chanteloup found Vertiga's company to be pleasant, now that the initial and mutual gauging had been completed. Just like two predators deciding that the other isn't worth the effort, she thought, piggybacking on the mention of the Chiwi bird, and imagined a neon-coloured shark with long hair and a sly smile. She laughed at Vertiga's "Thanks for the war, I guess?" remark much louder than it was worth, because she couldn't get that image out of her head. It was a truly genuine, humorous and throaty laugh. She usually had few of those, and never in such circumstances. She looked at Vertiga, a tear in her eye, still giddy.
"Ah... Sorry, that's... That was an unexpected twist. Hehe. Cats." She wasn't sure the situation could get any more awkward, and she reflected back to those meetings with the Grand Maréchal, before she forcibly replaced him. Good times.
Just as she recovered, they arrived at the hall's entrance, where an average sized, thin man in dress uniform welcomed them with practiced obsequiosity.
"Amiral de Chanteloup. Monsieur Vertiga. Bienvenue à la Rotonde. Suivez-moi, je vous prie" he said, and made an ample gesture to beckon them into following. They passed a large wooden sign with "LA ROTONDE" written on it. Surmising that Vertiga was or would be confused soon, Chanteloup took the initiative.
"You've probably never eaten in a Gallic warship or station, monsieur Vertiga. I'd remember. You're now entering what is perhaps the most traditional of all places in Gallia. Not only is the food what you would expect, there is an armada of traditions surrounding the practice of eating in a naval mess hall... Each of them, no matter how humble, must be named, for one thing. Furniture and cutlery obey to elevated standards : silverware and fine woods are a given. And the maître d'hôtel, whom we're following just now, is the master of the premises. He'll see to your every need while you're here, no matter how petty. Because you're my guest, and because I'm this station's guest. He is, I suppose, much like your kitchen robots (those words tasted bitter in her mouth and it showed) but with more... Or rather less... Ah, you know what, you're free to pester and test him, but do so at your own risk."
They entered a small room with wooden panels and various paintings depicting naval scenes. They included ancient age of sail vessels, Sol-era surface ships, and more recent spacecrafts from Gallic history. One wooden panel read, in gold letters, HONNEUR ET PATRIE, and another, opposite, predictably read "VALEUR ET DISCIPLINE". At the maître's invitation, they sat to their designated, luxurious wooden seats around an oval table, much too large for the two of them. There were three other similar tables next to them, all empty. The maître d'hôtel disappeared once they sat.
"Welcome to the Carré officiers of Cordes, monsieur Vertiga. It's modest and cramped, but the offerings should be acceptable." She had not finished her sentence when the maître d'hôtel returned with two flûte-type glasses filled with a very light red liquid. "Deux kirs. Bon appétit !" he said in his professional manner.
Before he could leave however, Chanteloup snapped at him, though pleasantly : "Une minute, patron. Expliquez le menu à monsieur Vertiga, s'il vous plaît. En anglais."
He raised both eyebrows in utter surprise, then, remembering who it was who asked him, straightened and said, with the slightest stutter : "O-oui, bien sûr, amiral." He then turned to Vertiga and looked at him with such utter haughtiness that Chanteloup thought he'd take off and fly away somewhere.
He did not, and instead pleasantly explained, though in a rather stark Gallic accent : "Monsieur, in apéritif : a Kir. One fourth crème de cassis... I mean, blackcurrent cream (he almost winced), three fourths Bourgogne Aligoté. That's a dry white wine, monsieur. Then, in entrée, we shall have goose rillettes... Which is like foie gras in less gaudy, monsieur, accompanied by a salade vinaigrette and tomates fraîches, naturally with some fresh brown bread. For ze plat principal... (he thought for a split second) we shall have a, euh... salmon papillote on a bed of sliced patates, turnips and carottes. A selection of Corsican cheese will follow, and for ze dessert, the chef 'as prepared a surprise for his special guest (he looked at Chanteloup at that moment). And, heu, for you too of course, monsieur. Is the menu to monsieur's liking ? Does monsieur wish for something to be changed ?" he asked, with that particular tone of voice that waiters have when they know they're expected to ask something, but they'd much rather you said no.
Chanteloup had, of course, watched the entire presentation and bit her lip at several points to keep from laughing again.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
