#i can somewhat get behind ‘chips’ and ‘crisps’ but i draw the line here.

[iamtaran]

Rendezvous* AU

Jaskier is a professional, usually. He had worn out all the rough edges of this particular character over the years until it felt almost more comfortable than returning to being Julian at the end of the week. It may have taken a few years to curb his decidedly modern mouth and gain the respect of his fellow re-enactors, but during the open weekend when the visitors poured in? He was always on pointe. Spending the greater portion of an entire weekend in performance, in character-- it exhilarates him. The joy from the visitors, their laughs and surprise and unprepared blushes when he singles them out for a bit. If he could, he would eat it and live on it forever. Except, well, a man has to eat real food as well, and Jaskier had skipped breakfast in his rush. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. This particular Rendezvous at Alafia River always has more bakers, potato roasters, and poorly disguised Highland Games food carts peddling fish and chips than one could shake a stick at. Jaskier had simply followed his nose. It wouldn’t be a problem... Except the baker is the most attractive man Jaskier has ever clapped eyes on. “Essi, Essi, Essi,” he chants. “Essi, you’ve- I swear, if you don’t turn around-” “Jaskier, for god’s sake,” Essi hisses, sandwiched between a wooden stall and the shielding curtain of his body where she is attempting to subtly adjust her slipping décolletage. “I’m a little busy.” “Not too busy for this! Essi,” he whines. A hand smacks his arm, hard. “I’m not getting thrown from the Voo over a nip slip you f--forking child,” she grumbles into her cleavage. That adjusted, she nudges his shoulder out of the way. “Now, what are you whining about?” She looks, as usual, gorgeous, even with the momentary fashion crisis. No one looks better in crisp white chemise and dusty rose robe anglaise in linen. Well, except- “Him.” *** (*A Rendezvous is a historical reenactment/ living history event that may last an entire extended weekend, an entire week, 9 days. Participants camp on-site in pre-1860s period clothing, using as much historically accurate gear as possible and disguising any absolutely necessary modern amenities to keep from breaking immersion. Sometimes, the last weekend of the event is open to the public non-participants to wander through, purchase from artisans and craftsmen, often including folks from local tribes, and enjoy the musical or martial performances, historic rifle ranges, archery, delicious food, hatchet throwing, and more. This encounter may or may not be inspired by a memorable Rendezvous encounter as a visitor.)

Jaskier has never in six years seen this particular baker at this particular Rendezvous. Would that I had, he thinks somewhat wildly. It’s not one thing, really, that catches his attention, which sometimes does happen. He has fallen in love with a stranger’s heavy-lidded eyes, or a singular profile, or even the way someone tucked their legs up under them in a library chair. It is the way his pale, silvery hair wisps and half-curls around his face and across his forehead, where heavy brows furrowed in concentration. It is the shocking softness of his mouth compared to the granite cut of his jaw and the roughness of his stubble. It is his hands. Jaskier thinks they might be the most beautiful hands he has ever seen. The strength, the gentleness, the competence with which they folded and kneaded, then with swift, short turns tucked the dough into a boule to add to the nearly filled board behind him. Jaskier isn’t the only one watching. The man, whether it be what Jaskier sees or the smell of his already-baked loaves, has drawn a crowd. (And he really does suspect it is a mixture of both. No one should look so good with the sweaty, unwashed Rendezvous look. Most people look as you might expect after a week-long historical camping trip. This man looks like a rugged wet dream.)  Even as Jaskier looks, the baker slices the top of the dough with a slender knife frankly dwarfed in his grip, settles the boule on the board, and with a sharp flick of his elbow slides the whole dozen of them into the mouth of the clay dome oven radiating heat at his back. Even presented with the man’s astonishing back (and astonishing backside, lord, blessed be the fall-front trousers)--even then, Jaskier finds he can’t stop staring at his forearms, revealed by his rolled shirtsleeves.  “Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Essi murmurs, and laughs when he jumps. “Well, go on. Go buy your bread and flirt with him. I’m going to get chowder from the fish  and chip tent.” “But- Essi,” Jaskier flounders, “we, it- the performance!” They had planned to spend the last couple hours of morning trolling the main drag and the surrounding lines of tents and stalls, singing and playing, he on accordion and she the violin. They even have a couple new bits he is dying to run through. Jaskier thinks of his wallet and all the tips they might be making even now and whines. That being said, his eyes draw back to the dimple along the muscle of the baker’s forearm without his permission. Essi pats his back mockingly. “Frankly, my dear, I refuse to perform with you like this.” “Excuse me! Like what?”  She doesn’t deign answer. Instead, with a wink, she steps back into the crowd, calling, “I’ll meet you at the Live Oak Stage for the noontime performances!” and leaves him there. Which is also when Jaskier hears the first keening notes of a familiar song. He already knows he is ruined before turns to take in the scene-- the baker with the fiddle pressed under his chin, the bow so delicate in his blunt-fingered hand that Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat. The angle of his wrist, the tilt of his brows-- then he glances up through unexpectedly dark lashes and his amber eyes flash golden in the light. “Oh, Jesus wept.” *

As it would turn out, the handsome baker’s name is Geralt, and his rendition of Tiersen’s sur le fil is so beautiful that Jaskier can’t help but draw closer, like a moth to flame.

As it also turns out, the baker whose name is Geralt lowers the well-worn but immaculately tuned fiddle after the one song, allowing Jaskier to step close enough to embarrass himself. He gets half way through a too-long ramble about Tiersen’s works and praise for the man’s performance, and I’m a musician myself, can’t often be convinced to pick up a fiddle but-- when the baker grunts, points to the not-exactly historically accurate but not-not period appropriate accordion in his hands and asks, “Do you know La Noyée?” Which is how they end up playing together for the next thirty minutes until the bread has baked.

Which is also when Geralt introduces himself and gruffly thanks him, mentioning how his assistant usually accompanies him but he gave her the morning off, and then pays him in bread with a healthy slab of butter and aged cheese on top. Jaskier learns quickly that he is a man of few words. Somehow, however, he can read the sincerity in his thanks in his minute expression. They had drawn in quite a crowd, and Geralt is quickly made busy on the next batch of orders.

Jaskier knows when his presence is in the way. He is a little sad to go, but still, he knows he will be buzzing with the energy of their performance and the electric current that had passed between them every time Geralt glanced his way to time his accompaniment or signal a flourish. That can be enough. “Well, it’s been- ah, absolutely lovely playing with you, dear Geralt, but it seems I will only be in the way from this point- can’t bake to save my life, I’m afraid-” as he begins to slip away.

“Bard.” Jaskier freezes, surprised. Geralt cleans his hands off on his equally floury apron and pulls a tiny folded up pamphlet from inside its deep pocket. Jaskier takes it without thinking, on autopilot. “I’m part of a demonstration around 2, over at the fencing pit next to the musket range.” Jaskier can’t be blamed for how long it takes his brain to catch up with the unspoken invitation; but when he does, he beams.

He goes, and is promptly bowled over to find Geralt changed from his frankly too-flattering baker’s smock and fall-fronts into the traditional kilt and shirt sleeves of a highland foot soldier-- sans coat. Jaskier sees why when he lunges forward into a fast-paced mock battle with a broad sword that he slings about as if it were light as a rapier. Jaskier is... he needs to sit down.

He spends the rest of the weekend finding every excuse he can to go visit Geralt the too-handsome baker, and gets to meet his apprentice, who is also his daughter. Jaskier is stricken dumb for all of two seconds before he realizes they get on like a house on fire. Geralt has to chase them off when their chatter on historic social norms, musical trends, and current pop stars gets to be too much. Then they both have lunch with Essi, and the conversation turns to hsitoric fashion, materials, and ends with the two ladies roasting his poor man dandy outfit alive. He stands up for himself nobly. The high waisted trousers make him look trim! And braces were designed in the early 1820s, just like the accordion, thank you! Yes, he DOES know that it is considered terribly risque for his braces to be visible and not worn beneath a coat, why do they think he did it? No, he doesn’t think that they clash with his silk cravat in the least! He might be a rake and a rogue but he is still cultured. And well bathed, unlike most of the brutes around here! Essi calls him a floozy; Ciri, 16 and the least shy girl he has ever met, agrees. (He loves the two of them all the more by the end of it.)

Jaskier plays with Geralt a couple more times, after Essi gives him her blessing. She had found a bluegrass group in desperate need of a violinist after theirs abruptly came down ill, and she is more than happy to flirt with their cellist there, especially since they pop up stage in the middle of the Rendyvoo garners huge crowds of tip-happy listeners. She does chat with Ciri when she stops by, however, and Geralt. Jaskier doesn’t hear what happens, but she manages to get the big man to flush. Jaskier wonders on it for the rest of the day. Will she reveal her secrets??

The Voo ends and Jaskier is a besotted wreck. He tries quite hard to make his goodbye to father and daughter not the least bit tearful-- and immediately fails when Geralt pulls out a smartphone and gruffly tells him to put his number in. 

They live much closer than they might have assumed. I can’t decide if Geralt really does own a bakery, or if that’s just his somewhat secret hobby and in reality his profession better matches his dangerous strongman persona-- a garage, a historic fencing and swordplay gym, perhaps a high-paid security professional. All of them have some interesting possibilities, I’ll be honest. Regardless, working Rendezvous’s and ren faires is half hobby half side-profession. Jaskier is thrilled to find that, since moving to the area recently, he and Geralt will be working a lot of the same events. He is excited a completely normal amount.

Y’all know what’s up. Wooing. Courting. Two idiots who don’t recognize their emotions (because, yes, Jaskier might have realized Geralt is a looker, but it takes him much longer to realize what the fuzzy feeling in his gut is whenever Geralt is particularly soft, or speaks gently to his daughter, or smile when their huge great dane comes barreling out to greet them and oh, no.) Also, historic costumes that just, they just really inspire some thirst.

If y’all think for a moment Geralt looks any less handsome in modern clothes, you are surely mistaken. Jaskier despairs the first time he sees him. It’s just... it’s not fair!

Except the local ren faire comes around and it’s Geralt’s turn to despair. He may, in fact, never recover. Y’all know that post that’s been going around...

ok fin. that’s all i got, i hope yall enjoyed.

[minaa-munch]

Ashes and Dust (Part 2)

“Jinko?”

“Suna”

“What about Anko?”

“Dunno”

“Minato?”

“Nope”

Shikaku paused, raising himself to rest on his elbows as he fixed the blond with a curious look, “If he’s not on that squad and you haven’t seen him around your family compound...” trailing off, black hues narrowed a fraction, “Where do you think he could have gone?”

“Beats me” Blue hues blinked as a light breeze slapped a stray leaf on his cheek. Inoichi didn’t even bother to flick it off. 

Next to him, Chouza opened another bag of rice crisps, “You don’t think any of the other villages are playing dirty, do you?” fingers pulled out two chips before the bag was invitingly dangled over Inoichi’s face, “I mean...he broke the Sandaime’s record and everything.” 

Inoichi sighed before he too, pulled himself up via conveniently placed Akimichi wrist, “You guys worry too much” he grinned, looping both arms around their shoulders, “this is Namikaze we’re talking about! Wherever he is, he’s probably fine!” 

Shikaku and Chouza exchanged a look. Inoichi was trying too hard to be cheerful, and it was very easy for them to tell, seeing as how they had spent so much time together. They were also the very few who knew that both boys shared a clan, though Inoichi happened to be from the main house whereas Minato’s parentage was somewhat vague at best.

What they didn’t know though, was that Inoichi had already asked.

“He’s been picked for a secret mission.” the patriarch was clearly busy, hands already unrolling a scroll, “seeing as how he’s the only one who made Chunin.”

Ouch. Inoichi felt his face burn a little in embarrassment though he dared not say a word to risk trying the elder Yamanaka’s temper. Said Yamanaka seemed to have noticed. Steely blue hues flickered to the younger male as his fingers paused, “I have faith in you, Inoichi.”

Eh? 

He swore he saw the old man’s expression soften, though then again Inoichi might have been hallucinating “Someday, you will lead this clan and you’ll have to make decisions that will not only affect you, but this entire family and even the village.”

Blue hues blinked in surprise.

“Everyone has a role to play. I know you’ll be able to play yours.”

His father had conveniently sidestepped the issue, and that hadn’t been the first time. If Yamanaka Ichirou didn’t want to talk about something, not even the Hokage could get him to speak. 

Still...it had been nice. He frowned a little at the memory, “He’s fine...”

Probably. 

-----

Wet fingers fumbled with the seal that taped the scroll shut. So hasty was he in his attempts, he had forgotten the necessary chakra seals required until a manicured hand poked his shoulder in reminder. 

Once the appropriate seals had been made, the scroll unfurled all over his lap - cue three pairs of curious hues as the newly titled Sanin leaned over the slanting script, the kanji clear and crisp on faded parchment. 

Jiraiya, 

I’m glad that the three of you managed to survive a run-in with Hanzo. The news of your successes and your new titles has definitely boosted our troops’ collective morale. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to celebrate - I want you three to wrap up matters in Ame as quickly as possible and then join our reinforcements at Kusa.

We, on the council’s approval, intend to make a final push against Iwa soon, and you three will be needed to further the objective.

Still no word of Minato, eh? Jiraiya’s lips pursed in a thin line as Orochimaru and Tsunade exchanged a look between themselves. They were not privy to Jiraiya’s internal monologue, though they were well aware of what it meant to go toe-to-toe with Iwa around that particular border. 

Their resources were at their limits - it was either victory or utter defeat from here on and that particular outcome had just been placed squarely on their shoulders. Hatake Sakumo was already too occupied in Suna, and they couldn’t afford to pull Jonin from where they were stationed in the many, many, outposts littering the border of Hi no Kuni. 

That, coupled with their recent escapades had the village leadership turning to them. White brows furrowed at the thought, as he raised his head to look at his teammates who appeared just as battered as he was. Tsunade met his expression with a pensive one of her own, whereas Orochimaru simply sighed, standing to regain his spot before the rocky precipice. The wind whipped his inky hair around his shoulders, but neither Jiraiya nor Tsunade had to look at him to know what he was thinking. 

They would probably head out tomorrow, though he had an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew had nothing to do with hunger. The Sandaime had ignored his constant queries after his wayward student, and Jiraiya was no fool. 

The will of fire must keep burning in order to illuminate the village, from where tree leaves will bud a-new. 

Cue the timely crack of thunder, announcing a fresh bout of rain. 

-----

The night was quiet, apart from the occasional, low drone of machinery and the occasional cricket that tittered from somewhere in the mess of concrete and wood that comprised the streets of Sora no Kuni. The moon hid behind one particularly towering structure, its light streaming in patches across the dark alleys. One particular strand illuminated crimson locks before they disappeared, leading a casual witness to deem it a trick of misplaced brick. 

The land of the Sky, as it had come to call itself, had recently emerged to challenge the five great shinobi nations, a feat that usually did not merit much notice since they weren’t called the five great shinobi nations for nothing. 

However, what made it a threat was the presence of arms and machinery - coupled with the fact that they had practically announced the fact that they would destroy the nations - starting from Hi no Kuni - from the very heavens. 

The declaration made it their problem. Technology was troublesome and something Konoha did not possess in abundance you see; and at that point in time, they could not afford a new contender in a war such as this. The fact, coupled with their dwindling resources made it the perfect training dummy of sorts. Light hues flickered to colored counterparts at the thought, taking in the sick pallor of the kunoichi’s face. They hadn’t given her enough time to recuperate from their training sessions, nor from handling constantly fluctuating demonic chakra and he could see that it was beginning to take its toll on her.

Well, tough. “Just like we practiced.” He said, to which she turned even paler, if it were possible. Gloved digits pulled out an inscribed scrap of paper, “Its fine. We have reinforcements if it comes down to it.” 

“Iie. You don’t know what the Kyubi can do.” The whisper was firm, though laced with disdain, as pale fingers curled into tight fists by her sides. Kushina was adamant, “Mito sama never meant for the vessel to be used this way.”

Cue a frown that the Uzumaki couldn’t see, “Times have changed...” he began, nimble fingers already forming seals; the air had shifted around them, though in all the wrong ways, “And you don’t get to complain.” The inscribed bit of paper was slapped on to her forehead before she could move, the kanji already bleeding on to her features; black ink drawing out frothing, burning chakra that wrapped around her limbs. Her eyes had grown wide, petrified as blood enveloped the startled iris. 

The malevolent chakra forced him to take a step back. A masked gaze took note of the bubbling tails that had begun to sprout from her altered form, and what had once been a kunoichi was now a snarling beast on all fours. Empty white sockets almost zeroed in on him before he disappeared in a swirl of leaves, leaving nothing but the concrete around them to suffer the beast’s wrath.

History would later report that Sora no Kuni was destroyed in a single night. Nothing but debris and burnt corpses remained.

--And the technology they had been so proud of? Twisted heaps of scrap metal amidst splatters of thick blood. 

----

Pale blue hues stared at despondent digits as he willed them to move - only to get a slight twitch of his index finger in reply. Frustrated, he knocked his head back into metal, tired lids fluttering shut.

He was more than exhausted, if that was possible --- and maybe if he hit his head hard enough, he’d manage to give himself a concussion. 

Cue the steady sound of dripping fluid as his hooded gaze narrowed at the dark smudges lining the opposite wall. How many days had it been? The thought prompted a frown, though more at the loss of his sense of time and space - they were at war, weren’t they? He had rescued Kushina just yesterday...

Right? 

At times like these - which were rare, seeing as how this was the only other instance - he wondered, not for the first time, what Jiraiya sensei would do.

|| Special thanks to @senjutsunade for tolerating my ranting/whining/moping. ^^; 

[writmedium]

Cat Reads Comics - Week of 15 Feb. 2017

[mastcomm]

This New Hudson Yards Restaurant Is Better Than It Should Be

Morbid curiosity along with a bit of masochism drew me back to Hudson Yards. Many of the restaurants that have been built there have seemed cursed on one level or another, but the latest one sounded uniquely inauspicious, starting with its timing. It opened in November — the 13th of November.

The Tavern by WS, as it’s called, faces west on 11th Avenue, offering a last nostalgic glimpse of the West Side railyards before they vanish beneath the second phase of Hudson Yards. (Yes, there’s going to be a second phase.) This winter, the restaurant’s front door has seemed like the most ferociously wind-battered part of the whole site, no small distinction. It’s such a forsaken spot that even the helpful greeters who roam the barren tundra between the buildings giving directions to despondent tourists stare blankly when you say you’re looking for the Tavern by WS.

Then again, it might be the name. To repeat, it’s called the Tavern by WS. If my instinct didn’t already tell me to beware of restaurants with bylines, past experience would. But an initials-only byline is even more suspect.

Who is this W.S., and why would he, she or they hide behind first letters? Is it Willie Sutton, the succinct bank robber? Will Shortz, the world’s only academically accredited puzzle master? Walter Slezak, the Austrian-born character actor? Watermelon Slim, the pseudonymous harmonica player? Wallace Shawn? Wayne Shorter? Whit Stillman? Wanda Sykes?

I won’t get your hopes up any further, because the real WS isn’t a person at all. The initials turn out to stand for Wine Spectator, a magazine whose publisher, Marvin R. Shanken, owns the restaurant together with Steven M. Ross, the developer responsible for Hudson Yards, and Kenneth A. Himmel, another developer, who built the mall across the tundra where David Chang and José Andrés have their restaurants.

Wine Spectator is probably best known for assigning scores to wines on a 100-point scale. Numbers in the 90s can be seen in screaming boldface print on “shelf talkers,” those hanging sales pitches that dangle in liquor-store aisles like socks on a clothesline. The notion that a drink produced by sunshine, rain, dirt, vines and yeast can be judged by how close it comes to perfection, signified by a 100 score, never made much sense. Now that many drinkers are turning to quirky, imperfect wines, the Wine Spectator’s numerals seem like artifacts from an earlier time.

Perhaps this is why the Tavern by WS looks as if its designer, Rockwell Group, finished all its drawings for the dining room around 1999, lost them, rediscovered them last year and decided they were still good to go.

The interior’s most prominent features are the wine walls. There’s one by the host’s desk, two behind the bar and more on a mezzanine that seems to have no other purpose. And catwalks, too, because what use is a wine wall without a catwalk? All that’s missing to complete the Vegas-in-the-Clinton-era theme are women in bodysuits zipping up and down on cables to collect a Screaming Eagle here, a Harlan Estate there.

For a magazine whose current issue has such cover lines as “Bordeaux 2017: What to Buy” and “2017: Another Great Vintage” (that one is about Oregon pinot noir), these walls seem almost inevitable. Any magazine like Wine Spectator is going to promote wine as a status symbol; this just turns the idea into architecture.

The Tavern by WS is very nearly another case of an aging brand getting funky on the dance floor to prove that the old man’s still got it. But somewhere in an unseen kitchen behind those walls, a brigade of cooks is working like crazy to keep that from happening.

They’re led by Eli Kaimeh, who worked for Thomas Keller for 13 years, ultimately as chef de cuisine at Per Se. He was there in 2015, when I reviewed the restaurant, and the cooking seemed to have lost its conviction. At this new restaurant, though, he has a clear sense of what he wants to do and how to do it. The menu is a laundry list of routine American restaurant dishes like grilled salmon, but they’re almost all made over in ways that improve them without becoming excessively fiddly, a fate that is never far away in Mr. Keller’s restaurants. Mr. Kaimeh has helped turn the Tavern by WS into a good restaurant, despite its owners’ efforts to make it look like the opposite.

The minestrone has tiny pasta tubes, two types of shell bean, two types of string beans and miniature fried croutons that stay crisp as they float on the surface of very pure and sweet tomato soup. Excellent olive oil has been spilled on top. This minestrone has been cleaned up in too many ways to count, but it still tastes like honest vegetable soup.

The Caesar salad looks like a cross-section of an iceberg-lettuce head, which it essentially is, except that every leaf inside it has been somehow painted with a gratifyingly sharp Caesar dressing. The top is golden with toasted chips of Parmesan bread crumbs and grated Parmesan; crisscrossed over this are two anchovies, battered and deep-fried, fish-and-chips style. I have tried telling myself I won’t eat the anchovies first, but I always do.

The single slab of Nueske’s bacon would be worth ordering even if it didn’t come with a subtly upgraded spinach salad. (The walnuts are freshly toasted and the shallots are fried.) Lobster ravioli may be a little overcomplicated, but who will complain when the complications include lobster inside the ravioli, outside the ravioli and in the brandy-spiked sauce Américaine?

Although he spent a decade cooking tasting-menu portions, Mr. Kaimeh has a knack for making main courses that are big without being boring. Sea bass gets an herb crust and a really lively vinaigrette of chopped green and black olives. The skin on spatchcocked chicken is good and crunchy, and the sauce suprême tastes a bit like skin itself, or at least like the golden drippings on a Sunday roast. A lamb shoulder is braised until it simultaneously holds its shape and falls to pieces; it has enough flavor to make up for the somewhat blah heap of cavatelli, which might also be helped by another big spoonful of gremolata.

Some stunts backfire. The cucumber jelly shards crumbled over salmon rillettes have a slight back-of-the-fridge taste, and one of the few vegetarian dishes is also one of the few things worth steering clear of: a whole honeynut squash that seems to have had brown butter pumped into it.

Stephen Collucci, the pastry chef, treats American desserts affectionately but not indulgently. If a better crust can be supplied, it will be, as with the very thin and crunchy Graham cracker layer under the coconut cream pie, or the tender shortbread holding the excellent lemon meringue tart in one piece. I don’t know what to make of the crunchy, underbaked apples in apple pie, but I know that I’d skip it next time in favor of whatever doughnut has captured Mr. Collucci’s imagination at the moment.

His department also makes the gluten-free bread, which you might want to ask for even if you eat gluten. You will get long golden ingots of rosemary cornbread, or something very like it, and they will be wonderful.

Michaël Engelmann, who is in charge of alcohol, put together a robust wine list, closing in on 400 choices. Wisely, he doesn’t treat the document as the Wine Spectator’s greatest hits. It’s got a few much-hyped names, but the large number of bottles for under $100 is really something, and nowhere on the list will you see a point score.

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