#p: mack garnier

[noiranamnesis]

“Clean aprons are hanging behind the door.” Marinette gestured with her free hand, but otherwise stayed on task. Once peeled she was able to get through each vegetable in less than a minute, falling into a trance of sorts as she began clearing her pile. At the sound of a splash she exhaled through her nose. “Dirty aprons go in the hamper by the back door. Et tu ferais mieux de ne pas utiliser de savon!” And you better not be using soap! A warning she didn’t have the heart to check.

When youse was a kid, you ever help your ma in the kitchen?

Nah. My ma though, I tell you what that woman could do with a branzino...

Never helped his mother once? No wonder he thought to wash a vegetable with soap…Merde. If this goes wrong Johnny better be as quiet as a lamb. Still, while revelations of their banter kept her alert, the ease with which they chatted provided a sense of comfort. Mirroring the chaotic nature of conversation that often dominated her kitchen throughout the day. Topics were rarely off limits and perhaps it was why their crass nature didn’t bother her in the slightest. When her usual employees accidentally burned themselves were they going to just say ‘ow’? Of course not. They cursed and sometimes even blamed the ghosts of their enemies.

Eh, Mari, is this right?

“Em,” Peeking over she gave a quick nod. “Oui.” Yes. Not wanting to dirty his clothes she gave him a slight nudge with her elbow. “I knew you could do it.” Well, she’d hoped at least one of them would.

Then he spoke French.

A flicker of recognition reflected in her gaze, nimble fingers slowing their precise movements as she turned to face him. “…Oui.” Her voice fell to a whisper then, a glance cast towards the quarreling lovebirds before her attention settled once more on this Garner character. Garner…not very Italian, is it? With newfound interest she gave him a once over, noting everything from his plain attire to the distinct features of his face. “Pourquoi?” Why were they suddenly whispering? Why did he care to know? Why was he speaking French so well?

Implicit assumptions led her down a rabbit hole of sorts. Perhaps he was only half Italian and hiding it from the others? It seemed plausible. If Johnny’s comments were anything to go by, it seemed Italian organized crime had a preference for keeping their ranks particularly Italian. But if he was sent by Johnny then she had to figure Johnny was aware…unless Garner had managed to fool him- not the most difficult task she supposed. Within days of becoming acquainted with Johnny it was clear he wasn’t revered for his insight, but rather brute strength and temperament.

Brow furrowed, he looked with almost intensity at the way she cut the carrot, knowing he likely wouldn't be shown the grace of further examples.

"Voilà."

"Voilà." He found himself parroting, his voice dangerously close to catching the accent though when he considered it now, he wasn't sure what the point was of refusing to speak. It could've been more out of habit, the habit of intentionally not speaking freely except during his visits home. All things considered, it didn't matter what he said, he surely couldn't make much worse of an impression as his companions presently bickering over the sink.

"It's really just a Julienne cut that you dice."

"Mhm." He took one of the too small carrot ends and popped it into his mouth. Mari was a better instructor than he would've assumed.

"Hell no! Then people'll be blaming me for soap in their carrots. Ain't my fault you don't know how'ta wash a vegetable."

"Fuck off."

Rolling his eyes, Mack called to Falcone, "He's right, you're outvoted. You're supposed to be on the vegetables anyway."

There was muttered swearing then the other man spoke clearly, "Fine. Got any more of those aprons?"

Brasi, "Scared of a bit of water?"

"I'd prefer not looking like a drowned rat when I'm done."

"What do you think I look like then?"

"A drowned rat."

"You hearing this shit, Garner?"

The sound of water being splashed but Mack didn't dare turn to look. He glowered at the carrot on the cutting board, his cuts slow, methodical, trying to make at least his first attempt look like the example before he got comfortable with the knife.

Falcone, "When youse was a kid, you ever help your ma in the kitchen?"

"Nah. My ma though," a faint whistle in appreciation, "I tell you what that woman could do with a branzino..."

"Eh, Mari, is this right?" Mack spoke quieter, trying not to get drawn back into the other conversation while he gestured at his first attempt with the carrot. Once he had Mari's attention, despite his reservations, he asked in an almost hushed tone,

"Tu viens de France?" You from France?

[noiranamnesis]

By the time Marinette reemerged from a small side kitchen, she was graced with the image of all three men loitering by the sinks. There may be hope for them yet. Meaning either Johnny had actually heeded her advice in sending someone who had even an inkling of history in the kitchen- or they simply had common sense. “Bonjour. Hello. Thank you for unloading everything. We have plenty to do, but we can handle it.”

“First will be prepping all the vegetables. So, Falcone-” Noting recognition in his eyes she smiled, closing their distance between to place a hand on his back, guiding him to face the sink, “You will be in charge of rinsing. Use cold water and gently rub them with your hands. Like if they were a woman.” Releasing Falcone she turned her sights on Brasi.

“Now Brasi, you will move the clean vegetables to the appropriate stations.” Once again she eased the man along, her touch coming to rest on his arm as she led him to each station. “The recipe cards say how many we need in total, it’s the circled number.” Tapping a card for emphasis watched for any signs of recognition. “Focus first on recipes with a purple mark- these are the ones you’ll be working on later. And If you aren’t sure what the vegetable is- either try to read it out loud or call for me. I won’t bite-” With a pat to his shoulder she couldn’t help but add, “unless you call me Mary. It’s Mari.” Allowing her lyrical lilt to flow, she set her sights on Mack.

“We will be cutting and there are five cuts. We have Julienne, Batonnet, Brunoise, Small Dice, and Chiffonade. If you don’t know I can show you.” Gently pushing him with along, Marinette herded him to the nearest station. “Brasi and Falcone, once you’re finished you’ll start cutting as well.” Plucking a knife from her station of choice, she pointed it towards each of them as though it was merely a pen. “Let’s get to work. Commencer.” Begin.

She’d barely finished her fourth vegetable when the first question- more a grunt of frustration, broke the air.

“The hell’s a og-nan per-lees?” Falcone was holding a card up.

Marinette’s brows furrowed, light hues never straying from her task as she made sense of his poor pronunciation. “Onions. The tiny white ones.” Daring to cast a glance towards the sink she nearly threw her hands up in disbelief. “What are you doing?” In an instant she was at Brasi’s side, taking the poor potatoes from his grasp. “I said gently, like touching a woman.” With a firm but soft touch she showed him how to do it properly. “You poor lovers.”

Brasi snorted. “I ain’t ever gotten any complaints.”

“Who can complain when they’re getting mauled? They’re too shocked!” Marinette retorted, idly twirling a rag in her hand. “And you-” With a flick of her wrist she snapped Falcone on the wrist, “if you sneak one more mushroom before everything is portioned- I’ll be serving you.”

He comprehended but only just barely, the ridiculousness of the ever-growing menu making him suddenly have little investment in the prep work; he'd do his job though; he'd shut up and do his job and hope he didn't get called in again anytime soon to play translator or spy or whatever other word Johnny might use for something like this favor.

"All clear?"

No, not all clear, Mack wanted to say, not fucking clear at all.

"Pick who you want to help and I'll take the other. Merci."

De rien, he thought mockingly, glad the others had entered the space with the final boxes. Falcone was already rooting through one of the crates, attempting to organize the assortment of mushrooms from one another.

He waited until the owner was had stepped into the walk-in before he said anything, purposely speaking quieter. To Brasi, "She's gonna help you with the meats. Don't touch anything until she's here. She's got about four different animals she's cooking and I don't know what the hell she wants in the oven first."

Brasi hummed, perhaps half-listening, perhaps not listening at all when he read from one of the recipe cards, "What the fuck's a poo-let?"

"Poulet." Mack pronounced it correctly though without an accent. "She'll bite your head off if you say it the other way."

"What are we doing then?" Falcone made a face picking up another of the recipe cards, "Just start cutting? I can't read this shit," he popped a raw mushroom cap into his mouth.

"Hold on, hold on." Mack muttered, stepping closer to read the same card as Falcone; he was a slow reader though.

"You know what julienne means?"

"Do I fucking look like I know what julienne means?"

"Fine, you can dice the onions. I'll julienne the carrots." It wouldn't matter where they started, the vegetables needed to be cut before half the recipes could start.

Rolling up his sleeves, Mack went to the sink, motioning for the others to follow and wash their hands as well.

Brasi, "Hey, try not to cut off your finger this time."

Falcone, with an eyeroll, "I didn't cut it off the first time."

Brasi, "That ain't what you said when it happened."

Mack wasn't there, but there was a story about a time Falcone liked to do tricks with a switchblade; he gouged himself finally, bad enough that he needed stitches; he'd reportedly screamed about losing his finger when it happened, a mistake, and now no trusted him with a blade, not even of the butter knife variety.

[noiranamnesis]

Yeah, actually, I think I might need help cutting these.

Marinette had nearly forgotten Mack was in the mix, so distracted by the others that he'd nearly faded into the background entirely. "Ah, okay." Her tone softened then, a cursory glance cast in Brasi's direction only for her blood pressure to spike. "Non!" Plucking the vegetables from sudsy water, she shook her head. "Pourquoi? You just need water. No soap. The heat kills the rest." Without waiting for an answer, she stuck the soap under the sink- out of sight and away from his hands. "I need you to work with me, s'il te plaît." Please.

Despite her desire to be positive, there was a sinking feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. A realization that this may very well be the beginning of a long and stressful day. These men clearly didn't want to be here and she couldn't blame them, but for better or worse she needed them to come together for a few hours at least- and that was if she was being woefully optimistic. Truthfully, she was half expecting them to get fed up and storm off before noon.

Combing her fingers through her hair she fought to urge to sigh, turning on her toes to stand at Mack's side. He said he needed help with the Brunoise. "For this, we start by cutting the sides so it's a square or rectangle shape...." As she began showing him the steps, her movements were smooth, words warming as a faint smile graced her features. "Then we cut it into long strips...Once we have a few, we stack them and cut thin strips about the size of a match...Then the final step is dicing the sticks and voilà." Peeking up at him she smiled. "It's really just a Julienne cut that you dice." With a slight shrug she handed him the knife.

"What's a pat-ate?" Falcone asked as though he were saying it perfectly.

"It's a potato." Marinette figured that by the end of this she'd likely have heard every variation of vegetable name there ever was.

"I wanna switch." Brasi grunted. "Falcone's s'posed to be doing this shit anyway."

Marinette didn't even bother looking up from the vegetables she was slicing through with ease. "Then have Falcone switch back with you."

"Hell no! Then people'll be blaming me for soap in their carrots." Falcone shot back. "Ain't my fault you don't know how'ta wash a vegetable."

"Fuck off."

She was back then, prattling on and perhaps that was the part he found most grating. He was irritated by the urgency in her tone, feeling an acute panic welling within him, feeling trapped, cornered, no better than a pot on the precipice of boiling over even if he knew there was nothing to be frustrated about.

"Use cold water and gently rub them with your hands. Like if they were a woman.”

Silently, he exchanged a look with Brasi, nearly laughing aloud when the other man raised a brow beginning to move his hands to draw an hourglass only to pretend to be interested in a recipe card when the owner set her sights on him: her next victime.

"If you aren’t sure what the vegetable is- either try to read it out loud or call for me. I won’t bite- unless you call me Mary. It’s Mari.” Mack nearly flinched when she stepped closer, ushering him along. “We will be cutting and there are five cuts. We have Julienne, Batonnet --" he stared through her with her finished speeches, "If you don’t know I can show you.” Newfound panic in her tone, "What are you doing?” She was gone.

Mack watched the discussion unfold like the makings of a bad film. For her sake, he hoped she wouldn't turn and assess the somehow worse job Brasi was making of washing vegetables. There was soap involved now...

"Yeah, actually, I think I might need help cutting these." He spoke up, wondering if there was much that could be salvaged from the display of ineptitude; what did one expect from forced volunteers? "Just get me started that that, erm, Brunoise one. I don't think I ever learned that."

Was it better to keep talking? Maybe. Maybe it'd distract her from finding something to critique Brasi or Falcone on; hell, maybe it'd distract Falcone from butchering the name of another vegetable.

"Haven't done kitchen prep in about ten years."

Not entirely true, but he wasn't about to put his time dishwashing at Terminal Island on his resume.

[noiranamnesis]

"Perfection." Releasing a soft breath, she set the vegetables down, blade still in and. "You will be my backup." Gesturing towards him with the sharp edge, she continued, "We have thirteen courses to prepare with two dishes per course." Why? Because if being difficult were a choice, it was one Johnny made each and every sunrise. "The courses are Hors d’oeuvre, Potage, Poisson, Entrée, Sorbet, Reléve, Rôti, Légumes, Salades, Entremet de sûcre, Savoureaux, Fromage, and Dessert." Moving throughout their shared space she began highlighting each course's assigned station.

"Brasi and Falcone are each in charge of four courses. Brasi has the Poisson dishes: Homard Newburg and Sole meuniere; the Entrée dishes: Coq au Vin and Rump steak grille; the Reléve dishes: Carre d agneau roti and Contrefilet de boeuf roti a l anglaise; & the Rôti dishes: Poulet Roti and Canneton Roti." Barely stopping to take a break she continued. "Falcone has the Potage dishes: Consommé Celestine and Consommé julienne; the Légumes dishes: Champignons grilles and Pommes au four; the Salades: Greek Salad and Salade vert; & the Savoureaux dishes: Ratatouille and Canape Daine." Hearing it aloud was enough to make her want to bang herself over the head with a rolling pin, but she persisted nonetheless. "I already started on the desserts last night, so we will be supporting Brasi and Falcone. The catering trays and recipes are all where they need to be. Once we're down to the final two hours we'll start the hors d’oeuvres and finish the desserts." Only then did she put the blade down, having forgotten it was even in her hand.

"All clear?" As soon as the question slipped free she noticed the men of the hour step inside. "You're just in time. This one will tell you where to go." Tilting her head towards Mack lowered her voice. "Pick who you want to help and I'll take the other." A smile. "Merci." Turning on her heels she hurried to check on her desserts.

"Pardon?" He could've laughed, the woman suddenly the spitting image of his mother - though, that had more to do with the accent than anything else; he didn't hear his first language all that often, just when he was home - the tips of her hair frizzed from the heat in the kitchens, looking about on the verge of hunkering her shoulders and jamming her fists into her hips but she didn't and maybe she was better for it. She stepped nearer, placing the vegetables onto the station-top between them. "Since I decided button mushrooms didn't add enough flavor and paired it with cremini and porcini."

"Hm." Mack was glad she turned her back to him, if she was still facing him, she may have noticed the flicker of recognition in his eyes when she carried on in French.

He didn't know anything about traditional coq au vin, all he knew was that his mother only ever made it with one kind of mushroom. When he was a boy, she'd send him to the supermarket with her ingredient lists, with specific instructions to buy the cheapest variations of everything. He couldn't remember if button mushrooms were the cheaper ones; he was always worried about the price tag, not the name. Though, of course, maybe it would've made sense to steal the more expensive ones. Even when he'd pocket things from the store - his add-ons, as he considered them - he never had the sense to nick the good stuff, just the cheap stuff. He didn't like to deviate from the list.

"Can you let them know one of them will be taking on meat dishes and the other will have the vegetable plus cheese dishes? You can decide who. It won't matter."

"Sure."

When he went for the next crate, he told Brasi he was on meat and Falcone he was on vegetables. If anyone was more likely to fuck up with a blade, it was Falcone, all the more reason to keep him away from the butcher knives.

He returned with another crate.

"They're getting the last couple. What do you want me to do?"

[noiranamnesis]

With her employees wellbeing remaining a top priority, Marinette had elected to give them day off, deciding to rely solely on Johnny's selections to prepare for this event. As far as she concerned, it was his event so why not have his own help bring his vision to life. Well- less of a vision and more him asking for his and Lana's favorites before telling her to simply add whatever bullshit people liked to order. If it weren't for him doubling his order she would have been able to manage with her own crew, but that simply would have been too convenient for Johnny.

Having awoken before dawn, Marinette had been prepping the kitchen in order to make the transition from criminal to line cook as smooth as possible. Stations were clean, recipes were written posted in the proper areas, catering trays were in place... By the time the delivery truck arrived she only had time to prop open the door before disappearing within her domain. Heavy steps and the thuds of crates sounded behind her, but she paid it no mind, too busy prepping with a schedule in mind.

Having already cracked open a few crates she was in the midst of rinsing vegetables when one of the worst pronunciations of Coq au Vin pierced her concentration. "Pardon?" Whipping around with a bundle of carrots and celery in hand, she stepped by him to drop them on a counter. "Since I decided button mushrooms didn't add enough flavor and paired it with cremini and porcini." Her words were quick, a lyrical lilt heavy on her voice as began slicing the carrots. "Alors tu sais qu'il faut traditionnellement un seul type de champignon, mais tu ne sais pas comment dire Coq au Vin?" So you know it traditionally requires one type of mushroom, but don't know how to say Coq au Vin? Amazing. She huffed. "Incroyable." Popping a slice of carrot in her mouth she moved on to the celery.

"Can you let them know one of them will be taking on meat dished and the other will have the vegetable plus cheese dishes?" Marinette cast him a glance, offering a brief smile. In a flash she was moving onto prepping the next set of vegetables. "You can decide who. It won't matter." Not entirely true, but the delivery truck had arrived late meaning there was no time to fret. Only time to murmur to herself, "Une fois que tout est dedans, je vais leur demander de se concentrer sur la préparation des légumes et je commencerai à m'occuper de la viande."

@noiranamnesis

"C'mon, Garner, haul your ass back up here."

"Yeah, yeah." Mack muttered, hastily taking another inhale of his cigarette before dropping it to the pavement, killing it with the heel of his shoe. It was a shit assignment, that was all he could think as he took his his time exhaling the smoke, making his way to the back of the delivery truck, managing to sidestep the crate Falcone practically threw at him.

"Fuck off." He muttered, stooping down and lifting the crate, carrying it into the kitchens.

It didn't help that he owed one to Johnny, the bastard helping him out of his latest collection date with odd jobs here and there, all of them for Cohen, none of them legal, but at least his parole officer hadn't been around, so it made it easier to hide, to lie.

He'd worked odd jobs in kitchens before, usually as a dishwasher, rarer times as prep when there were too many callouts, though that wasn't why he was here; he was mostly here to translate, to make sure Falcone and Brasi didn't fuck things up reading the directions; Johnny knew he could read French.

The owner was there, in the kitchens. "A fine piece of ass." Johnny'd said once but if Johnny had an opinion on any woman, it meant she was either an idiot like his broad Turner or she was some poor unfortunate broad caught in the crossfires.

Placing the box labelled with another assortment of vegetables down by the others, Mack meandered, loitered, trying to take his time heading back to the delivery truck; that was the first time he'd seen the menu, or what he had to assume was the menu. Various recipes, notes were scattered along the work stations.

"Since when are there three kinds of mushrooms in a coq au vin?"

He pronounced the anglicized version of the dish, almost determined not to speak his first language at all or let on how much he knew. He'd gotten his ass beat a week into lockup when his cellmate worked the detail out of him. Mack never particularly thought his accent was anything to write home about, but apparently to the guys on the inside, it was too effeminate.