SHARPE'S MEAL ⚔ WRITTEN | ACTION

[greenjacketed]

[ after the public relations disaster of his last broadcast, sharpe has since kept his journal under a sort of imprisonment: tied shut with leather straps and stuffed in a cloth sack, that sack being knotted as well. but today he gingerly picks it from its incarceration and flicks through its pages until he settles upon one he likes. and then sharpe picks up his pencil.

he writes three messages. as ever, his handwriting is scrawlish, ill-practised, and riddled with errors. none are filtered, although only the first is intended for community consumption:]

LUCETI -- I need to speak with someone who can cook a des--deecdecent meal. [ ugh this is borderline humiliating someone shoot him and put him out of his misery. ] Frogs need not apply, beecuz I don't want the lot to taste like cheese and garlik.

KATNISS -- I'm coming by before 12. We have our wager to settle.

MISS FAITH LONG -- might a man call on you this afternoon?

-- R. SHARPE

[ OTHERWISE the man can be found staring disconsolately at grocery items. some of these things have never before been seen by eyes such as his. in fact, some of these things look barely edible. sharpe's been in luceti for a year, but he just about never goes to the grocery shop -- not when he has katniss looking after him with her stew. not when he can still shoot his own game. but today brings his boots squarely inside this devil's shop. as he browses, he mutters: ] Bloody hell...

[ LATER, sharpe has taken up a sentry position at the bar in good spirits. he's drinking watered down brandy because he can't afford to get drunk tonight. he's on the lookout for a certain fire-haired giant of a man. ganondorf. for it occurs to sharpe that he doesn't know where he lives, only that he's often seen at the bar. so he waits. ]

Comments

[greenjacketed]

Pheasant. [ he sounds mildly uncertain even about that. ] I can shoot a pheasant simple enough. But what's to go with a pheasant? I can't serve'em a bird what's been crisped over a campfire, can I?

[ that's about all he knows. ]

[handing]

I don’t think anything’s wrong with that, provided she likes it.  [Not to mention that the gesture itself can be flattering enough to make up for bad food taste.  Pepper’s got a little experience with being the recipient of such an effort, so she at least sounds confident when she reassures him.]  You’re doing this for her, so she’s going to feel pretty special no matter what you make.
 
As for side dishes, a vegetable of some sort would be good.  Maybe a starch just for variety, but only if it’s not too much for you to get done.  When are you meeting her?

[greenjacketed]

...Haven't asker her, yet. Or -- no. It's arranged, just not proper-like. We've no date. I just want to know what I'm getting into, eh? Which vegetables are the good vegetables. And why the bloody hell would anyone want to eat starch?

Sorry, miss. [ this for the 'bloody'. ]

[handing]

You can call me Pepper, if you'd like. [Although Richard seems the sort who may not be so comfortable with that, she gives him the option. It's one of many cultural differences that are coming to the surface in this conversation, and she tempers her grin as she elaborates on what she's spoken.]

Starches are foods like potatoes or rice or pasta. [As opposed to something like laundry starch, or whatever version of it Richard might be thinking of.] As for vegetables, any of them can be good depending on how they're made. What have you made before that you're comfortable with?

[greenjacketed]

As you wish, Pepper. [ actually, once a woman invites him to use their christian name? he's pretty much content to do so. although it wouldn't show to the typical modern individual, sharpe came from a background where courtly manners were never quite the norm.

of course, it doesn't mean a few instances of miss pots won't turn up again, depending on the context. ]

Haven't made much, if I'm honest. My sergeant or his lass usually looks after the meals. Or the cook in the officer's mess. [ ... ] But I've done potatoes before, I suppose.

[handing]

[It’s a pleasant surprise then, and Pepper certainly is used to being addressed formally time to time anyway—though she doubts Richard will use her name in quite the same context Tony does.  Back to the topic at hand, however, and she considers what she’s learned about cooking to try and come up with some ideas.]
 
Maybe you could try roasting it?  Just cooking it in the oven with the vegetables cut up in the same pan.  I know that works for other meats, and you can use potatoes for it; carrots too.  [Also onions, but considering the purpose of the dinner, more pungent foods aren’t smart.]

[greenjacketed]

...Are you much of a cook yourself, Pepper?

[handing]

[That earns a laugh, and Pepper shakes her head quickly.] Oh, no. Not really. I mean, I cook for Tony and myself, and I have a friend who gives me lessons, but I'm not an expert or anything.

[greenjacketed]

[ slyly: ] Then one wonders whether I ought to be taking advice from you at all.

[handing]

[Oh, so is that how it's going to be? Pepper presses her lips together to hide her grin, slowly nodding as she considers that.]

You know, you might be right. I'm sure any number of people that are far more experienced in cooking could give you advice. Of course, who knows how much time you'll need to find one of them, and then you could be rushing to get everything finished because of how long it could take, but I'm sure you'll be fine.

[Said with all the sweetness and innocence in the world, of course.]

[greenjacketed]

...The lady plays a tough game, I see.

[ he can respect that. ] Tell me, then, lass? What wine would you -- err -- serve? With pheasant?

[handing]

I've had some practice. [see: her boyfriend.]

Something red. [At least it seems to be a solid choice from what Pepper's seen on menus.] But you can probably get away with a blush if she wants something sweeter.

[greenjacketed]

...A blush, Pepper?

[handing]

[Oh Richard.  Forced to learn all sorts of things today.]  A blend of a red and white wine.  It’s lighter in color, so it’s called a blush.

[greenjacketed]

...Sounds proper rancid, if you ask me.

[handing]

I'm just pointing out your options. [And getting a certain amusement from doing so; she's still grinning.] You're the one who's going to decide what you serve.

[greenjacketed]

...It's be much easier if proper ladies would deign to drink gin, y'know.

[ not that sharpe much liked gin himself, but all the lasses back in the rookery drank it. ]

[handing]

Have you asked if she does? You’re the one who brought up wine.

[And while it is standard on most of Pepper’s date nights, she’s also a fan of cocktails. So, sorry Sharpe. No easy excuses.]

[greenjacketed]

Don't need to ask. Gin's not normally fit for the tongue of someone so fine. It's a drink for the muck, you see.

[handing]

And because she’s a lady, she can’t be deigned to drink anything below her station? [It’s a half-serious question, accompanied by a curious look.]

[greenjacketed]

...I've lived among gin-queens -- [ he smiles. ] They're a breed apart. But I'm not sure Miss Faith Long would care to hear about my past associations.

[ and yet? telling pepper was a-okay. go figure. ]

[handing]

[Pepper figures it boils down to the fact that he's making dinner for one, and not the other.]

Probably a smart choice. [The bit about not sharing associations.] But my point is, don't assume that a woman doesn't like something that's considered lower class just because she's a lady. Not that you shouldn't be polite, but it could turn out that she likes things that might surprise you--including gin.

[greenjacketed]

I would be very surprised, aye. But if it's all the same to you, I might put off asking until the second dinner. Aye?

[handing]

[She laughs then, shaking her head.]
 
Major, this is your date.  You really don’t need my permission.

[greenjacketed]

Only your advice, ma'am. Pepper. For which I swear I'm more grateful for than I look.