Summary:Sif finally meets Ambrose's spouse Talbot, and they share a light conversation over a heavy meal of barbecue. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's been several eventful days since Sif last shared a meal with Ambrose, and she's trying to maintain her vague semblance of a schedule. Really she does. And inviting Ambrose to share a meal is part of that schedule. It's her turn to supply the food, so she extends the invitation to eat at the establishment there just down the block from the embassy. Their roasted meats are nearly the rival of anything from Asgard, even if the creatures the meats are from seem far from hunt-worthy beasts.
Seated at a booth about halfway into the crowded and slightly claustrophobic BBQ joint, Sif idly turns a glass of icewater in its condensation puddle while waiting for Ambrose to arrive.
"Oh…the scent of it. I daresay if I were in my other guise, I would be licking my chops." The master-thief's murmur floats in thoughtful musicality over towards the man walking alongside him. "I did tell you she had good taste in the culinary realm. Would that it was less busy, but we are to be treated and I, for one, am not going to turn down the opportunity to dine as such."
Ambrose can be seen to enter the restaurant and lift his nose in a markedly canine-like scenting. The hostess is informed that they're meeting someone here, thank you — ah, there she is. "Milady Sif," says the Jackal and then inclines his head to her in a modern semblance of a bow as he stops by the booth. "You are radiant as always. I brought company — may I introduce Kent Talbot." He gives the man beside him a self-satisfied little smirk. Oh yes. Tis Kent.
The Jackal, in turn, is accompanied by the Hound. Kent tends to be far more conservative in his use of his powers these days, and in this place. So for all it's generally known, he's only Ambrose's quiet, rather austerely-dressed husband.
Though it's a hot summer night, so he's dressed only in t-shirt and plain jeans, as he holds the door open for his beloved, expression amused, in its lazy, reserved way.
Sif does not stand to greet the pair when they arrive, which might be odd in and of itself. But she does offer the pair a smile, especially as she can tell rather quickly how well-suited the two men are for each other. They remind her a bit of the shield-brothers in that regard.
"Well met, Kent Talbot." She bows her head slightly over the fisted hand held to her sternum. "Please, join us. This tavern offers meats of consistently good quality." She's been TRYING to get them to improve their bread, but it's an uphill battle. And she won't even speak of the strange, mushy yellowish mess they offer as one of the accompaniments to their meats.
"This, I am glad to hear." Ambrose slides into the booth across from Sif and makes himself comfortable, leaving the outside seat for Kent to take as he wishes. The menu is picked up and perused. Wearing also a simple t-shirt and jeans, the Jackal frowns at the samplings listed.
"I do defer to your knowledge of what is good in regards to fare here, milady," he says, glancing up at Sif. "I do not have much experience in American barbecued meats."
The horror that is grits spans worlds. "A pleasure, Lady Sif," he says, bowing a bit, before he seats himself by Ambrose's side. "Pork. The pulled pork. It is tender and shredded…" And he is not going drool in front of Asgardian nobility….
Kent offers a little smile, but the pale gray eyes are sharp, gauging. He's not quite certain what he's seeing, in terms of her aura, but….it's very odd indeed.
"I have found that I prefer the brisket, myself." Likely because Sif can normally order an entire one for herself and finish it handily. "And another acquaintance allowed me to sample the roasted rib bones of the pork creature. Also quite good, though the seasoning was slightly… painful?" Ambrose should understand instantly what she's talking about. He saw an example of that firsthand.
The menu shows fairly standard American barbecue fare, including the consistent side dishes of starch (potatoes), starch (corn), and starch (macaroni and cheese, the odd mushy yellow stuff). Perhaps a bit more unusual, though, is the small section of 'excusive offerings' including fruits and vegetables cooked in unusual sounding ways like 'apricots and plums braised in lingonberry sauce' and 'stewed berry medley' featuring rare names like gooseberries and currants.
"Today's feast is my treat, so please, select anything you like."
"Ah. Then I suppose we shall have to treat ourselves to the tender, shredded pork sans the hotter spices." Indeed, the Jackal does remember well the incident involving Chinese hot mustard — oops. "The concept of the…" Ambrose peers at the menu, his finger working to underline the offering in question. "Stewed berry medley does appeal to me. Potatoes, I think, in the style of 'homefries'. To drink, a dark beer if they have it…nothing lighter than a porter."
Cerulean-blue eyes flicker up to the Asgardian warrior. "Your kindness in standing us this meal is appreciated, milady Sif. Our thanks. I shall return the favor with a meal of my own in the future." A beat. "As in, I will bring one. My own cooking skills are not to be lauded." He does not glance over at Kent even as he smiles to himself. Poor Kent. How he suffers now and then.
Corn and chicken for Kent, this time. Still trying to not drool on himself - English restraint wars with his canine soul. "Yes," he agrees, looking up. "You should come visit us at home….I'm a decent cook. Or, perhaps, a meal elsewhere of your choosing."
"I would be honored with either, Lord Talbot. I have tried many varied taverns and eateries on this island of Manhattan, and … well, I had not realized that a simple avian named 'chicken' could be prepared so many different ways."
The waiter arrives and takes their orders, though when Sif orders half of a brisket the surprise is followed with the unexpected question, "Not the whole brisket?". And clearly, the darker and heartier beers of the European style are also strangely popular in this establishment.
Ambrose orders as he previously mused over alongside a pint of Founder's American Porter. He hands his menu over to the waiter and smiles pleasantly — truly, pleasantly for once — before settling into his seat with a panther-like stretch of his hands across the table. He then folds his arms to rest on it, glancing between Kent and Sif.
"We've enough room at the table and an extra chair can be pulled from one of the studies, I'd say. I don't believe either of the offspring have met an Asgardian before…?" He grins over at his husband, already wondering what innocently-awful shenanigans the pair might try and pull.
Talbot slants a look at Ambrose, warningly. I know what you're thinking. No. Such No. "I don't believe they have either. I don't think they've met anyone not from this world….."
He shrugs his shoulders. "We have spare chairs. They fold up, mostly they sit in the hall closet. The children can bear them for the duration of a dinner."
Sif looks from Ambrose to Talbot and back, her expression growing more confused and concerned by the moment. "I… am not sure I understand. I was told that Midgardians of the same physical sex could not procreate together." In her mind that means one thing: one or the other of them is not Midgardian. She'd bet on Ambrose, as he's the one that also becomes a jackal, much like she's seen mages from Alfheim do. And those same mages have been known to make themselves female on a whim.
Her increasingly baffled mental path is interrupted thankfully by the waiter returning with their drinks and meals. And yes, Sif is given half of a cut of brisket, easily three pounds of meat. She thanks the waiter, then from a sack next to her she produces a hearty-looking domed loaf of bread and a knife.
Thank you, waiter! Ambrose is spared an immediate, highly-likely pithy reaction slipping from his lips and, rather wisely, considers a more logical response than something like, And you would be quite impressed by my sleight-of-hand as well! This floats through the kythe regardless.
Far more evenly, he replies to Sif, after sipping at his porter. "You are correct, milady, in that Midgardians of the same physical sex cannot do such a thing." How pink is he, but thank god for naturally sun-kissed skin to hide an amount of the flush. "Our offspring each originate from a different mother. We were fated to be incredibly lucky to find them despite the span of time and the world itself."
"May I try a bite of that bread? It looks very good," Kent says, perhaps boldly. Then she's expressing her confusion, and he's blinking. "No, you are entirely right," he confirms. "I….in our cases, they were…." Then Ambrose is explaining it, at least somewhat. A look for Ambrose. No mentioning that Atherton can be female, now and again.
"Of course," Sif says as she neatly slices off a heel from the crusty bread then follows that by slicing a thick slab from the loaf to offer the man. "The bread offered here is … inadequate. I found the place that bakes for our embassy kitchens, and learned that they make proper breads." A second thick slab is cut for herself and then used as a trencher to piled on at least four slices of the brisket.
She's eating sparingly compared to her usual.
"So I take it that you are a fairly recent pair, then?" After all, they DID just mention children from other Midgardians. It's not too far a logical leap.
Ambrose takes a fork to his own plate of food, given the pork is already pulled and if not, fall-off-the-bone tender. He inhales over it and sighs happily. "Recent? I suppose one must take into account relative lifespans. My own research has proven to suggest that your own, milady Sif, the Asgardians, they have lives spanning many, many centuries if not thousands of years."
She gets an even look from the Jackal. "Rest assurred, you are a flower admist the spread of clover, milady," he adds on the sly along with a perfectly charming smile. Returning to the previous tack of conversation, he explains, "Mister Talbot has suffered my presence for…" The words fade out as he gives Kent a musing glance. "I suppose quite some time, if through memory during our time of separation. We did not raise our own offspring, mind you. Others took the time and effort. They arrived to us in the stream of fate fully-grown, as if to be Athena sprung from a skull."
Talbot is suitably impressed by the bread. IT looks both substantial and delicious….and buttered, goes wonderfully with the chicken just arrived. "We became lovers about a hundred years ago, maybe a bit less," he says, between bites. "But we were separated after a few years…..and only found each other recently. As he said…..we hadn't the fortune to raise our children. Truth be told, we only found out not long ago that we were fathers at all. But….we're lucky in that they've chosen to live with us, and learn each other as adults."
With a nod, Sif accepts their explanations. She knows intellectually that the spans of time they mention are far beyond the norm for Midgardians, but in the scope of time for Aesir it's honestly quite short. "I would be honored to meet your children, then." It's a bit of a relief, as well. She was not really anticipating having to be around small Midgardian children. They always seem so … breakable.
"The bakers claim this is their 'artisan loaf', though I must confess I did not fully understand. It's just bread." She finishes off the first bit of brisket and trencher, and reaches for the plum and apricot side. As Ambrose has likely seen before, she doesn't seem to think about utensils much, though she did set a small, wickedly sharp knife on the table presumably for the meat.
In a display of marital comfort (with potentially having his knuckles slapped with a spoon), Ambrose reaches over to Kent's plate to snag a piece of the brown bread in question with a dart of his fork. He sniffs it before placing it in his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he then sips at his beer. Not half-bad, is the conclusion based off the fact of not spitting it out into his napkin.
"It is indeed of quality, milady Sif. A fine addition to the fare set out before us. This pork does have some heat, I understand now what you earlier implied," he adds, designating a lump of the tender meat with its spices.
"Bread in this day and age in Midgard is sad, thin stuff," Kent agrees, with ready sympathy. "This is properly substantial," Trying not to wolf it down. Ambrose gets a very stern look, but no scolding….even though it is never wise to steal a dog's food. He's eating the chicken with relish.
Sif pauses from spearing a piece of apricot with her small knife to take up the larger one and slice three more trenchers — one for each of them — pretty much decimating the loaf. But, she was prepared. She brought more. The second is clearly an extra-dark and rich rye, something she considered a novelty.
"If either of you would care to sample the brisket, please do not hesitate." She's not canid, she won't guard her food jealously. Besides, it's part of Aesir culture to share platters of food. She had difficulty comprehending at first that most meals here on Midgard are portioned and served to each individual.