Morsels

Dahlia

If a place could be modern, hip, cutting edge and elegant all at the same time, this would be the place. The decor of the interior is both completely avant guard, with tiered and sculpted curved seating, the lighting an effortlessly shifting array of blues and whites and grays and comfortable enough that it would appeal to guests of both the older vampiric generations and the younger. The restaurant is not large, and is obviously exclusive, but there's an energy emanating from the building that is both exciting and inviting. A bar sits against the back wall of the restaurant, the shelves filled with an array of both home-made and imported wines, liqueurs and aperitifs. Opposite the bar is the kitchen, which is kept open to the public, at least through a soundproofed glass wall panel, the science and space-aged feel of the machinery and techniques used in the creation of the meals as much a part of the attraction of the restaurant as the meals themselves. A hostess station sits at the front of the restaurant, always manned by a maitre d'.


It's evening. It's always evening. There's a timeless quality to Dahlia, a feeling of entropy. Of an escape from the rigors of having to allow the rising and setting of the sun to rule you. Soft music, the buzz of conversation, the effortless flow of the staff and the dishes coming in coming out of the kitchen. A sensual gourmand's playground. And tonight, as with every night, the restaurant has its share of customers, from the local blood to those coming in from out of town. Some seat themselves at the bar, others at the circular tables throughout the dining room, others amuse themselves with aperitifs as they stand looking in through the glass wall into the kitchen.

Chef is at the maitre d' station, speaking softly, directing a few changes to the reservation lists, bumping this one here, that one there. And seeming for all the world as if she couldn't care a wit who might be inconvenienced. But, seeing that all of the guests waiting walk into the dining room happy, it's all for the good. With the problem managed, she's back to making her way into the dining room, pausing now and again to do her 'rounds' at the tables.

—-

One of those amusing themselves with the aperitifs is is the blonde-haired Whip of the City of Dallas, looking somewhat out of place in comparison to the others that are around him. With a martini glass in hand, he's not entirely certain how to hold it, so he's got his hand wrapped around the stem as he uses his other hand to dig into the liquid and pull out the 'olive'. Staring at it briefly, his brows knit and resists the urge to squish it in his fingers. Instead, he tosses the 'fruit' into his mouth, but not before sniffing it, and, with fangs extended, chomps down… and pauses.. his mouth closed, but even then, the traces of the blood find their way to the edges of his lips, tinging the pale skin.

Looking down at the drink, Marius searches for another 'olive', but finding none, drains the glass as if he was knocking back an ale.. and even more is lost by the corners of his mouth. Bringing a black sleeved arm up, he wipes at the edges, effectively smearing the crimson liquid rather than cleaning it off completely.

—-

Mischa doesn't have a reservation, though he may have reservations. The man is not particularly keen on being in a restaurant run by the people who are most upset right now. Nevertheless, Mischa can't possibly stay away from a new restaurant — even if it is specifically geared toward vampires. It's painfully obvious he's not one of them. His skin is extremely tanned from his vacation and well — he's fairly warm. A vampire would be able to feel the warmth rolling off of him.

As Mischa starts to glance around he realizes that this may not have been the best place for him rather late in the game. But he's here, and so he moves over toward the maitre d' station, waiting patiently for someone to maitre him. He glances at all of the vampires dining on their 'food', though he doesn't seem terribly disgusted nor put off by it. Rather the contrary, he seems fascinated. If not a little frightened.

—-

A tall, elegant brunette vampire is the maitre d' on duty, his warm, cultured voice pulled from the finest regions of the what could be identified as the former Ottoman Empire, Turkey to be exact, shifts his attention to Mischa as he arrives. If he seems at all perturbed by the presence of a living morsel, well, he gives no evidence of it. His performance is as flawless as any of the staff. Chef does not tolerate…stumbles. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Dahlia. Your name?" for the reservation, no doubt.

A waitress, dressed to the nine, impeccably mannered, approaches the Whip, carrying a tray with a single slightly water beaded dish, "Chef has sent these for your enjoyment." With one hand supporting the dish, the free one lifts the cover away. More olives. She offers them, for the Whip's approval, before she'll set it at the tall column close to where he's standing. A few of those pepper the area in front of the kitchen, to allow for guests to place down their glasses, if necessary. Or for samples and little tidbits to be served while they watch.

—-

Too soon the glass is emptied. One of the joys of drinking, both before and after turning, is the dizzying heights one can reach while under its effect. Both are so very.. intoxicating, yes. Ale houses, and the screaming cries of his victim.. and this restaurant?

Marius is a sore thumb. Out of place. Bull in a china shop?

Still, the veteran has some semblance of decorum, when he has his full measure of patience, and this evening he happens to have almost all.

The approach of the waitress and tray of .. olives gains his attention, and working out where to place his empty glass, "Yes." A step is taken back for the waitress to set the morsels down before given a dismissive nod. Picking up another olive with his fingers, he stares at the bit again..

The entrance of the breather garners Marius' attention immediately after he brings the olive to his lips but doesn't yet eat. The blood drips from the morsel, onto his hand, a line of crimson trailing as it follows the course of gravity. The man is unknown to him, and once noticed, is summarily ignored, the olive is consumed quickly.

—-

Mischa takes in a deep breath and regards the new maitre d' with a slight smile. "This all sounded much better in my head when I rehearsed it, but. I don't have a reservation. I came to apply for a job. Do you actually have applications here, or is there another process? I mean, I know I'm not…" What they're probably looking for. He clears his throat and reaches up to awkwardly scratch at the back of his neck. Mischa realizes that some of the patrons are probably staring at him — and does his best not to return their gazes, save for the brief smiles to a few of them who look… none too dangerous.

—-

Thankfully for Mischa, no matter how enticing he might look, what with his pulse beating at his throat, or smell, of heat and life and sun, Dahlia has more than wait staff on the books. They also have excellent security, not only at the doors leading inside, but circulating, mostly unseen through the interior. "Ah yes, of course. Chef does all hiring. She would need to speak to your herself. I am not certain if she is free—" Here he turns, seeking out the woman dressed in whites. "Ah yes, I will let her know that you are here for her. Please, if you'll have a seat." A place on one of the divans in the waiting area is indicated.

Chef is indeed making her way through the dining room, though she seems to have a method to her madness, or at least a goal at the end of her trek. The kitchen. Or rather, the viewing area in front of it. And the blonde Hessian in particular. "Are they to your liking?" It's always quite important to make certain dishes, even appetizers are well received. And for Vivienne, it's doubly important that the Whip is not displeased with the cuisine. The blood at the mouth goes uncommented, the scarlet on his fingers equally so. Blood is, of necessity, a messy business. But if it is a sign of enjoyment, well, she'll take it. Gladly.

—-

Marius' attention is taken from the little bowl of olives when the Chef de Cuisine makes her appearance. "Ah.." He licks his fingers quickly before dropping his hands. "Yes. They are. They are.. unlike anything I've had," other than biting the still beating heart of a victim to feel the squirt of blood from the chambers.. "Recently," is added.

A subtle glance is given towards the front of the shop, his expression turning impassive. "Breathers.. must everything be open to them?" There are times when their presence tires him, and in a quiet moment such as this? "Or do you encourage such a thing?"

—-

A seat is taken. Much anymore Mischa isn't terribly inclined to argue with vampires. "Thank you," he says, nodding to the maitre'd. It's only now that he's sitting down that the vampire patrons of the restaurant get a close once and twice over. Their food dishes get more attention than they do. Mischa stares at all of the reinvented and deconstructed dishes with some mixture of amazement and envy. He hasn't yet noticed that there seems to be a conversation about him or those like him going on. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a business card, glancing down at it before he lets out the quietest of sighs. "I need a pen," he mutters beneath his breath.

—-

"I will take that as a high compliment, Mr. Schlachter." Vivienne is certainly not going to use his first name. And his title would simply be…inappropriate, regardless that there are likely very, very few within the restaurant, at least among the local denizens, who do not know who he is. "The kitchen is, of course, open to you. Whatever strikes your fancy, my staff will provide for you. if you wish to sample some of our more…experimental fare, that is also a possibility." It may or may not be that Marius' palette is unrefined, or that he's a bit bullish, but delicious food is still delicious food, even if you can't tell the difference between a consomme and a souffle. As Vivienne looks past the Whip to the man by the maitre d's station, her lips curl into a delighted smile. If the look of absolute predation that flits across her features for the fleeting instant the smile lasts, could be seen as, well, delighted. "Dahlia does not bar the living from visiting us, if only to cater to those within our community who enjoy having them within their entourage. We do not, however, encourage them. Though, I have found, that, on occasion, it does seem to add some spice to the palette. I will take care of the situation." Which seems is what she ought to be doing, as the maitre d', catching her line of sight, indicates, with the slightly flick of his head, that the man is here for her. "If you will excuse me for a moment." As she passes the waitress who brought the olives, she murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard, even by vampiric standards. "Mr Schlachter is your charge. What he wishes, when and how he wishes." And then, Chef is on her way over towards the front of the house, skirting patrons and staff, to approach the seating area. She does stop, once she arrives where Mischa is sitting, "I am told that you were here to see me? I am Chef Michiels. What can we offer you tonight?" Her body language is relaxed, her demeanour engaging. If ever there was a vampire of the court, it would be this Belgian.

—-

"Ah.. yes. I will keep that in mind."

Delicious food is delicious food, even if the texture is strange, and there is a solid consistency that is coupled with the familiar slick, liquid.. No doubt everything is simply comprised of blood. He can sense the different levels of iron, creating a strange but not unappealing flavour.

The expression that flickers across the Chef's face gives more response than the cultured words. She is not averse to.. fresh ingredients, so to speak?

With Vivienne's departure and the waitress' attention, Marius finds his way back to the olives, and finally giving in to temptation, squeezes the olive to test the strength of the 'food'. The dark red liquid oozes out and onto his fingers, and quickly, the Whip puts his head back slightly and eats the crushed 'fruit', licking his fingers soon after. He'll have to get an order of these 'to go'..

—-

Mischa hasn't yet noticed Marius' attack on the food. If he had? Well, it probably wouldn't exactly spell success for him in such a venue. The man's stomach is certainly not iron. Mischa smiles at the chef as she makes her way over, standing up to greet her. "Hello Mi… Chef Michiels. I had heard through the grapevine so to speak that you're hiring. Perhaps it's a little ambitious of me considering the sort of venue you run, but I am a fairly decent chef and think that if permitted, I would make an excellent ally in your kitchen. I also write my own recipes — if you were interested in perhaps studying some of them." It does at least come out professional, if not a bit stiff. The man has surely rehearsed this exact wording until blue in the face. Mischa glances toward the patrons of the restaurant and lowers his voice. "I realize that you're very busy — if there's perhaps a time I could come back so that we may discuss this when there aren't so many enjoying their food? I hate to take someone away from their work."

—-

It's not unheard of, for Dahlia to employ the living. In fact, being that their customers, and the vampiric staff both, rise as soon or just before the restaurant opens, and go to sleep when it closes, the restaurant does not have the luxury of being 'open' before hours or after for prep work or cleanup. And so, all of that is, of necessity, done by the living members of the kitchen staff. "You may call me Chef, Mr.?." A pause, as she waits for the name to be presented. Vivienne flicks a hand, indicating the interior behind her, "Tomorrow is my day off. I would be glad to meet with you then, both to explore your abilities in the kitchen, and to review your recipes. I am always interested in exploring new work. But I will warn you. All begin as a commis. You begin a rotation at each station as an understudy to a chef de partie. As you can imagine, given the venture we are undertaking here, it is difficult, even for those within our community to come in and have an understanding of the cuisine here such that they can hit the ground running." And she does make sure to let him know up front. Very few skilled chefs, in any kitchen, would be happy to start out as a commis, generally considered to be lower than the low on the cooking totem pole, only slightly higher than the kitchen assistants or escueleries.

—-

An order to go is a perfect idea, and a brief gesture is given to the waitress that was designated to be 'his'. "I would like to bring some of these with me.. as well as.." Marius allows his voice to trail off as blue eyes scan the dining area. There's a small glass with different coloured layers within; another attractive morsel— a 'verrine', but the name obviously escapes the Whip. "Some of those.. and.." This is a case of pictures do a great deal more for him than words on a menu; most of which mean absolutely nothing to him.

".. that's it." There isn't anything else that is leaving the kitchen that catches his eye..
The conversation in the front is given scant attention, and with any luck the lamb will be sent on his way..

—-

"Alexandrov. Mischa Alexandrov." Thankfully he doesn't say it in the 'Bond' tone. He doubts it would go over spectacularly well with this woman, let alone half the people in the restaurant. "I'm happy to start out wherever you need me, Chef. This is the first time that I've ever done anything like this and I would just be grateful for the learning experience. Mischa nods to Vivienne however. "Then tomorrow I shall come by again and bring along a recipe book. Thank you for that, I appreciate it. I really shouldn't take up anymore of your time though — you've got quite the clientele already built up. I'm sure that the numbers will continue to grow."

—-

The waitress accepts the Whip's order, making a note, content to wait as he chooses his dishes for the evening. When he mentions that he'd like them to go, there's a slight dip, a nod, which is elaborated by her voice a moment later. "Of course, sir. I will have the kitchen prepare your order immediately." And then, as she did get the memo quite a while ago, and she might as well get it out now, she continues, "Chef also wishes me to tell you that the kitchen is at your service. Should you be away from the restaurant, but wish us to prepare something to your liking, you have only to contact us and describe what you might wish, and Chef would be happy to prepare it for you." She dips, a curtsey no less proper for being done by a woman in the female black and white attire of the wait staff. And then she's on her way, moving smoothly into the kitchen to relay the order. Marius can of course, see his order being prepared. hey, it's not only exciting to look at, you can make sure there's no funny business going on.

Vivienne nods, accepting the name, "I will make certain to let the staff know that when you arrive that you should be escorted back to see me. Shall we say about…ten in the evening?" Just late enough for her to have had time to wake up, relax, and then wander her way through the kitchen for a bit. "I will guarantee your safety while you are here, and for the duration of your stay with us, however long that may be." At the compliment, she offers a smile, "We have been fortunate that our community has been so excited by our venture. Thank you, Mr. Alexandrov. I do look forward to meeting with you tomorrow."

—-

Marius nods his acknowledgment of the waitress' information, pleased. Reaching for another olive, he pops it into his mouth, savouring the bite as he gets used to the texture and flavours. It's certainly different, perhaps deceptively satiating. "I will be sure to give the Chef my thanks for her diligence, and I will avail myself of her services." It's a dismissal of sorts as his attention swings back around to the rest of the room.
Catching the end of the conversation, Marius isn't certain he heard much correctly.. '-ov' doesn't do much, and he's going to have to ask, should the Chef return.
Twisting around as the waitress enters the kitchen area, Marius can see the order displayed and the small glasses filled with the different coloured and textured levels of the glass, topped with a garnish.. over and over. Once that is completed, the olives, too, are put into a case with the carryout of the verrine.. and the waitress bring it back out to him.
Taking his purchase, Marius makes his way up to the front of the restaurant to the cashier.. and money is exchanged; it doesn't happen often, so Marius' hand has to reach into a pocket to pick out bills. Eventually, it's counted, and the remainder is replaced. With a nod to the busy Chef, the Whip sees himself out, with the 'good night, sir's echoing at his back at the closing of the door.

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