(no subject)

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Lègle de Meaux has had a long and intimate relationship with bad luck and poor decision-making. In this case the decision is the Bar's: Bossuet wanders in, asks for wine, and gets a Happy Hour note instead. Right, then. He picks a cabinet at random and sees what comes out.

The only useful thing is an enormous bag of lemons and limes. From there, with some rummaging and muttering--("Arrack? No, arrack is old-fashioned. No, no, sugar tongs, these are not sugar tongs. Let's have another bottle of rum. Oh, God, are there bandages?")--he finally comes up with a large and innocent-looking bowl of:

PUNCH AU CITRON VERT

Now he'll just...finish bandaging up his fingers and wait to see if anyone wants to try their luck with an order.

Comments

[jackdaws_master]

This was supposed to be Nassau, but Edward's not about to complain; the Bar's got a marked tendency to be cleaner and brighter, and smell less lived-in, than any building in Nassau Town. Not to mention the prices are reasonable for drink that's of far better quality. It seems to him he's in no position to object, aye? Especially not when there's new things to be tried, and next to no chance of being robbed or knifed or the like if he lets down his guard after.

"What's all this, then?" he inquires as he catches sight of the punch-bowl.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Punch! A punch of improvisation rather than rote memorization or book-learning, which is to say I made it up as I went along. But I modestly assert that it's not too bad." He indicates his own glass. "Can I tempt you?"

It's not mostly rum, that would be absurd, but it's significantly rum.

[jackdaws_master]

"Well, I don't see why not," says Edward with a grin. "That's a fair deal finer than my usual fare, but that's the nature of this place, isn't it?"

Nothing at all wrong with significantly rum in his book! It's as good as water, so far as he's concerned, only without the risk of being struck ill the next day from a bad barrel.

"D'you take Spanish coin, by chance?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"I can't think why not," he says blithely. Bossuet's still foggy on the details of payment in this place. "I've never met the owner, and if he's particular about currency he should hire a more regular staff."

He ladles out a generous and fragrant cup. "Are you new here?"

[jackdaws_master]

"Been here a time or two, even served as the tender myself once," says Edward, "but it never hurts to be certain when it's men instead of the place's witchcraft, aye?"

He slides a handful of silver coins- Spanish reales, old ones at that- across the Bar in exchange for the cup.

"My thanks, friend. You don't get the likes of this at sea."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet finds an empty pitcher and drops the coins in. "You're a sailor, then? You must tell me what you think of it. I'd say it's not unlike drinks I've had at a friend's home--his family are from Martinique--but I'll trust a sailor's judgment when it comes to the authenticity of rum-punch."

He made sure to sample his work as it progressed.

[jackdaws_master]

"So long as it's got proper rum and it's not been watered down beyond recognition, friend, it'll be fine by me," says Edward with a grin. "Martinique's farther east than my usual waters, truth be told. For the most part my ship's in the seas off Cuba and Jamaica. But you've done a damned fine job so far as I'm concerned, I'll tell you that much."

[street_sparrow]

Gavroche wanders up and eyes him.

"What have you done to your hands?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Hmm? Oh--well, I was cutting lemons and there was an accident with a knife, and then when I went to do the nutmeg the grater turned vicious. Also there was a broken glass--" Shrug. The usual story. "Would you like some?"

[street_sparrow]

"...three different things." He shakes his head, affectionately despairing. "What's in it?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"The broken glass was most assuredly not my fault. Someone left it behind a sack of cinnamon."

Hmm, what is in the punch. Bossuet gestures vaguely at a collection of empty bottles. "Well--lemons and limes. Sugar. Cinnamon, nutmeg, a splash of orange curaçao, a bit of rum--light and dark--the usual."

[street_sparrow]

"A bit of rum." He peers at the bottles and laughs. "A lot of rum. Well, I'll try it, why not?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Why not, indeed?" Bossuet pours out a glass--a more modest one than he'd given Edward. He may not be the picture of responsibility but he still thinks of Gavroche as too young for bottomless tankards of punch. He adds ice without asking first. "What do you think?"

[onceaviking]

He isn't hungry. But he knows he needs to feed. So he walks up to the Bar and waits for the tender to notice him.

Big, pale, hulking person with red rimmed eyes leaning on the counter.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet raises his eyebrows. That's...certainly someone big, pale, and hulking! "Rum punch? It's sailor-approved. Or I can try to make something else."

[onceaviking]

"Sadly, no," Eric replies.
"I will take a bottle of Tru Blood. It's normally kept in the fridge. There. "
He points.

" You unscrew the top and heat it in the microwave. That thing there. "

His voice is a little rough, and he doesn't look healthy, but he is quite polite.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet looks doubtful, but he'll try. While he searches in the refrigerator (a wonderful contraption!) he begins to recall a brief conversation with Dr. Lecter. Drinkers of blood...

He unscrews the top and stares at the microwave, completely stumped. "This is far beyond my expertise."

[onceaviking]

"You push the square button in the corner, down there. It opens, you place the bottle on the small glass plate, you close it. You push the start button twice. You wait, it goes ding. You serve it."

If the Viking can do it ....

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

The bandaged fingers make him clumsy, but--click, ping, ping, whirrr, ding, and Lesgle gingerly pushes the square button again to open the machine. Nothing astonishing has happened, except that the bottle is warmer. He fetches down a glass, still without disaster.

"And--there. Yes?"

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Enjolras settles onto a stool with a faint smile -- although it fades into a furrowed brow of concern when he catches sight of Bossuet's hands.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet quirks his eyebrows at Enjolras. "You see what sacrifices I am ready to make for this place. I have bled in the service of...Happy Hour, they call it? A charming name."

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"Not too bad, I hope."

Bossuet's posture suggests not, and the limited quantity of both bandaging and visible blood.

Bossuet's manner also suggests not, but that's not so reliable. Bossuet would joke in the face of cannons and bayonets and imminent death; indeed, he did so.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He holds up his splayed fingers, only a century or so too early for jazz hands. "All fully functional, so long as I'm not needed for fine needlework. God save us all if I am."

Lesgle looks at his punch bowl, and then at Enjolras. "Can I offer you...?"

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"Thank you, no."

No one is surprised by this.

A little amused, "Were you inspired, or requested?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"I found myself greatly in demand. That is--I meant to have a bite to eat, and found a written request. Have you ever worked on this side of the bar? --And would you like some lemonade, unadulterated? Or anything else? I can burn you some toast, or spill some milk, or..."