Deep Fried Delicacies [Ferris]

[Devon Wentsworth]

That morning Devon had finally been given his proper, official tour around the school. The receptionist had seemed so keen to show him around that he would have felt bad pointing out that he had already actually shown himself around twice over the past weekend. It was a nice official introduction though, and he had learned how to avoid looping back on himself in the corridors and where all the toilets and other amenities were. Walking around Hammel reminded him in so many ways of the school in Switzerland, and even though he was a world away from there now, there was still something comfortably familiar about the place.

The first classes of his Monday morning had been mainly introductions, the students and he getting to know each other a little as he found his place in the art studio. There had been no fireworks, nothing had gotten broken and nothing overly unusual had occurred. It was a lovely, gentle introduction to the vast system and exactly what he needed in that moment.

For as much as Devon had been trying to fight it off, the jet lag from his flight over had finally caught up to him. Tiredness had teamed up with a nagging headache, and his shoulders and knees ached and groaned in protest as he made his way into the staff lounge during the lunch break. The room was quiet and empty, something that normally would have been a slight disappointment, but for now it was actually a welcoming sign. Settling onto one of the very comfortable sofas, Devon let his eyes flicker closed. Just five minutes...

Devon couldn't remember what he had dreamed about, if anything at all, but a scent had crawled into his consciousness and stirred him, and slowly a grey eye peeped open. A quick glance at the clock on the wall showed he had been out for fifteen minutes or so, and after rubbing his eyes Devon looked around for the source of the delicious smell that was making his stomach growl. Finding it, the art teacher stood and stretched out before wandering over to the table where another man was sitting. He offered him a bright smile and indicated to the food. “Please, please tell me where you got that from.”

[Ferris Macklin]

Living back in America didn't mean Ferris had given up cooking foreign, though his stock of ingredients was sadly limited. There were farmer's markets, and that was great, but he missed the breads and the cheeses and the vegetables that seemed ubiquitous overseas like the many kinds of leafy greens, green beans, and the profusion of fresh herbs. Ferris wasn't exactly on a budget, but six bucks for an eggplant was outrageous.

So last night he'd consoled himself. Despite working in several kitchens that would've gotten him some impressed looks from fellow chefs, Ferris had spent a month in a British fish and chips shop specifically to learn how to make them. On the outset it was pretty simple, a flour and water batter mixed with a little baking soda to make it bubbly on the fish, thick cut potatoes. But something about the process made it all taste so distinct... he had to learn it. And the fruits (or fish and potatoes) of that month had made an agreeable dinner, the leftovers of which were in his duckie bag.

Ferris tended to eat his lunch when most people were done with theirs, so the lounge was mostly empty except for the dude napping on the couch. He was a new face, but rather than wake him up to introduce himself, Ferris let him sleep. He warmed his leftover fish and chips in the microwave. Along with them he had some raw veggies and a container of mini pretzels and some experimental cookies that had chunks of Hershey bar and walnut in them.

He was concentrating on eating and thinking about dinner service when he realized the sleeping dude was up and speaking in an accent he hadn't heard in years.

“Please, please tell me where you got that from.”

Ferris looked down at his food. Back at the man. He snorted a chuckle. "From my house. I made it. Uh. Hi." He held out a hand. "Ferris Macklin. Kitchen staff. It might be my duty to relinquish this to you as a gesture of goodwill."

Sliding it towards the new guy, it was about half gone but still contained two nice pieces of fried cod and some still slightly crisp chips. "Please. There's stuff I can scrounge during prep."

And just in case he wanted it, Ferris slid out the little container of malt vinegar and held it out.

[Devon Wentsworth]

As a general rule Devon tended to veer away from junk food, but there had always been something about fish and chips that he adored. It reminded him of family holidays by the sea when he was a kid, the weekend trips to Blackpool in the middle of summer. Go exploring in the tower or run around the Pleasure Beach, a quick dip in the sea (before all the oil spills had happened, obviously), then fish and chips on the pier while watching the promenade come to life with the dazzling lights of the illuminations. So many happy memories from a lifetime long behind...

Sure Devon's greeting to the man was hardly the most polite and proper one he had ever given, but his stomach was guiding him and when he was hungry that was a force to be reckoned with. It smelled absolutely heavenly, and a slight flicker of disappointment crossed Devon's face as the man said it had come from his house. That meant there wasn't an easy supply of it anywhere here. Damnit. Still, Devon put a polite smile on his lips and when the man offered a hand he shook it, his grip firm but friendly. “Hey. I'm Devon Wentsworth, the new art teacher. I just started today.”

Sitting opposite Ferris and straightening his paint-smudged shirt, Devon's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when the food got slid towards him. As he looked at it he realised that it would be the first real food he'd eaten since the plan trip over, if that plastic-wrapped garbage on the flight could ever have been referred to as real food. Without hesitation he stole a chip, popping it into his mouth. The look on his face made the food-gasm happening in his mouth rather obvious, and he gave the man a bright smile. “I think you must be an angel come to save me.”

Breaking off a small piece of the fish, Devon grinned when he saw that it was still crisp and delicious. “Seriously man, thank you so much. I haven't eaten anything proper since the plane.” Then he suddenly remembered his manners. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to commandeer your lunch. Share it with me, at least?”

[Ferris Macklin]

Ferris didn't miss that fleeting look of disappointment. He knew it too well to miss it. It often graced his own face when he found out that this or that wasn't available any more, and he totally understood the man's feelings, though he guessed knowing the food before him still existed was at least better than knowing there was no store that sold it.

“Hey. I'm Devon Wentsworth, the new art teacher. I just started today.”

A thought flitted through Ferris's mind, something about how the British were always on the Americans for butchering the Queen's English and yet came up with a word like 'wents', but it didn't stick around long enough to become something noteworthy. Ferris smiled as he shook hands. "Welcome! I only started a month ago, so I'm new too. What sort of art do you teach? Like, history or the making of?"

Sure the guy's shirt was a wreck but that didn't mean he couldn't teach a little theory or behind the scenes.

Devon snitched a chip almost like his hand (and stomach) was moving independently of the rest of him and the look that came over his face made Ferris grin. "That's sort of how I feel when I come across real Parm," he said. "And real pressed soy sauce."

“I think you must be an angel come to save me.”

He outright laughed at that. "Well if that isn't a soundbite nothing is. I should've recorded that for my voicemail."

“Seriously man, thank you so much. I haven't eaten anything proper since the plane.”

"Proper?" Ferris asked, smirking a little, "Or British?"

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to commandeer your lunch. Share it with me, at least?”

Waving a hand, he pushed it all towards Devon. "No, no. I had two pieces of fish already and I have a bunch of other stuff too. Don't worry about it. I'd feel bad if I didn't let you have this. 'Sides, I can always make more. Cod is pretty cheap these days." Leaning in, he whispered, "It's authentic. I did time in a fish and chips shop just to learn it."

Chef's coat back in the kitchens, Ferris had a print of the Fight Club soap on his green t-shirt and spots of gluten-free rice flour on his jeans. "First time in the states? I've been gone for ten years."

[Devon Wentsworth]

Devon got comfortable in the seat opposite Ferris, his shoulders still ached but he was overall feeling a little better after the power-nap. Clearly the skills that he had picked up as a hard working, harder playing student were still perfectly valid now he was supposedly grown up and in a big, fancy career.

Speaking of careers, he nodded when Ferris asked what form of art he taught. “Both. I can and do teach art history, but my love is for the practical side. There's no better feeling than helping someone get better at something they love, seeing the look on their face when they finish something they're proud of.” Fancy floral words, hell yeah they were, but that didn't stop them being true. Devon loved making beautiful things, but he loved helping others make them even more.

“If the rest of the kitchen staff are as good as you I think I'll be popping in there in the future. This is awesome.” The small broken off bit of fish disappeared, and the near-silent murmur of a sound that left Devon's lips gave some hint at how much it was appreciated. This wasn't Blackpool pier fish and chips. This was perfectly cooked, crisp, melt-in-the-mouth M&S fish and chips.
And Devon's stomach growled in thanks.

“I should've recorded that for my voicemail.” Devon's laugh was an easy one, the art teacher relaxing into the seat and into the other man's company. He was deeply thankful that there already seemed to be one person he got along okay with; the thought of spending much more time completely alone was a terrifying one. “You provided me with food. If you ask I might repeat it for ya.”

When Ferris asked about his definition of 'proper', Devon laughed softly again and picked up the vinegar, sloshing it liberally over the chips. “Bit of both. I only landed on Friday and haven't unpacked... well, anything yet. Been living off café snacks and microwave crap since I got here. As much as my arteries hate me for this” he said, indicating to the chip lunch, “the rest of me could not be happier.”

As the food was officially pushed towards him, Devon's eyes widened and he brushed away a mock-tear. “I think I'm going to cry with joy. My hero!”
"It's authentic. I did time in a fish and chips shop just to learn it.” At that comment the hint of a smirk curled the corner of Devon's lips. “It's perfect, it really is, but you just proved you're an imposter.” He paused for a moment, then the smirk turned into a cheeky smile. “You said fish and chips shop. It's fish and chip shop. Or just chippy.”

Devon made a mental note that he approved of Ferris' taste in movies and popped another chip in his mouth, nodding when Ferris asked if it was his first time State-side. Once he had swallowed, Devon spoke. “Yeah. First time out of Europe, actually. I've only ever been in Britain and Switzerland before. How about you? Are you originally from here, before you went investigating our chippies and stealing our recipes?”

[Ferris Macklin]

“Both. I can and do teach art history, but my love is for the practical side. There's no better feeling than helping someone get better at something they love, seeing the look on their face when they finish something they're proud of.”

"Catering to both sides of the brain. I am impressed." And he was being completely serious. Some said chefs did that when they created new dishes or cooked complicated dishes, but in the arena of food Ferris felt one could only go so far. Some combinations didn't, couldn't work, and the chemistry of food still operated on fairly strict guidelines, no matter how much those molecular gastro guys pulled and stretched. But Ferris liked it that way. He nodded towards Devon's shirt. "Hard on the clothes, though."

It was why Ferris wore a chef's coat at home, though the heavy canvas also protected against heat.

“If the rest of the kitchen staff are as good as you I think I'll be popping in there in the future. This is awesome.”

Ferris laughed. "Oh, they're good. They're excellent. But I have no idea what they're really capable of cooking-wise."

Some people assumed a head chef had the highest level of skill in any kitchen, but for all Ferris knew they was a Julia Child or René Redzepi hiding out amongst them. He wasn't the only one who brought in goodies just for the kitchen staff, but so far his offerings showed the most technical skill, which ultimately didn't mean much, just that he had the time to devote to it. He was probably the only one of them crazy enough to devote hours to making croissants, and that was fine. Probably preferable.

“You provided me with food. If you ask I might repeat it for ya.”

"Mmm. With that accent there's so many possibilities. Let me think on it." He grinned and crunched his veggies. Snow pea pods and carrot sticks. He took the vinegar and sprinkled a little over them.

“It's perfect, it really is, but you just proved you're an imposter. You said fish and chips shop. It's fish and chip shop. Or just chippy.”

Ferris matched him British cheek to American smarm. "Even while I worked at one, I called it a fish and chips shop, and you should be glad, because otherwise-" he pulled the paper of food back to him "-you'd only get the one."

He pushed it back with a chuckle and popped a carrot.

“Yeah. First time out of Europe, actually. I've only ever been in Britain and Switzerland before. How about you? Are you originally from here, before you went investigating our chippies and stealing our recipes?”

"American born and bred, and I don't know if I'm offended you couldn't tell by how I talk or not." He grinned. Ferris had had an American accent in Europe to the very end and didn't know if he had any Euro left in his mouth. He couldn't tell, so he didn't think so. "Spent the last ten years abroad. Last two at Kocher."

He crunched more veggies. "I'm new, but I know there's a few Kocher alumni lurking around that've been here longer than I have, who could probably tell you where to get 'real' food and such. I'm from the Midwest, so I don't know the East Coast, but Vermont? Is 49th out of 50 for population. Take from that what you will."

[Devon Wentsworth]

When Ferris stated that he was impressed with what Devon taught, the Brit allowed himself to feel a little smug. So many years of study and a truly terrifying amount of money had been spent on his education, and as much as he was proud of what he had achieved, sometimes a little ego-stroking wasn't such a bad thing. Even if Ferris wasn't being truly sincere, Devon allowed himself to take it that way anyway and smiled brightly. “Thanks.”

He just shrugged vaguely when Ferris indicated to his paint spattered shirt. “It happens. I could wear an apron but I'd still end up getting coated anyway.” He rolled up the hem of his shirt slightly, showing that he had somehow managed to get a green smudge on his stomach. “I could be completely wrapped in cotton wool and I'd still get it everywhere.”

“But I have no idea what they're really capable of cooking-wise.”
Devon gave a quiet laugh and a cheeky grin, dipping a bit of fish into a stray vinegar puddle. “There you are then, you better get to seeing what they can do! I volunteer to be a guinea pig. I love anything pastry-based.” Devon made a mental note that his inner northern-boy was showing; wrap anything in pastry and them's up norf'll eat it.

The art teacher gave the chef a very sceptical look as the vinegar got sprinkled on the raw veg. In his mind that was breaking some sacred unwritten rule: vinegar was for chips, and nothing more! He knew that was silly really, but that was how he had been brought up. Mum and dad had never kept vinegar in the house, the only time he and Cade had ever had it was when they went to the chippy. It was just... wrong!

“With that accent there's so many possibilities. Let me think on it.” Devon laughed easily, clearly relaxed and content now his stomach was getting something substantial in it. “Feel free to ask away.” He dropped his voice, making it low and husky, his 'band member reeling in the groupies' voice. “I'm very easily bribed with delicious things.”

When Ferris slid the food away from Devon he gave a scandalised gasp, mouth dropping open in mock-shock. When it was slid back he stuck his tongue out at the chef before snagging another chip. Childish maybe, but he was in high enough spirits and it felt wonderful to be having a proper conversation with someone who wasn't an awkward child or an air hostess. He smiled and shrugged casually when Ferris spoke of his accent. “Some people have wandering accents, and I'm shite at identifying them. It took me two years to learn the difference between Swiss-French and French-French.”

Devon's grey eyes lit up when Ferris spoke of Kocher, the art teacher leaning forward slightly and clearly intrigued. “Kocher? I went to school there, after...” he waved a hand vaguely “things happened.” The thought of other people from Kocher being here in Hammel was both exciting and worrying in equal measure. Potentially having other people here that he knew was a thrilling prospect, but he knew full well he hadn't gotten along so brilliantly with everyone. To some he had been a good friend and shoulder to cry on, to others he'd been a complete pain in the hole. “I'll have to track them down at some point, thanks for the pointer!”

[Ferris Macklin]

Ferris snorted a chuckle at the splotch of green on Devon's skin. "Sadly enough I know exactly what you mean. I only buy canvas shoes because they wash well. I got marinara on them last week." And flour that eventually turned to paste, several soup bases, speckles of yogurt, dustings of spices, and more crumbs than he could count, and that was only during his short time in the Hammel kitchens. "But a good chef's coat at least... mitigates. The clothes aren't a total loss every day."

“There you are then, you better get to seeing what they can do! I volunteer to be a guinea pig. I love anything pastry-based.”

Laughing, Ferris said, "You'll have to fight Tracy Jade. He's willing to lower himself to mooch-hood for freebies." Then he thought, and said, "Pastry-based including savory applications?" Ferris sighed with a smile. "To think I had to come to America to find someone who might share my delight with pork pies... though I have to tell you, I do like a slice right out of the oven. I know it's heretical but... I'm American."

Vinegar was great on raw veg, Ferris liked it better than cream dip for livening up crudités. It was much healthier too. At home, Ferris had a whole shelf for vinegars: apple cider, raspberry he'd made himself, white wine, red wine, rice, white, balsamic, malt, black... he loved them all. Part of it was also his love of pickles, the making of which involved a vinegar base, but he just loved it in general as well.

“I'm very easily bribed with delicious things.”

Lowering his voice by an octave, Ferris put on his own silky tone. "You'll have to get in line, guv."

Back to his regular voice, he said, smirking, "I've already been promised two souls and a firstborn and I haven't even brought in the coffeecake muffins with streusel yet."

His face was grave when he slid back Devon's fish and chips, nodding. "Exactly."

“Some people have wandering accents, and I'm shite at identifying them. It took me two years to learn the difference between Swiss-French and French-French.”

"I only learned one big difference right away because I worked in the kitchens. There's different words for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But past that it's mostly accent." Ferris smiled and ate another snow pea. "And I could've spoken the most accentless French or whatever in the world and I still would've been called the crazy American."

He hadn't minded.

“Kocher? I went to school there, after... things happened.”

Ferris nodded. He figured Devon meant manifestation but he didn't ask. When he thought about it, he didn't know if his kitchen staff knew he was meta. Maybe they just assumed he was, though Ferris knew that there were several teachers and staff who were non-powered, as well as half his own minions. Here at Hammel no one had asked him so far, not even a casual 'so what do you do?' It was curious, now that he'd thought about it, but perhaps the other staff were like him and didn't want to make anyone volunteer anything they didn't want to. Ferris also wasn't very curious about other people's powers, probably because his own was such a non-entity. It didn't affect his life at all, and he wouldn't have known he was meta if someone else hadn't figured it out.

He covered a yawn with a hand. As head of the kitchen Ferris pulled a minimum of 55 hours a week, and after he had his lunch but before dinner prep he took an hour's nap in the back room behind the kitchens where he kept files and filled out orders. He smiled at Devon. "If you ask around I'm sure you'll be able to find the Kochers hiding out here. I'm not one, by the way. I just worked there."

[Devon Wentsworth]

Devon nodded understandingly at the mention of canvas shoes. Pretty much his entire footwear collection was various forms of canvas shoes, save for two pairs of leather ones that were reserved for times when he had to make some form of real effort. Most of his shoes were paint smeared in some way or other, some accidentally and some intentionally. Customising shoes was a branch of art he very much enjoyed, though sometimes it did happen sporadically when a rogue droplet of paint ended up inspiring an entire piece. “I completely get that. I bake quite a bit, when I have a kitchen anyway, and icing sugar can be a pain in the arse to get out.”

To be completely honest, Devon didn't really mind about the rate he went through clothes. He tended to keep the clothing he actually cared about well away from anything crafty and had a pile of shirts and jeans that were specifically for the art room. Some of them he wasn't even sure what the original colour of the fabric was any more.

“He's willing to lower himself to mooch-hood for freebies.” Devon laughed softly, breaking off another small piece of fish and popping it into his mouth before chewing and swallowing. “I don't mooch. I always pay my debts.” He smiled, pointing a chip at Ferris for emphasis. “Especially ones resulting from pork pies. No one should ever under-estimate the true value of a home-made meat pie.”

Devouring the chip, Devon looked impressed when Ferris announced the offerings he'd been made so far. “Two souls and a first-born is a tough act to follow. And I have no idea what streusel is but I want some.” Devon mentally added 'streusel' to his ever-increasing list of words he would have to look up. For two countries that apparently spoke the same language, the Americans and the English had very little in common when it came to certain topics. Food especially.

Laughing softly, Devon pouted when he realised the food was starting to run out. He wasn't particularly hungry now, but it was always a sad moment when good things came to an end. “I can call you the Crazy American if you want, but it might be a bit of a broad nickname here.” Based on his experiences over the past few days alone, pretty much every American could fit the bill.

Devon was quietly thankful that Ferris hadn't pushed to ask what his ability was, despite the fact he'd accidentally made it rather obvious that he was meta. It wasn't that Devon was ashamed or anything like that at all, in fact sometimes in the right setting he rather enjoyed showing off about it, it was just that even after all these years it was still a little awkward to say 'oh yeah, I can turn into a polecat.' It was hardly mind-reading or spitting fire. This, of course, didn't stop Devon being fascinated by the abilities of others but he had just enough manners to not broach the subject unless the other person wanted to.

When Ferris yawned and talked about the other Kocher alumni Devon nodded, leaning back in the seat slightly and disengaging some of his enthusiasm. He hoped that Ferris would be able to take the subtle hint that Devon would be fine if he decided to go without having to actually say 'right, you can leave now if you want'. Devon smiled and popped the last piece of the fish. “Yeah I will do. Thanks again for the advice.” He indicated to the almost-empty platter. “And the food, obviously. I owe ya.”

[Ferris Macklin]

“I completely get that. I bake quite a bit, when I have a kitchen anyway, and icing sugar can be a pain in the arse to get out.”

It took Ferris a moment to remember what icing sugar was and then he laughed. "Stuff that fine, I just leave it there unless there's so much I think it'll attract bugs." And then he took the shoes outside and clapped the bottoms like erasers or soaked them overnight to be washed the next morning. His current shoes had only been that bad once, and he was hoping they never would be that bad again. The few times he'd worked bakeries they'd been bad enough that Ferris had entertained thoughts of sticking them in the ovens to see what came out.

“I don't mooch. I always pay my debts.”

"I wouldn't tell Tracy that," he chuckled. "I think he's very proud of his mooch status. But it'll help I only have the one."

“Especially ones resulting from pork pies. No one should ever under-estimate the true value of a home-made meat pie.”

"Spoken like a true Englishman," Ferris said, hand to heart.

“Two souls and a first-born is a tough act to follow. And I have no idea what streusel is but I want some.”

"Could be you've had it already and just didn't have the same name for it," he said. "It's that sweet crumbly stuff on top of desserts. Usually it's sugar, but sometimes there's stuff like nuts or cinnamon or crushed things in with it."

Ferris was done with his veggies, so he put the lids back on the containers and replaced them in his duckie lunchbag.

“I can call you the Crazy American if you want, but it might be a bit of a broad nickname here.”

"In terms of Hammel they probably wouldn't know who you were talking about."

“Yeah I will do. Thanks again for the advice. And the food, obviously. I owe ya.”

Ferris waved a hand. "Nah. Consider it a goodwill welcoming gesture. You lucked out and I was happy to accommodate."

Getting up, he slung his duckie over his shoulder. "Back to the races, right? See you later, Devon."

[END]