Of Drinks And Recipe Books (closed)

[Mitya Makarov]

He wouldn't usually have been sitting at the bar, staring into his glass as though someone had walked by and dipped a finger into it or something equally as distressing. However, when he came in he hadn't expected all of the corners and other out-of-the-way places to be already taken, and so Mitya resigned himself to sitting at the bar, where, for the time being, it was relatively quiet. He liked having space and time to think. He could just as easily have gone home for that, sure, but sometimes he just preferred to sit outside the crowd as an observer of sorts. Even if, at that precise moment, he was facing the wrong way.

Besides, his apartment was currently a mess of papers and boxes; of unsorted, cheap furniture and springs that had escaped from mattresses and recliners. Everything was falling apart. With other things to worry about, such as settling in and letting go of his silly paranoid fears, he didn't let the state of things bother him too much. Still, was it so much to ask for a comfortable mattress? Just for once?

Swirling his yet-untouched drink around a little in its glass, he began to wonder if he would ever really settle in anywhere. He definitely wouldn't if he kept thinking that an old commanding officer was going to jump out from under his bed and drag him away. Perhaps through a portal of sorts. Well, who was to say they didn't secretly have the technology? Not that Mitya was an avid conspiracy theorist. Just... just cautious.

Despite his likely zoned-out appearance - cursed with the sort of face that simply looked either scandalised or mildly annoyed as its default - he had not completely forgot about the world and the people still bustling about around him. He was still very much aware of the people coming up to the bar for drinks, the people brushing past him, the girl who earlier had spilled her drink coming back to the bar for another drink. Which, he imagined, she was very likely to also spill in her rush to get back to her table.

He definitely noticed when another person came up to the bar and took an available seat. That had been some time ago. And though they were actually sitting fairly close to one another, Mitya didn't particularly want to strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger, thanks to his aversion to, well, speaking. Curiosity eventually got the better of him, and he looked up at the other man, offering a nod by way of greeting.

"I don't suppose you can recommend something more interesting than this?" he asked, indicating the very plain and boring lemonade he had eventually decided on. If the man said 'vodka', though... People always suggested vodka. It was already getting tiresome. He would surely not be responsible for the outcome.

[Dr. Terrence Jordan]

For some, Friday night drinking was a ritual, a celebration of the end of the work week. Terrence's schedule didn't allow for that sort of weekly tradition; the hospital never slept and so sometimes he worked nights or weekends or cherished holidays people with office jobs would have thrown tantrums over not getting off. But health emergencies didn't take weekends or holidays, and so he didn't complain. He'd been aware of the work load when he'd applied for college.

This Friday, however, he had off, and so he had taken himself to Kali's for both alcohol and atmosphere. There was food offered, but he wasn't interested in that; he wanted simply to sit at the bar and enjoy some god-awful alcoholic drink, preferably one that would set his mouth on fire.

He didn't pay the least bit of attention to the other people in the bar as he slid onto his stool, instead grabbing the little spiral-bound drink menu pushed nearly off the edge, perusing it intently. He waved the bartender away when the young man came over, not ready to order yet, not when there were so many choices. He was so focused on pouring over the beverage options that he almost didn't hear the question asked.

He glanced over at the man beside him. He was unremarkable in every way except in that he had asked a question and it had been very obviously directed at Terrence. And his accent didn't sound American, which was intriguing merely because not being American gave them something in common.

"Ahhh. I am also trying to decide that." Terrence replied after a pause as he took in his questioner. "I sometimes get this one, the Forest Fire, but I am not sure that's what I want today."

The Forest Fire was made up entirely of Everclear, which he was ambivalent on, and Tabasco, which he loved and so he generally considered it a safe choice. However, he had to look over every single item on the menu before making up his mind. Every. Single. Time.

"But if you are looking to try something new and like drinks which are hot, then that is one to try."

[Mitya Makarov]

So the other man did come here frequently, or so it sounded from the way he spoke. Surely that meant he knew what he was talking about with his recommendation. Grabbing a drinks menu of his own, he looked for this Forest Fire the stranger spoke of. Already he wasn't entirely sure he liked the sound of it, if its name was indicative of its flavour, but he would give it a look before rejecting it completely. Perhaps it wasn't exactly as it sounded. Peering carefully at the ingredients, his forehead creased with anxiety.

"It... looks interesting," he murmured hesitantly, setting his glass aside in order to rest an arm on the bar. "Perhaps not a good choice for me..."

Resting his head in his hand for a moment in thought, he browsed the menu again, his eyes always catching sight of the curious-looking Forest Fire. Well now he was always going to wonder!

"Is it always this difficult to decide?" Indeed, he had never had quite this much trouble choosing something to drink, but then, he'd never been in a place where there were just so many different drinks to choose from. And the Forest Fire, now that he knew where that drink was listed, kept jumping out at him.

And if he did not order it he would be wondering... forever...

"Okay." He was speaking more to himself, his own curiosity, than to anyone else. Though he was still not entirely sure that the Forest Fire was for him, he closed over the menu and ordered it anyway. If he didn't like it, he still had his lemonade to wash away the taste, right?

[Dr. Terrence Jordan]

Terrence gave the man a commiserating look. "It is not for many people." He agreed, "but it is interesting."

And set-your-mouth-on-fire hot. Just the way he liked it.

"There are so many choices, it really is amazing." It was always this difficult for him: anytime he was given a choice he had to mull it over. That included beverage choices.

After the other man ordered he flagged down the bartender, explaining that he wanted the same thing, after all. Sometimes one just had to be predictable, even after spending copious amounts of time thinking.

"So, ah, my name is Terrence. Terrence Jordan." He offered as they waited for their drinks. "You do not sound like you're a local. May I inquire as to where you are from?"

[Mitya Makarov]

Mitya simply nodded. He was already fairly sure that ordering the drink was a terrible idea, given that his own tastes were pitifully limited and anything with the word 'fire' in the title was probably going to lead to a negative experience.

"It is certainly nothing like what I am used to," he agreed, thinking back on the few times he went drinking back home. The whole experience was vastly different, which didn't make it bad as such. He was still aware that it would take some slight adjustments. "It's strange that it feels like one of the most difficult decisions of my life, to choose a drink." It was meant as a joke, and a bad one at that, but his deadpan delivery could have made it more of an awkward and naive statement.

"Oh, my name is Dimitri Makarov." He gave a nod in place of a handshake. "...I prefer Mitya." The tiniest little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he turned in his seat in order to face Terrence. "You may. I'm from Russia. You know, I was going to ask the same of you." It wasn't really in his nature to be nosy... curiosity, however, was surely a different thing.

[Dr. Terrence Jordan]

"Mitya. It is nice to meet you." He returned the nod with one of his own and a broad smile. "What to drink is a very important decision, it must be given careful thought."

He didn't think it was a poor joke, because that was how he approached all decisions except those that pertained directly to his job and had to be fast. If he could take his time, he would.

"From Russia!" He exclaimed, looking interested, "And what is it like in Russia?"

He was sure that most of what he'd heard was nothing but stereotypes; he'd heard about America, too, and it wasn't exactly the way it had been explained to him.

"I'm from South Africa. America had many more opportunities when I was entering college and so I came here."

[Mitya Makarov]

He couldn't help himself. It wasn't a big, toothy grin but Mitya smiled properly, which he knew was quite unlike him. A good response was a good sign. Maybe he could relax for once.

Asked about his home country, the Russian hesitated. he didn't exactly want to start talking about himself too much. He just wasn't comfortable with people knowing his history. Although... he was only asked about the country, about the actual environment, rather than his specific home. Still, what a question. What was it like? After all, it had been his home since birth, it was a normal country like any other, albeit with different customs and structures and languages. And of course he hadn't travelled the entire country, so he could give a detailed account of life over all of Russia. Thinking carefully, he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip before deciding on his first words.

"Well... Where I'm from, Voronezh," he began slowly and deliberately, trying to pinpoint the exact words in English. He had never really realised how hard this actually was, describing your home town in a second language. "The winters are as cold as you might expect, I suppose. Warm in summer, though. Not quite the wintry wasteland I have been asked about... People are generally friendly - nosy might be a better word, actually. Was there anything in particular that you wanted to know about?"

He wasn't really sure what else to say about it, and yet he still felt as though he should ask about South Africa. There was that curiosity again.

"That makes sense," he said, nodding as his drink was set in front of him. Murmuring a polite 'thank you', he eyed the glass suspiciously, as though a hand might just pop out and steal his tongue. Or something. "But I hear there are a lot of interesting cultures in South Africa." Mitya had not been told much about South Africa. It never really specifically came up in conversation. He had heard far too many silly stories about it from men with a penchant for fantasy than he would ever care to admit, but to his credit he had never once thought the more unusual ones to be true. Still, it was something new, and he was more than willing to learn.

[Dr. Terrence Jordan]

Terrence nodded thoughtfully as Mitya described his hometown as being warm in the summer. That definitely didn't fit the stereotypes, though in reality Russia was such a large country that it couldn't possibly be frozen tundra over the whole thing.

He shouldn't have been particularly surprised by the fact that his inquiry was deflected back at him, though much like the Russian he wasn't keen on delving into his personal history. Still, the comment about unique cultures brought a smile to his lips. Yes, South Africa was quite a mix of different cultures, though they were kept apart as much as possible when he'd grown up.

"When I was a boy," He began, deciding that acknowledging his segregations in brief would help explain his lack of first-hand information, "My family lived in the ahh province put aside for the Zulu. And all the tribes, the Tswana and the Ndebele and the Swazi and all the rest, they all had a province. And without a passport we could not travel out of the province, so I did not get to see much of the other cultures. We heard, oh, there are so many immigrants, there are Indians and Chinese and Vietnamese, and the white people, there were those from Holland and Lithuania and France and all over the place. Some of the Asians, they were honorary whites, because of diplomatic relations with their country, but for the most part the different cultures did not mix together. And this is different now, but it was only changed when I was a young man, and I took the opportunity to come to America instead of staying where people might ahhh resent that the government allowed me to be with them."

The bartender returned with their drinks, and he slid his money toward him in exchange for the drink. "I do not know much of Russia." He admitted after his unexpectedly lengthy speech on his home country. "I hear it is winter and that the military is powerful and that the oil barons are in control more than the common man. Of course, Russia has Vodka and the little nesting dolls and ahhh they rival France for ballet. Or did. I do not know if ballet is now outdated."

It wasn't as if he were all that into dance, anyway.

"And some of my favorite novels came out of Russia," He added helpfully. They may have been ridiculously long and depressing, but they made so many interesting points.

[Mitya Makarov]

It was very suddenly cold, or perhaps that was just the sensation of feeling terribly ignorant. He didn't know much about South Africa's history. Perhaps they just didn't think it was that important when he was younger. Still, it might have been nice to know about these things on the off chance that he'd move to America and meet a South African. The only things he knew about the apartheid he had picked up from military men who themselves didn't know much. In fact, some of those men Mitya was sure even welcomed it as a good thing. So what they knew about it was likely not to be completely fact, but opinion. As such, the Russian tried to say very little about it, but was still very interested in what Terrence was saying. "Have you thought about returning?" he asked without thinking, drumming his fingers against the glass in front of him.

Smiling awkwardly, Mitya shifted into a more comfortable position. "No, nor I of South Africa. Actually... I probably just don't know much of anywhere." Listening to what the other man had heard of his home country, he suppressed the urge to laugh. "You know, some of it... it's not completely untrue. The military, I fear, does have more power than perhaps it should." He put the glass to his lips, ready to take a gulp as though it were the lemonade from before. "Ah.. ha, well, I can tell you quite a bit about ballet. I practice ballet." That was one thing he wasn't particularly shy about telling people. It was, he had been taught, something to be proud of. "As for literature... doesn't it paint a depressing picture?"

Punctuating his question with a gulp of his new drink, he immediately regretted it as the very different taste caused him to choke and splutter until his eyes watered. Actually, once he was over the initial oddness... it wasn't half bad.

[Dr. Terrence Jordan]

Terrence shrugged at the question, gulping down his fiery drink with little concern. "Maybe I will go back just to visit. My parents are still there, and my brother, but I have citizenship here, and employment."

And despite what his family had told him of the changes in their home country he didn't know if he could disassociate that from the bad. In any event, the revolution hadn't come about entirely peacefully, and Amos had been one for more violent means of protest. Terrence preferred not knowing what his younger brother considered to be an improvement.

An expression of curiosity crossed his face as Mitya mentioned that he practiced ballet. He had heard of dancers defecting while they were on tour, though he didn't know how common that was. "Is that so? Are you...touring?" As far as he was aware Pilot Ridge didn't have any dance company at all, though it was possible there was one in nearby Burlington. It wasn't as if he kept up with that kind of thing. He didn't even keep up with whether or not any traveling shows were coming through, so he didn't know how likely it was that a lone dancer was at a bar in Pilot Ridge while on tour.

"The literature is terribly depressing." He agreed, not at all finding this to be a problem. "I am sure that Russia isn't nearly as bad as the literature would have it. Then again, the literature was written a hundred years ago, when it probably was that bad. A lot can change in a century."

[Mitya Makarov]

It had been a very stupid question, most likely. Of course people went back to their home countries to visit. Mitya was the only one coward enough not to, wasn't he? And when you had employment, why would you move back to somewhere you weren't certain to find new employment? So he uttered a quiet "of course" and nodded as though to indicate that was his stance on the matter as well.

Touring? Why would he think -- oh. Sipping at his drink, the taste really growing on him, he shook his head. "Oh no no, I don't do it for a living. I suppose... I suppose I could if I wanted to." He grinned then, and laughed at himself for even saying such a thing out loud. Still, if there was anything he was actually quite proud of, it was his ballet prowess. And there was nothing wrong with that. It was... cultural, artistic. "No, no... I... I teach. Well, train. At Hammel."

"Depends on where you go and who you talk to," he said, shrugging a little. "Voronezh is just like any other city and yet other towns and places aren't that far removed from the image of a depressing Russia. But then I suppose much of the world is, quite unfortunately, the same." Not that everywhere in the world had a mini-depressing-Russia, but rather that while some areas were developed, others were, well, not.

((I am sorry this is terrible and short >_<))

[Dr. Terrence Jordan]

((it was not terrible and length is not an issue for me))

"Ah. Hammel. The boarding school." Terrence seemed to meet quite a number of its employees; its presence must have been a boon for the local economy. "There was a bad accident with some of the staff recently, wasn't there? We saw a lot of them at work back in the spring. I trust they have all recovered now, though."

He tipped back his glass, enjoying the sensation of burning.

"I work at Maddock Hospital," He offered by way of explanation, belatedly realizing that Mitya might not know what he had to do with the accident.

"So do you teach ballet at Hammel?" It was supposed to be a nice school, somewhere the wealthy and privileged attended as far as he was aware, and so it didn't seem out of the question that they would offer ballet classes.