From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 3 Aug 2001 08:29:03 -0000 Subject: The Things We Do for Love (1/1) by shirlock Source: direct Reply To: shirlock67@home.com Title: The Things We Do For Love (1/1) Author: Shirlock Rating: PG13, one bad Italian word...suggestive scenario. Category: V/H/MSR/ Other POV Disclaimer: They belong to Chris Carter except for Eduardo, Enrico, and Enzo Pisano. The lyrics "The things we do for love" by 10cc is wonderfully apt and lovingly used, but not with permission. Spoilers: Agua Mala, Chinga Timeline: After Existence Archive: OK Gossy, OK Spookys. Anyone else please ask: shirlock67@home.com Completed: August 2001 Summary: Concupiscence is rife and brimming over the clambake souffle...A highly elaborate dinner plan...aah, the things we do for love. This is part 12 of a series of third person pov. You don't need to read those to understand this. You can read the rest here: http://members.nbci.com /shirlock1013 ***** Too many broken hearts have fallen in the river. Too many lonely souls have drifted out to sea. You lay your bets and then you pay the price The things we do for love. ***** Cordell, Bethesda Cucina Pisano Friday evening 6:30pm Grilled figs. I pick a plump grecian delight and contemplate the springyness of its fragile purple hide. Perfect. The roundness, compact fullness of the ripened fruit sends a subliminal gustatory message to my senses. I bring it to the light and see the motley skin where the fire had charred the edges. Sinking my teeth in it is a slowly sensual, deeply spiritual, satisfyingly soulful experience. Its warmly textured pulp sandpaper my tongue then lava over my teeth. Aah! Grilled figs- food of the gods. "Eduardo! Come si chiama questo piatto?" My older brother Enzo calls out to me. I am jarred painfully back into the present. "Aragoste Ammollicate, and Enzo? Stay calm and don't forget to breathe." Enzo mutters to himself how it's possible to stay calm when the restaurant is booked solid tonight plus the Baltimore Chronicle or Annapolis Times is going to infiltrate some brown nose reporter to pass judgement on his clam bake souffle . I don't know who his inside sources are but they yank his mitts like clockwork every summer. He'll be sixty this November. He shouldn't have to deal with this sort of thing. Regrouping my earlier resolve to make tonight unfor- gettable, I look at the dishes being prepared before me. Okay, tentacles of squid, merguez sausage flown in from Firenze, the pesce alla griglia could be a little less done. The oysters are so beautiful I could weep. The eggplant bruschettas are slightly overcrisp. I pop a small piece into my mouth and I'm reminded this is the real reason I left Hollywood and not because I lucked out on that part in The Sopranos. "Merda! Who put the black Mission figs in cold water!?" The kitchen is a flurry of bearded men and one slightly moustachioed woman we lovingly call mama. No one confesses to the mystery of the drowned Mission figs. Let's see. Time is 6:38pm. The recently Fed-exed pack of Auricchio provolone cheese isn't dressed and the clams are beginning to smell. We've got seven minutes before they arrive. All I can think of is the phone call I got yesterday for tonight's 6:45 pm reservation but all I see from the corner of my eye is my youngest brother juggling lemons. I bark across the Capresso machine as the hot aroma of Illy caffe scuro camouflages that smell of stagnating seawater. "Enrico, you're supposed to keep those clams happy! Happy clams do *not* smell." My little brother who's the bulk of an American gladiator immediately falls on bended knee and serenades the bowl of sea fruit, "la mia vita senza te e'come il giorno senza il sole. Lo ho occhi solo per te! Mi SPOSARE, mi SPOSARE!!" Enrico's a real ham , asking the clams to marry him. Everyone laughs. This is afterall the essence of any Italian restaurant. The family who cooks together and laughs together, can also afford to live in separate houses, and therefore not kill each other. "You ask me to keep them happy." Enrico starts opening the bottle of '89 Montenidoli, "so I'm-ah keeping them happy." "Yes I did. Swack them." Enrico uncorks the wine and pours a half bottle liberally over the clams. The semi-woody aroma of springtime Genoa drowns out the offensive pong. Chopping the coriander with the Henckel cleaver only a mother can give her son as a birthday gift, he's also mashed the garlic, julienned the tunisan lamb sausages and sliced the Spanish red onions paper thin under 60 secs. Not a tear in sight. He curls his arm around my neck, allowing the cleaver to pendulum over my right nipple. "So tonight, we create magic, yes?" "It's what we are famous for. It's why people come to Pisano's!" I say haughtily. "Eduardo! They come in for my singing!" Enrico starts belting Pavorotti's version of Tosca in bowdlerized, and God-forbid, off-key appassionato Italian, "l'ARTE nel suo MISTERO, le diverse BELLEZZE insiem confonde!! AAAAAAAAAaaaah!" I shrug his arm off my shoulders, fearing nipple castration and his big oily hands getting eau-de-onion on my face. "Somewhere in fumatory, Maestro Puccini wears ear muffs." "Grazie, grazie," Enrico bows to an imaginary audience, possibly showering him with long-stemmed roses by the way he returns his air-kisses. I can't help but smile. There is no greater ham than that big lug. ***** Between the spring lobsters and the Mesclun salad, I catch sight of the 6:45pm party of two at the entrance where Vincenzo is checking off their names in the appointment book. They have arrived. So *this* is Dana. And that, must no doubt, be Fox. Not only is he tall, he is also the exact hue of a nutella calzone dessert, smooth and honeyed brown. I wait for Vincenzo to hang her coat but she catches my eye right away. She is dressed in a little black Furstenburg number that reveals enough for a married man to consider adultery. She is like John Sargeant's Madame X, with a renaissance profile and a complexion that challenges me to stroke it. Her brown hair is piled high and the sapphires of her eyes are twinkling. She mumbles to her dinner companion, "let's leave my mom out of this conversation, okay?" I move over as suavely as I can with an apron flapping, opting to swoop down to pop a kiss on her left hand instead. "Miss Scully." No ring. Small hands. Gold necklace. I didn't know eyebrows could do that. I inhale her delicate tea rose as I gently release her hand. "Welcome to Pisano's. I am Eduardo. We are so pleased to have you." I lose the apron, straighten my tie and tug at the coat tails of my jacket. I'm startled to find her black dress is really deep blue. Her brown hair, red. Her lips are cherry plump and her neat row of pearly whites remind me of a Sophia Loren ad when she used to sell Sesto Senzo toothpaste. This woman is classy, and she knows that he knows it. And he knows that I know it. "And you must be Mr. Mulder." I shake his reluctant hand, making all the right sounds the owner of any establishment appreciating his patrons should make. His eyes are light brown, half-amused. "Apparently someone thinks highly of your pesce alla griglia." His tone is jocular though it's laced with suspicion. "Prego, prego. I assure you- if there's anything my family knows, it's fish." I show them to table number one in the Lorenzini room. "Fish was the most important dish up until the second Vatican Council when the Catholic Church required the faithful to each fish on both Fridays and during Penitence." "Isn't it any more?" She asks with childlike innocence. Her eyes are positively captivating. "There aren't too many faithful left. Hahaha." They both cringe as I make a note to self: Avoid jokes in future. Stick to the weather and to what's special on the menu. "When it came to Lent, me and my seven brothers would eat canned sardines. I spent a few years in the tiny coastal town of Salerno. It was challenging to make sardines taste less like tomatoes and more like fish." They both smile politely. I hand them the wine list and wave Filippo over. My third cousin from my father's second uncle's side is a young man with a bright future in product design and a neopolitan nose for vintage wines. A true Pisano even if his last name is Veragiotto. If Alessi doesn't nab him, I'll keep him as a sommelier. I leave them to decide on their drinks and dinner while I return to the kitchen. She is looking at the decor, the table linen, and probably the dark burgundy stain that's just under their table. Anywhere but at him. He, on the other hand, is looking straight at her. Confrontational, predatorial yet, gentle. They had started a discussion before coming in that much I'm sure, but I promised myself they'd be happy as wine-dunked clams by the time they have dessert. He's asking questions, his lips move animatedly, his eyes never leaving her face, studiously watching, reading between the subtle facial movements and the way she plays with the salad fork. As more people fill the restaurant, Enzo calls for me to help out in the kitchen. Exactly sixteen minutes later, I dress the silvery grisle with the almond slivers, a dollop of fresh double cream with vermouth and a spartan sprig of fenouil. The cut palermo ham sits like pencil shavings on the lobster Ammollicata. The couple at table three looks suspiciously like they're writing down the names of the dishes. I think I've found Enzo's food critics. I had served them Enzo's clambake souffle and asparagus. They seem happy enough. The main dining room is blustery with self- effacing waiters and purposeful sommeliers. Pockets of conversations drift over the lemony candles and the tinkling of wine glasses. I slap the bell with a sonorous 'ding' for someone to pick up. Next, I spatula six oysters onto a Florentine plate and hedge the sides with two melba toasts, tartar sauce and cilantro. The tentacles of squid Dana ordered is drenched in champagne and sherry, salmon roe and mustard seeds. I flick a curled-up lemon rind in to spruce up whole dish. I personally bring the appetizers to table one and bid them "buono appetito", then busy about getting out the serving spoons for table two's prima piatti. He stares at her dish and makes a comment about someone named Arthur Dales, a hellacious hurricane named Villareal and that sea creature's tentacle around his neck. Dana and I both crack a smile at that one for different reasons. He looks up and his plastered face suddenly mirrors hers. They start eating in silence, enjoying the peace that has settled temporarily. Suddenly she is smiling again. "That one day hasn't arrived, Mulder." "What one day?" He forks the soft sensual meat into his mouth. He eats noiselessly, but voraciously. Cleans his plate thoroughly. All tell-tale signs about how he is in bed. "You said one day we'll look back and laugh." He has choosen Urbock, an Austrian beer that is as full bodied as she is and takes a healthy gulp. His eyes travel to the fullness of her breasts, only to return to her face, "You smiled. I'll settle for that, Scully." Someone at table three waves at me and lifts up the glass gesturing a refill. I scamper about only to overhear,"...Scully, talking about marriage makes you nervous, doesn't it?" "Mulder, I don't want to talk about it now." A sigh. "Okay, but you can at least tell me his age." "He's in his sixties, probably." A very long pause followed by water falling off a great height. I pull the jug back and apologise to the man sporting wet wingtips. "Sixties?! What do you know about him?" "Mulder. I don't want to talk about him now. We'll talk later okay? Right now, I want to eat." He's not entirely happy with that but I'm glad he's giving the food a chance. I watch her take one of his oysters into her mouth and I'm rewarded with a sound I know very well. Mulder seems to have noticed too because she probably never makes that sound in public. "How is everything?" I'm sure his heart is racing if the drool he's having trouble keeping in his mouth is any indication. "The oysters are very good." He says. She concurs. "The trick is to eat them fresh. Very fresh." I emphasize to his rising red-facedness. "What do you mean by very fresh?" Mulder keeps a stoic face, but a red one nonetheless. "They were hand-carried from Long Island jetty, hermetically sealed in a cooler at 3 degrees celsius and jetplaned arriving 50 minutes ago with my sister-in-law in a taxi from Tipton." "Really?" "They have to be. Oysters are notoriously famous natural aphrodisiacs." I wink at the now pink- faced Dana and nod at Mulder. I can already see the food do its magic. Good wine loosens the tongue but good food fires up passion. Without Ceres and Bacchus, I'm sure Venus would be home folding laundry. I am rewarded with empty plates and another compliment from Dana about the chianti. I hear the 'ding' from Enrico and scamper to clear away their plates and deliver their main courses. Salmon for him and lobster for her. The evening is going at full tilt, the room alive with a buzz that is as intoxicating as the wines that are being popped left, right and centre. They were talking about another case in Maine when she had last encountered a lobster, an evil doll and New England hospitality. I return as mechanically as a server must, bringing an extra wine glass for him and a new bottle of chianti as I evesdrop on their ongoing colloquy. "*I* had proposed then." He says, nodding all the time. "Don't tell me you were serious Mulder, because I know you weren't being serious." She is smiling but she's not entirely at ease with the topic. "So tell me more about this secret admirer, Scully." "What do you want to know?" "How long has this been going on?" She thinks about this, all the while watching the level of wine climb higher towards the rim. "Nearly two years, but it was friendly the first year." I start refilling her wine glass. "Friendly?" His suspicion is so strong it's practi- cally three-dimensional. Blug glug blug glug glug. "Going-to-mass-friendly." She replies, pushing her risotto around the parsely bush. "Every Sunday?" He is definitely fishing here. "I know he sits somewhere behind us every Sunday." Definitely not happy with both the topic as well as the content of their conversation. "I know he's very charming." "What does he look like?" "I have no idea. Mulder." She is exasperated and annoyed now. "I don't know why you're pursuing this. This doesn't concern you." "The hell it doesn't." The conversation takes a dive and I know this is not going to be pretty if I don't intervene. After I cleared away their dishes, I weave my way around the other tables with the dessert menu but do a U-turn at table five. Maybe I shouldn't give them an alternative. I know Dana has a sweet tooth but I need her to let go of her inhibitions and just feel. I replace the menus and instead head back into the kitchen where mama instinctively hands me the container of blackberry gelato she knows I'm looking for. Quietly she says, "non e permesso, Eduardo." "But mama, they need it." There is an unwritten rule at Pisano's- that those who need a gentle nudge to fall in love need to want it bad enough to at least order it. It cannot be given what had not been asked for. "For them?" I plead to her shaking head. I try a different tactic. "For my happiness?" She looks sadly at me, then smiles her defeat. Enzo hugs her from behind and I kiss her cheek. I may be the middle child, but mama has the softest spot for me. I have grey hair and am her only son with blue eyes. I have no doubt she still sees me as a child of ten and not a childless widower at fifty- seven. Five minutes later, I bring their desserts over. "Something sweet, something dark, something warm, something from the heart." The confusion in evident. Dana is clearly happy with the dessert they did not order. Mulder really doesn't know what to make of me or my kindness. "We didn't order any dessert." She says, her honest upbringing getting the better of her. "It's on the house." I smile generously, placing the spoon into her hand. "Blackberry gelato, with dark cherries, almonds and pecans, baked biscotti dipped in passion fruit wine." I can tell when someone's fighting an impulse. I can tell when they're losing too. "Blackberry gelato?" She says, her fingers playing with the dessert spoon. "My mum and I used to go to a gelateria for blackberry gelato during school break." "Well, here's to la dolce vita." The less said, the better. She looks to her dinner companion who deems the dessert harmless enough to actually eat it. They thank me for the treat before digging in. I deliver another blackberry gelato to the two spies because they've also been watching the pair. I cannot help but think that everywhere those two go, they draw attention to themselves hard as they try to avoid it. It's seductive, this magnetic charisma between them. And to add innocence to ignorance, it's possible they don't know the effect they have on other people. Enrico snakes his big hairy arm around me. No cleaver but a ladle this time. He's dripping alfredo sauce onto my suede shoes. We're watching both tables eat their dessert. Dana and Mulder are eating with their biscottis. Our spies are shovelling their gelato as if some great secret is hidden in their creamy centres. The clock on the Gaggenau gas range is five minutes to nine. Soon, most veryone is slowing down to thimblefuls of sherrys, snifters of Cognacs, or Calvados. He's decided to scoot over to sit beside her, his arm snaking behind her possessively. He leans into her and is content to merely watch her watch him. Their fight is all fought out and the mixture of food and wine is starting to work their magic. He drinks from her cup and she eats from his fingers. Enzo is finally summoned to table number three. The spies from the Baltimore Chronicle own up, then of course, suck up to the chef with the magic touch. Apple-polishing takes on a new meaning. Dana reminds me of Fellini's heroine in La Strada, with all the self-sacrificing love for her ideals. She doesn't truly smile but is caught between awe and a virginal desire to know him as a woman wants to know a man. It is electric. To have that kind of love directed straight at one person. I see him bend at the waist, the smell of blackberries lingering on his breath as he leans in to whisper something in her ear. Wait, he's licking her ear. Actively sucking at her bejewelled lobes. She is gorgonized when he decides to introduce his tongue to hers. But only for a scant two seconds. She's not shy to his affections nor his boldness to be expressive in public. I can tell from their earlier pose that they do not readily show emotion of any personal kind. Now they're one dessert short of making out like gemellis simmering in extra spicy sauce. Of course, she could always blame it on the food. And why not? The food certainly made them do it. I have seen many couples kiss in my restaurant but rarely, rarely have I seen two people display so much labial lust. His hand is curved around her nape. His other hand is splayed on her abdomen just under her left breast. And then he is drugging her with his natural passions. Although he towers over her, it is she who leads this intimate tango. She twists ever so slightly so that her face is illuminated by the small lamp above them. Pleasure is written all over the slight pink flush in her cheeks. She's making the same sound as she did drinking that oyster down. Just then, a big flash lights up the Lorenzini room. Our culinary spies had asked to have a photo taken of them with the maestro chef. Filippo is brandishing the camera as if it's a firearm. Dana's eyes are pinpricks of dark blue and they are laughing into his hazel eyes. Her smile is hopelessly devoted to bewitching him. I'm thinking the world could end right now and they'd be thinking who's place should they go to tonight? Instead, Mulder looks up, sees me and calls out loudly he'd like to take home a pint of blackberry gelato and if he could please have the check this instant. ***** 10:14pm. I pick up the phone and dial the number I'd memorized since last July. It purrs three times before a voice answers. I can hear the sounds of a baby babbling in the background. She knows as much as I that tonight's charade was necessary, not because I had convinced her that food has the extraordinary ability to bring out the passion within people but that it was important for me to see them together. Plus the fact that there was a ten dollar wager. "So how did it go?" Her voice is one of a scientist asking how the experiment went. "It went...okay." I can hear her deflated hopes hiss to the ground. "If it went any better, I'm afraid they'd be arrested." I clarify. "The appetizers opened their eyes to the main course. You will probably see them in the Baltimore Chroni- cle in a couple of days. And, you owe me ten." "So she ordered the squid?" She is genuinely surprised. "Just like you did." Her soft chuckling warms the cockles of my heart. That was what I fell in love with the first time I met her at mass. Enrico is watching me from the chopping board, grinning like an idiot while picking up two uncooked baby octopuses and making them kiss. Filippo is singing into a carrot, mimicking Andre Bocelli. Actually, he doesn't sound half bad. "Maggie, I love you." I blurt. Quietly, she says, "enough to make me your pesce alla griglia?" Aah. The things I do for love. ***** end. Feedback is chicken soup to me. Author's notes: I've been a long admirer of Margaret Scully and I just wanted to give her a little bit of happiness. Gemelli: Two pieces of pasta wrapped together to look like twins. Grisle: Young salmon, not having spawned any offsprings yet.