[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
Just in time must have been wishful thinking or a local adage whose meaning was lost on Art. It took at least another hour until the table was fully loaded with a huge wicker basket of boiled potatoes, more pickles, fresh peppers, peperoncini, cut garlic, white mushrooms, bacon, an array of spices, and heaps of cheese slices.
The one time Art had had a raclette, the process of melting the cheese had been carried out off-table, somewhere in the kitchen.
The paraphernalia of cheese glob preparation looked intimidating.
"So, how does this work?" he asked, turning over his palm-sized mini-pan.
"It's easy." Ralph took his own mini-pan and held it up like the flattened cousin of the Holy Grail. What followed was a lecture on the art and lore of raclette.
After a while, Art got the basics.
Choose cheese: there are about eight different types to choose from, cheddar definitely not featuring among them. Load: place cheese slice in personal mini-pan. Garnish: top slice with whatever on the table takes your fancy—advanced users also place stuff below the cheese. Start: insert pan into oven. Wait: while melting proceeds, spend time eating pickles, peeling and cutting a potato, sipping wine, and talking. Harvest: once finished, retrieve pan and pour contents over peeled and cut potato waiting on your plate. Season: spice results with ground pepper, sweet or hot paprika, herbs, and/or nutmeg. Repeat: before digging in, don't forget to reload pan and insert it into oven.
Art enjoyed the slow pace of the procedure, the creative freedom it offered, the wine, and the talking. And the food was fine, too.
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"And how do you like Tavetia, Art?" Jake waved an empty pan at him.
The conversation had revolved around the wines of California, and its sudden new focus took Art by surprise. "Er... It's lovely. Everything's tidy, everyone's organized, and the trams are on time." General Tavetian preconceptions also included that the country was one of the safest in the world, but Art wasn't convinced of that.
"Argh, don't give us the stereotypes." Jake shook his head, the violent motion leaving the locks gelled to the top of his head unaffected. "Tell us the cruel truth."
Adriana, sitting at Jake's right side, laughed, a high-pitched sound telling a tale of too much wine.
"Well, to be honest..." Art hesitated, in part for effect but mainly because he wasn't sure how the assembled Tavetians would take criticism. He looked at Rashid for help, hoping for the resourceful taxi driver to provide some guidance.
But the man sat back and grinned at him. "You're on thin ice now, alone. And you know it."
The alcohol in Art's blood did not care and made him proceed. "Well... there's one thing that sucks."
Jake put set his pan, sat straight, and placed his hands on his hips. "Tell us."
