Richie is running expo like a pro, which he knew, he had faith, but it's still throwing Carmy back to being locked in the walk-in. Apart from that? It's going okay. Nobody's dropped any uncooked eggs yet. People are hungrier for the pastries than he would have expected, and the chef he has on the McMuffin is frankly pitiful, too British, does not understand how to steam-fry an egg... but that's probably fine because it's a fucking McMuffin and anyone who orders it gets what they get.
Carmy himself is carefully placing gold foil on peeled boiled eggs, something he practiced so much this last week that he's got it down to less than a minute turnaround. Richie calls for hands, for another three cinammon buns, for a slow down on the shakashouka. Carmy wants to argue that last thing, but he also needs to sprinkle potato chips over these omelettes so he just chimes in on the collective yes chef.
"Hands!" for two plates of The Sydney. He wishes Syd was actually here.
(Then the girl on the Benedicts burns a full tray of freekah and it turns out no, Carmy does not have the capacity for encouragement and understanding on the line: "Can you read, Jessica? Can you read the dials on the oven? Fuck!" Dumps the tray into the dish bucket angrily, the water at the bottom of it sizzling in contact with the hot grain.)
When service is over, except for one person who keeps ordering more eggs, it's time to clean up and get the fuck out. It would be cool if he felt any sense of accomplishment at pulling it off. He doesn't. Not for himself - he at least gives Richie a "Great job." before he dips into the staff area where he strips out of his apron and chef jacket down to his tshirt. Carmy heads to the balcony to crunch leftover fette biscottate and smoke, dissociate a little. Try not to think about The Bear. Cleverly swerve a panic attack, look at some birds in the distance instead. There's bacon grease in his hair, and he burnt the tips of his fingers peeling boiled eggs and he smells like chives and garlic.
And tomorrow, if he's lucky, he'll get to do it all again.
TEXT POST.
username: carbs
BREAKFAST FEEDBACK go. I don't take dish requests.
POOL PARTY. Several things are pissing him off right now.
First: Carmy keeps a strict routine that involves moving consistently between about four places each day: the gym, the kitchen and dining room, the library, and the pair of rooms he and Richie are sharing. The pool is not included in those lists of places.
Catch him tucked out of the way of the party, smoking a cigarette and trying to find his chill, overwhelmed by the music and the crowd, annoyed at himself for his inability to just loosen up and have fun.
Second: Carmy reads and watches everything about food he can get his hands on, has done all sorts of roles in the kitchen, went to culinary school, so he's not unfamiliar with liquids. He'd personally selected the juice bar ingredients at breakfast. But he's also not a trained mixologist, or anything near a bartender, so he spent the night before frantically trying to refresh his cocktail knowledge.
"Hey," he says low to someone at random, offering a grapefruit twist martini, "Can you try this? The guy I made it for said it was disgusting. And I don't drink, so." He'd tried a sip and wasn't sure if it was even meant to taste like it did. Useless.
Third: Portia Balfour's MILF friends keep finding excuses to touch him in the little cabana boy outfit he's been made to wear, and while it was flattering at first it's now getting kind of stressful and he doesn't know what to do about it.
He tried wearing one of the bracelets. First IT'S COMPLICATED, because it fucking is. But now he's upgraded to adding TAKEN.
Regardless, another manicured hand heavy with rings slips over his abs and Carmy mcloses it a little, rounding on the woman with the cunty bob: "Get your fucking hands off me." Oops. Probably not going to win him points for hospitality.
other possibilities i ran out of steam to write opens for: - ask carmy about working in the kitchen - push him into the pool. - the fireworks inspire an anxious confession. - coaxing carmy into harvest festival games. - randomly end up tied to him in the handfasting.
i welcome new or existing players, and new or existing cr! prose or action brackets. for shipping: carmy's preference is for women 25-60, and he is unlikely to commit to anything serious. but i also love friendship, fwb, found family, and neg cr. ))
carmen berzatto / the bear / existing character
Fire 2 omelette 1 shakashouka 1 quiche!.
"2 omelette, 1 shakashouka, 1 quiche, chef," Carmy repeats back.
Richie is running expo like a pro, which he knew, he had faith, but it's still throwing Carmy back to being locked in the walk-in. Apart from that? It's going okay. Nobody's dropped any uncooked eggs yet. People are hungrier for the pastries than he would have expected, and the chef he has on the McMuffin is frankly pitiful, too British, does not understand how to steam-fry an egg... but that's probably fine because it's a fucking McMuffin and anyone who orders it gets what they get.
Carmy himself is carefully placing gold foil on peeled boiled eggs, something he practiced so much this last week that he's got it down to less than a minute turnaround. Richie calls for hands, for another three cinammon buns, for a slow down on the shakashouka. Carmy wants to argue that last thing, but he also needs to sprinkle potato chips over these omelettes so he just chimes in on the collective yes chef.
"Hands!" for two plates of The Sydney. He wishes Syd was actually here.
(Then the girl on the Benedicts burns a full tray of freekah and it turns out no, Carmy does not have the capacity for encouragement and understanding on the line: "Can you read, Jessica? Can you read the dials on the oven? Fuck!" Dumps the tray into the dish bucket angrily, the water at the bottom of it sizzling in contact with the hot grain.)
When service is over, except for one person who keeps ordering more eggs, it's time to clean up and get the fuck out. It would be cool if he felt any sense of accomplishment at pulling it off. He doesn't. Not for himself - he at least gives Richie a "Great job." before he dips into the staff area where he strips out of his apron and chef jacket down to his tshirt. Carmy heads to the balcony to crunch leftover fette biscottate and smoke, dissociate a little. Try not to think about The Bear. Cleverly swerve a panic attack, look at some birds in the distance instead. There's bacon grease in his hair, and he burnt the tips of his fingers peeling boiled eggs and he smells like chives and garlic.
And tomorrow, if he's lucky, he'll get to do it all again.
TEXT POST.
username: carbs
BREAKFAST FEEDBACK
go.
I don't take dish requests.
POOL PARTY.
Several things are pissing him off right now.
First: Carmy keeps a strict routine that involves moving consistently between about four places each day: the gym, the kitchen and dining room, the library, and the pair of rooms he and Richie are sharing. The pool is not included in those lists of places.
Catch him tucked out of the way of the party, smoking a cigarette and trying to find his chill, overwhelmed by the music and the crowd, annoyed at himself for his inability to just loosen up and have fun.
Second: Carmy reads and watches everything about food he can get his hands on, has done all sorts of roles in the kitchen, went to culinary school, so he's not unfamiliar with liquids. He'd personally selected the juice bar ingredients at breakfast. But he's also not a trained mixologist, or anything near a bartender, so he spent the night before frantically trying to refresh his cocktail knowledge.
"Hey," he says low to someone at random, offering a grapefruit twist martini, "Can you try this? The guy I made it for said it was disgusting. And I don't drink, so." He'd tried a sip and wasn't sure if it was even meant to taste like it did. Useless.
Third: Portia Balfour's MILF friends keep finding excuses to touch him in the little cabana boy outfit he's been made to wear, and while it was flattering at first it's now getting kind of stressful and he doesn't know what to do about it.
He tried wearing one of the bracelets. First IT'S COMPLICATED, because it fucking is. But now he's upgraded to adding TAKEN.
Regardless, another manicured hand heavy with rings slips over his abs and Carmy mcloses it a little, rounding on the woman with the cunty bob: "Get your fucking hands off me." Oops. Probably not going to win him points for hospitality.
WILDCARD.
(( if you're in the game i also have some generic open prompts of carmy around the mansion in his open log.
other possibilities i ran out of steam to write opens for:
- ask carmy about working in the kitchen
- push him into the pool.
- the fireworks inspire an anxious confession.
- coaxing carmy into harvest festival games.
- randomly end up tied to him in the handfasting.
i welcome new or existing players, and new or existing cr! prose or action brackets. for shipping: carmy's preference is for women 25-60, and he is unlikely to commit to anything serious. but i also love friendship, fwb, found family, and neg cr. ))