Description: Only Zangief could go to China. Or Chinatown, at least. That's where the Russian wrestler finds himself, looking to sate the hunger in his belly. And so he finds the Genhanten, where an old man brings him meat. Truly, this is the beginning of a beautiful...well, something or another, anyway.
It's quiet.
That's unusual for a Chinese restaurant. Most of the time, the main dining area of the Genhanten is quite a noisy place to be - the Chinatown clientele are hardly a restrained lot. But it's between hours, now...just a few customers enjoying either a late lunch or early dinner, depending on your point of view. Only a few booths and tables are occupied on the restaurant floor, meaning a considerably more leisurely pace for the staff.
Not that anyone's inclined to slack off, oh no. Not with the owner watching. And watching he is. At the polished wooden counter occupying the back wall of the dining hall, the stooped-shoulded figure of an old man sits. His eyes are clouded with cataracts, surrounded by wrinkles - but they seem to stare, hawklike, all the same.
Business as usual, then.
Zangief has not been in Southtown long. He had come primarily because, he was told, this is the place to be if you want to be in amongst the finest fighters in the world. Although he had traveled a lot in his career, he had still never really gotten the hang of being outside Russia. There were times when he really wondered if he ever would.
But if there is one thing that helps, it is enjoying the fine food of other nations. Surely, it wouldn't be as enjoyable as the fine boiled meat and salted fish of his homeland, but he had resolved to give it a chance. Never mind that jetlag had meant that the massive Russian was intending to eat lunch at a peculiar time of day. He was hungry, and when a man like Zangief is hungry, he eats.
One of the doors is opened. And large as it is, it is still filled by the rather menacing silhouette of the Red Cyclone. He wanted people to know he was here, after all, so why bother wearing civilian clothing? No. Zangief stomps into the restaurant with unmistakable style, and looks around for someone to guide him to a table.
"Hello!" He booms, "I wish to eat. You do traditional food, yes?"
The few diners in the restaurant look up at the commotion. How can they not? One of the uniformed waiters hurries to the foyer, rushing to serve the rather large individual now occupying the entryway, clutching a menu like a protective talisman.
"Ah," the waiter stammers, "we---"
But he gets cut off - as the elderly figure at the back of the eatery lifts a finger.
The old man stands, coming up from behind the counter. A few steps take him down the aisle of the restaurant, his spine bent, hands clapsed behind his back.
As he approaches the huge Russian, Gen tilts his head to one side, then the other, sizing up the wrestler.
"We do food, honoured sir," Gen confirms, arching one white eyebrow, "whether it is traditional..."
Gen smiles toothily.
"...depends on your traditions, hmm?"
Zangief looms over the waiter as he stammers. It's uncertain whether he actually means to be as intimidating as he seems to be, or whether it just happens because he's so massive. But it's clear that the stammering, nervous man annoys him. When, however, the elderly individual comes over instead, Zangief seems to be placated. A man -this- old had to be worthy of at least some respect.
When Gen speaks, Zangief's features split into a wide smile, and he laughs loudly... if the elderly man didn't look like he'd snap in half, he'd likely clap him on the shoulder. But as it is, he restrains himself.
"Very good, friend!" He declares, "Very good!" And then he falters for a moment. Seeming to consider his words before he continues. "Please, a table. And tea! Tea is traditional for you, yes?"
Gen inclines his head, peering at the towering Russian. Then he gestures with a hand, the fabric of his long sleeve flowing with the motion. He gives a small, almost cursory bow.
"Of course," Gen replies, smoothly, "this way, honoured sir. We have a special table for you, and we will bring you tea."
The old man turns on a heel, and heads up the wooden staircase to the second level of the restaurant, the balcony seating overlooking the main dining floor. The planks of the stairs don't make a sound as Gen mounts them. Zangief might be a different story.
As Gen leads the customer away, the waiter who tried to serve the Russian calls after his employer.
"Laoban," he says, "xiawu meiyu kai losan---" <Boss, upstairs isn't open in the afternoon--->
Gen doesn't dignify that with a response. If the young fool can't figure out this customer is special...and is too noisy to seat with the normal clients anyway...
Instead, the old man continues speaking to Zangief.
"Do you have any preference for tea," Gen asks, "hmm?"
Zangief is used to preferential treatment. He is, after all, the Red Cyclone. He simply follows Gen, and though he doesn't understand what the waiter said to the old man, he was perfectly prepared to accept that he was awestruck at the realization that, yes, /the/ Zangief was eating in his restaurant. It's not that Zangief is an arrogant man, he was just used to that kind of situation far more than he was people trying to get in his way. This is probably a good thing for the waiter.
"Hrm." He ponders, as he mounts the stairs, which do, indeed, protest under his weight. "Green." He concludes, solemnly. As though it were the end of some particularly pressing problem.
"...a good choice," Gen replies, after only a moment's pause, his expression studiously neutral. Almost too neutral.
Briefly, the old man considers asking whether the Russian wants the regular blend, or the considerably more expensive imported Longjing. He discards the idea almost as quickly. Considering the clear cognitive effort the first question demanded, it probably isn't wise to burden the customer with additional difficulties of a tea nature.
By now, he's up the stairs, and leading Zangief to one of the alcoves along the wall of the restaurant, with a view out the window to the Chinatown street. At the foot of the staircase, the waiter opens his mouth - before being quite quickly shut up by a glare and shooing motion from Gen.
As Gen gestures to the table, he says carefully, "And does sir know what kind of meal he wants? An individual rice or noodle dish? A selection of specialities?"
A pause.
"Meat?"
Always anticipate the customer's needs.
If Zangief is aware of of the pause or conspicuous neutrality, he doesn't look to be making anything of it. In truth, he was pretty much unaware of such vague social niceties. He is likewise unaware of the concerns of the waiter, who- when the large Russian catches the shooing motion- is treated to a very wide, toothy grin.
And then it's on to food- Ah! Now that is a question that doesn't need even a moments thought. "Meat." Zangief declares brightly. "Yes. That would be very good. Lots of meat."
With that settled, he lowers himself into the alcove. Squeezing into place at the table so that he can look out over Chinatown. He had to admit... it really was a very nice restaurant. And if 'meat' is an acceptable choice of description for a meal, then it's already going to get a good score in his head.
Gen lifts an eyebrow, once more. It appears his guess was correct.
This is the kind of intuition a legendary assassin has, the ability to pierce deep into the hidden hearts of men...to discern the answer to the burning question that all men wrestle with within their deepest souls:
What shall I have for lunch?
A lesser restaurateur might be insulted by such an answer. But Gen is no ordinary proprietor.
Though, admittedly, in his long underworld career, he's never actually assassinated someone by feeding them too much protein. But there's a first for everything.
"Very good," he replies, with just a hint of wry sarcasm creeping into his previously bland tone, "I'm sure my kitchen can find some animals to slay. Several kinds of meat, then..."
Gen considers.
"Will there be rice and vegetables, or will meat do?"
Such terrible difficulties faced by a poor Russian, in the pursuit of lunch.
Zangief is silent for a few, long moments. First, he is not sure if that comment about killing animals was meant to be a joke, and his brow furrows. Surely the restaurant didn't actually need to kill and butcher animals in the kitchen. He was sure that was unlikely. Then again. This is not Russia. It is possible that they do all sorts of strange things. Zangief doesn't dignify it with an answer, either way. The mammoth Russian just lets that pass without comment. Several kinds of meat... and...
"Rice and vegetables as well." He rumbles, nodding in satisfaction. That was what you had in food like this, wasn't it? Perhaps there had been some confusion... "I meant traditional food for you, not for me." He concludes, "If I wanted the food of the Motherland, I would not have left. They do not make it properly anywhere else."
A few creaks and footfalls sound from the stairs, as the waiter Gen dismissed returns with a tray. The fussy little man carries the place settings to Zangief's table, laying out plate, chopsticks, bowl and spoon. Then he pours a single cup of steaming tea. The pot of remaining hot beverage settles down on the tabletop with a clink of porcelain on wood. The waiter then looks to Gen.
"Liangwan fan, chasao saorou, saoya, niuruo, kailan," snaps the old man.
The waiter opens his mouth, eyes widening as he processes the order. "Laoban, ta zhe se yi ge ren..." <Boss, he's only one person...>
Gen silences the man with a single nasty eyeball.
As his minion - er, employee - scurries away, Gen turns back to the large man seated at the table.
Gen has no trouble making eye contact with the Russian, now that they're on the same height.
Mind you, Zangief is sitting -down- and Gen is still standing up.
"Of course," Gen says, "Chinese food is what we serve here. I wouldn't presume to make Russian cuisine."
The elderly man tilts his head.
"The fools in my kitchen wouldn't know what that is, and wouldn't want to poison you by accident."
Zangief finds himself confronted with chopsticks. There is a degree of fear in his eyes at that. He had not the faintest idea how to go about using them... but then he spots the spoon, and the tension seems to go out of him. Ah. Spoon. He could, at least, manage to muddle his way through with that if he couldn't figure out how to use the more intricate utensils.
Zangief looks up, suddenly. Meeting Gen's eyes now that he's settled down, he stretches out a bit, kicking his feet underneath the table and taking a long gulp of that tea. Green tea... very different to the tea he was used to, but, never mind. It's good enough. He sets it down again and chuckles, shaking his head slowly.
"I would not worry about that, my friend!" He declares, "I am quite difficult to poison. No matter how bad your chefs are, I'm sure I will survive!"
... Hopefully Gen will realize that was an attempt at a compliment, and not an out of hand insult to his people.
The old man blinks, just once, his lips parting. He brings his hand to his chin, fingers stroking the wispy strands of his white beard in a reflective sort of gesture. A dry hoarse-sounding laugh rises from his chest, his shoulders shaking slightly.
"You'd be surprised, large sir," Gen replies, sardonically, "at some of the young fools who call themselves chefs these days. But there will be no poison, rest assured..."
He drops his hand, tapping the table by Zangief with two fingers.
"...we can arrange for poison, but it would be a different menu."
Zangief looks a little confused for a few moments, looking the elderly man over. And then he shakes his head, chuckling himself. "You have a strange sense of humor." He says, draining the rest of his tea in a single gulp, before he sets down the cup. A grin on his features. He was actually quite amused at the image of this strange, wizened old man dripping poison into the meal.
He grins widely, bringing his hand down hard on the table and leaning forward. "I will do you a favor!" He declares, suddenly. All smiles and enthusiasm. "If your chefs can make a good meal and not poison me with it, I will endorse your restaurant! Perhaps even let you put up my picture! It would be good for your business, yes?"
Gen catches the teapot sitting at the edge of the table before it can fall over, upset by the sudden impact of a meaty Russian palm. The rest of the place settings clatter and rattle, but otherwise, mercifully, remain more or less in place. With a remarkable amount of sangfroid, the old man simply lifts the teapot...as if loud Russians thumping the furniture were an everyday and unremarkable occurance...and refills Zangief's cup.
Hot tea flows into the porcelain cup with nary a splash.
"Hm," Gen murmurs, considering the proposal, "I don't have a wall of celebrity photos...perhaps I need one to be a proper Chinese restaurant, yes? A good point, honoured sir."
Gen gives Zangief a smile, showing too many teeth.
"Does a famous fighter like yourself gift many poor and humble restaurants with his great Russian favour?"
Zangief simply ignores the fact that he almost made a fair amount of mess, there. At least Gen was on the ball- another point in his favor, as far as the Russian was concerned. The elderly man seemed almost to know what he was going to do before he did it! It was fantastic, not often that one encountered a restaurateur of such skill. It was pleasant to meet a man who was so dedicated to his profession!
The large man chuckles, nodding in response. "Well! It can't hurt, can it?" He states, before shaking his head, "No, no. You have to be a very special place for me to care enough to let you advertise that I use you!" He replies, leaning back in his chair. "But I see this place, and I think, yes. This looks like a good place to find good food. You should be proud!"
Gen blinks, impassively. The angle of his eyebrows shifts, slightly, arching. That grin remains on his face, however. He keeps smiling. His eyes, however, narrow faintly, lids half-closing as he looks at Zangief. He places the teapot down, back on its little base saucer, and with a practiced sweep of the hand, returns the upset table settings to their proper orientation.
Presumably the wrestler paid him a compliment. Were he just a restaurant owner, perhaps it would be a good one. Of course, Gen is considerably more than...just that, but it doesn't seem like the Russian is aware of this.
Nor does Gen seem inclined to enlighten him.
"It keeps the fools in my kitchen employed," Gen replies, "and an old man..."
He taps a thin finger to his breastbone.
"...occupied. I am sure you find fulfillment in -your- profession, sir, do you not, hmm?"
Zangief laughs loudly, nodding in response. "Of course I do, friend!" He roars in reply. "There is nothing greater than the thrill which comes from defeating an enemy for the glory of Mother Russia. The shout of the crowd! The feeling of success! To prove that you are stronger than another... that your resolve is stronger!" He chuckles, leaning back, and shaking his head slowly. "But... there is a lot of pride in doing any job well."
And then he clears his throat, settling his massive frame forward to pick up the tea, and take another long gulp. "It is important that everyone finds some ..." He falters for the right word, and settles at last on... "Joy, in their work! There is nothing better than the feel of a job well done."
"So," Gen murmurs, "you fight for your country...and for pride, hm?"
There's motion behind Gen, as the waiter from earlier returns bearing a tray laden with the first servings of Zangief's gargantuan order. He brings this to the booth. Two large servings of white steamed rice, soft grains nestled in blue-white bowls, appear before the maw of the Russian, followed by a platter of roast pork with crispy skin, and a rather dryer variety in the tangy red char siew style, and a second plate of sliced duck and tofu.
Fast dishes, from the roast window, not unusual for Chinatown fare. But then, of course, Gen isn't -quite- cruel enough to submit the Russian to the rather more exotic dishes reserved for the discerning native Chinese (or for tourists he truly wishes to disturb). Mind, all things considered, a strapping bear-wrestling lad like young Zangief would probably take well to the kind of food involving entrails, internal organs, and fermentation, but...
But in any case, Gen is still speaking, his voice low.
"Which is more important - your nation, or your personal satisfaction?"
To say that Zangief is distracted by the food would be, perhaps, an understatement. He simply doesn't hear the old man in the face of the sheer quantity of food that is laid out before him. And, of course, he does not hesitate. He tucks in with his spoon... and one chopstick, which is used as a kind of stabbing implement.
And he has to admit, it is -good- food. Honest, roasted meat and wonderful rice. He is obviously very happy with the spread, to say the least. The large russian falls upon the food before him like some kind of terrifying meat-devouring demon.
But even so, he's not quite distracted enough to miss the second statement. His ears perk up, and he stops mid-mouthful. Swallowing it down, he straightens up, looming over the table... if it weren't for the food upon it, he would certainly bring his fist down again. But the problem is, it -is- full of food. And he doesn't want to waste it, so the table goes un-thumped.
It's probably quite grateful for that.
"Mother Russia, of course!" He shouts in reply, "The Motherland must always come first! I fight for their pride, for the greater good of the hard-working Russian man! THEY are far more important than my own pride. I am good, yes. But without Mother Russia, I would be nothing!"
Beside the table, the waiter gives a start, almost dropping his now-empty tray. Gen catches the man by the arm, giving him an admonishing glare in the process. In a low voice, he hisses:-
"Fork."
Then Gen releases the somewhat flustered young server, letting him make his retreat.
Turning back to the Russian, Gen links his hands together, fingers intertwining.
In contrast to the great Russian enthusiasm, Gen's demeanour is calm, controlled, deceptively mild.
"Hmm," he muses, "nothing? What -has- your country done for you, hmm?"
There are few things which can really stop Zangief when he gets going. When he gets into it, he has the same kind of air about him as his stage name suggests; a force of nature. Massive, unrelenting, a humanoid act of god.
... but Gen's question stops him dead in his tracks. He blinks a few times, as though it was not a question he had actually ever stopped to consider before. Those simple words slam into him, and knock the momentum out of him surer than a truck to the face. His mouth hangs open, and he raises his finger, pausing for a few moments, brows knitting together in perplexed concern.
And then he seems to come to his decision, nodding, the large man is no longer so wildly enthusiastic. Rather, his response is quite solemn. "Mother Russia is a harsh place. She makes sure there is equality. And her winters make a man strong. The Soviet Union may have fallen..." And there might just be a hint of bitterness there, "But, that is because the other nations do not understand what makes the Russian people endure. I would not be the man I am if I had lived in a place that allows weakness to prosper."
That seems to be a good enough explanation for him, nodding in satisfaction to himself, yes. That was true. That was why he loved Russia, wasn't it?
"Hm," Gen makes a small sound, "so."
He moves his head, in a gesture not quite a nod. The old man's eyes close for a moment, a long heartbeat or two.
Then he opens them once more, and bends down to refill Zangief's teacup, the movement speaking of long experience and familiarity.
As steaming liquid sloshes into the concave base of the cup, Gen speaks again, with the same solemnity the Russian used a moment ago.
"So," Gen says, "it is adversity and hardship that gives you strength? But here you are, travelling the world as a famous fighter, being served in restaurants..."
Gen trails off, leaving the thought, or implication, unfinished.
If there is one thing that Zangief does not like, it is being engaged in a battle of wits. He spoke his mind as plainly as he could, but so very often other people seemed to want to dance around what they meant to say and lead others to it by implication rather than assertion. That annoys him, and he leans forwards, eyes narrowing as he stares into Gen's own- closed or open, it hardly mattered to him. His lips curl up in a half-sneer, half-snarl.
"What." He says, pronouncing the word with exaggerated care. "Is it that you are trying to say? You think I am made weak by this? Is that what you are saying? If you have something to say to me, then say it straight old man!"
He's practically shouting into the elderly assassin's face by the end of the sentence, increasing in volume as he gets more ... frustrated about his words.
"Oh no, no, no..."
Gen shakes his head, slowly. His mouth tilts into a frown as he looks at Zangief. He cups the now-empty teapot with both hands, fingers wrapped around the handle and supporting the base.
"I merely wish to know," Gen answers, with that same calm deliberateness, "what -you- think, hmm? You made that conclusion, I said nothing of the sort."
He smiles, then, placatingly, the very picture of a genteel old man.
The large Russian narrows his eyes even further, staring down the genteel old man before he stabs through a slice of duck with his chopstick, and lifts it up. "I think." He says, very slowly and deliberately. "That you should concentrate on running your restaurant and not worry about my strength. I am strong enough!"
He bites the delicious meat, and rips it off the chopstick. Chewing it down angrily before he sits back, giving Gen a little more personal space. But still very obviously not happy with the line of questioning.
"I cannot question your strength, sir," Gen murmurs, that grin still plastered on his face. He dips his head.
The stairs creak as the waiter reappears, coming up to the table with two more dishes - slices of beef and mushrooms simmering in sauce upon a heavy iron plate, and a rather more sedate platter of greens. Gen's subordinate places these carefully upon the already somewhat overloaded table, along with...
...a fork.
Gen hands the empty teapot to his employee, signalling for a refill, before he turns back to Zangief.
"Not having faced you in battle, I cannot say. Forgive an old man for presuming..."
He makes a small gesture.
"...today, as you say, I am merely feeding you."
Zangief finds himself quite placated by beef, and a fork. Which makes the entire situation far easier to handle in a dignified manner, rather than most likely shaming everyone involved by stabbing things with a chopstick. After all, he is not a martial artist, and the meat is not a gangster, so it really shouldn't be being stabbed like that.
He takes the fork, and goes for beef, and a couple of mushrooms this time. Delicious! The food really is very good, and Zangief's appetite is in line with his massive size, that much is for certain. However, Gen's words are not lost on him this time, and the Russian hesitates for a moment, hrming.
"You are a fighter, old man?" He asks, curiously. "Or you were? Hrm. I would not want to fight you- if I did and I broke you by accident, where would I get this good food?"
The departing waiter looks over his shoulder in alarm, as if expecting his employer to react...poorly. But there's no explosion, no indignation from the owner of the restaurant.
Instead, a small dry chuckle escapes Gen's lips, his wizened frame shaking with repressed laughter.
Bemusement is evident in Gen's tone when he finally speaks again.
"Tell you what, my large Russian friend," Gen says, "do not worry about your bill today. Consider that an old man's gift. All he asks is you entertain him in a battle, at some future time."
A smile.
"And if you break him...well, certainly the staff at this restaurant would not hold it against you, hmm?"
Zangief is actually pretty confused by that. Sure, he'd been offered money and gifts to fight people before. That was hardly unusual. But he definitely felt that something was up with this old man. Perhaps he just wanted to say that he had fought the Red Cyclone and survived. Maybe. That wasn't an unusual desire, really. But. Still. He was a little old man, there wouldn't be any real challenge in it...
Still. Zangief couldn't let the challenge go entirely unanswered. "You want a match, friend?" He asks, his smile returning. "Well. If that is what you want, I'll be happy to give it to you. But I should warn you, I won't go easy on you..." Then he leans a little closer, and lowers his voice. "But for your people, I'll try not to make your defeat too embarrassing. Eh, friend?"
That beatific expression doesn't leave Gen's face. The elderly man returns Zangief's grin, with a little more besides. He nods, in acknowledgement, to the Russian's last comment.
For a frail-looking individual who's just all but challenged a massive wall of muscle like Zangief, Gen seems...not so much worried, but rather simply amused.
"I'm sure you will," Gen replies.
He makes a small gesture, then, backing away from the booth.
"I shall speak to you later, then, hmm? If you need anything - dessert, perhaps - just call. For now, please enjoy your meal, honoured sir."
Log created on 08:57:27 11/05/2008 by Gen, and last modified on 13:17:54 11/05/2008.