Chapter Text
As it turned out the good doctor truly had not been kidding about his dislike for beets. It had become somewhat of a challenge to Garak, to find a recipe that transformed the pesky rounded vegetable into a palatable dish that Bashir would accept. To the man's credit, he did try every single meal that Garak slaved away for at the stove. But as soon as he detected even just the slightest hint of red colour, or earthy scent and flavour his plate stayed untouched.
"I wasn't aware humans possessed such a sensitive palate," Garak had commented during their latest private little dinner. "You'd think they wouldn't. After all, you eat Klingon food."
Bashir had laughed at that— sweetly and youthful, and it had hidden away any remaining scorn he must have felt for Garak.
They got close during those dinners — closer than Garak was admittedly comfortable with, but their spirits were lightened by alcohol, hearty meals, and passionate literary discussion.
It almost felt like things had gone back to normal. Before Garak had made the forsaken choice to blow up his shop. Before he'd even started cooking for himself. Now, there was a palpable hint of that pure attraction, that strange tension that had drawn Garak towards Julian Bashir in the first place.
(Admittedly, it had really been Bashir's exotic human looks that had first set Garak in motion on that fateful day, but his dear doctor seemed to appreciate the poetic former explanation much more than the vain latter one.)
While his lunches and dinners with Bashir had ceased momentarily after his unfortunate journey to the Gamma Quadrant, Garak found himself shocked by the fact that Constable Odo seemed not at all deterred by their misadventure and even suggested that they make shared breakfasts a regular occurrence. It was a bit suspicious, for a creature who didn't eat, to want to regularly spend time sharing a meal with one who did.
Then again, Garak had long suspected that Odo's previous attempts at fraternisation had been purely out of professional curiosity about his person. He couldn't blame him of course. Had he been Chief of Security aboard this dreadful station he too would have already investigated himself thoroughly.
"Constable," he said during one of those odd little breakfasts, just a short while after his and Bashir's reconciliation had taken place. "I'm quite flattered to receive so much of your attention on this beautiful morning, but since you probably never had a maternal figure to teach you this, I see myself forced to do it in their stead: it's rude to stare."
"Something is off about you today."
Garak sighed and put his spoon down. "I've worn this tunic many times before. I'm using the same skin and hair product, and I haven't seen a barber in a month. There's nothing different about me today compared to last week. Or the week before that. Or—"
"No," Odo said. "You look... slimmer. I think you've lost weight."
"Oh really?" Garak muttered, glancing down at himself. "I hadn't noticed."
That was a lie. Of course he had.
"I do find it fascinating that solids can alter their shape to a degree," Odo admitted. "I was very surprised when I first realised they didn't just grow vertically, but horizontally as well."
Humming, Garak scraped some meat from the bones of the pickled hevrit on his plate. "Well, I can assure you I do not plan on doing any further growing in the foreseeable future." He paused to wipe his chin with his napkin. "In neither direction, really."
Odo continued his observations. "Then again, I have rarely witnessed anyone purposefully reducing their weight. And during the Occupation—-" so the good constable went on about the various dangers of malnutrition and starvation, going into much detail and length.
Garak zoned out at that. Aside from experiencing a deeply private satisfaction at having noticeably improved his form, he still felt regrettably preoccupied with those dastardly beets.
Admittedly, picking the one ingredient Bashir seemed to absolutely loathe appeared to be quite foolish at first glance. But Garak had researched well, and had discovered many dishes from many Earth cultures that utilised the dense, rounded vegetable in interesting ways.
Bashir had denied them raw, sliced thinly and mixed with a light vinaigrette; boiled and mashed with krintar root, formed into shapely little balls and fried in zabu lard; stewed with meats and herbs and served with a rich sour cream; chopped finely, mixed with roasted grains and cooked down into a creamy and texturally pleasing mush; glazed with kanar; and lastly stuffed with fish and vegetables to be baked over with one rather delectable discovery of goat cheese.
The last recipe PADD had linked the singular ingredients used, and Garak had found himself rather disturbed by the information that this particular cheese came indeed from the milk of a quite horrifying creature. He had inquired with Bashir about the domestication and milking of non-primate mammals in Earth history. Bashir had seemed quite amused by Garak's reluctance to accept the origin of various dairy products he had previously very much enjoyed.
"—then again it appears to be mostly middle-aged Bajoran women who voice their dissatisfaction," Odo's voice caught up with him again. "Although I assume you probably get plenty of those at your shop. How are the renovations coming along, by the way?"
"Oh, handsomely. Who knew that a humble tailor's shop could be blessed with so many hidden crevices for pins and bobbins to disappear into. You wouldn't believe the things I've found!"
Odo looked decidedly unimpressed. "No, I most likely wouldn't."
Garak grinned. "You're welcome to practice a thorough sweep of the premises before I reopen, of course. Garak's Clothiers has nothing to hide."
"Hm, now you're starting to sound like Quark."
No, Garak was not willing to open this can of gagh with the constable. Instead he diverted towards lighter topics, such as station gossip, and finished his meal just in time for Odo's shift to begin.
If he wanted to advance in his quest of culinary discovery he would need to find different accomplices but a Changeling to aid him. Perhaps he'd consider Odo's opinion, if the constable ever happened to develop a taste for solid foods— which Garak didn't consider to be all that likely.
True, the approach to foodstuffs by a being so thoroughly unfamiliar with it would certainly be fascinating to witness, but there was no time to sit and wait around for it to happen.
After all Garak had to concern himself with more urgent matters.
"If you have questions about food preparation you could ask the captain," Professor O'Brien said while removing her safety goggles. "Be careful, those spores coming off the moss samples we took from Torad III are highly irritating to the eyes."
"I'll keep my distance then, professor," Garak said with raised hands. "I wasn't aware that you kept potential hazards in the arboretum. Well, aside from the bees, that is."
The professor chuckled - likely at the memory of his previous unfortunate encounter with those horrible creatures - and moved towards the sonic decontamination chamber of the small adjacent lab unit.
"Oh, the moss is in stasis right now, but handling the samples does bring a certain risk with it," her voice trailed off as the chamber shot any remaining traces of harmful material clinging to her person into subatomic dust.
Garak waited patiently for the process to finish and busied himself with admiring the lush greenery surrounding him. Perhaps he should invite Bashir to something of an "outing" here— although he highly doubted that the doctor would find much appreciation for the difference between real plantlife and the simulated holographic environments they usually frequented.
"Garak, would you be so kind and help me remove this smock?"
He graciously freed Professor O'Brien from the hideous garment. "I could return some other time, professor, if you are too busy today."
"Nonsense," she waved him off. "Again, I probably can't provide any meaningful advice when it comes to cooking aside from 'follow the recipe', but I do have a few ripe vegetables with your name on them. Did you need any more beets?"
"I worry Dr. Bashir might feel personally insulted if I serve him any more. No, but I'll gladly take anything extra off your hands. You see, I've been looking into pickles—-"
"Pickles!" The professor exclaimed with a smile, lending Garak to the vegetable beds by his arm. "Then I'm sure you'll love to try these Kethan radishes. They're in season on Qo'noS right now, so I tried to replicate their natural environment as closely as possible. I even had some local fertiliser imported!"
The visual appearance of the radishes certainly didn't match her excitement, but Garak accepted them gratefully nonetheless, and a basket of Terran and Andorian vegetables on top of that. Pickling techniques were very common on Cardassia, although as far as Garak was aware his people preferred to preserve fish and various sorts of seafood with roots and tubers merely accounting for bulk. Following Professor O'Brien's suggestion of inquiring with Captain Sisko about information on Terran cuisine would likely improve whatever sorry outcome the vegetables were facing, but Garak was hardly comfortable with asking a Starfleet captain for help with anything.
So he thanked the professor for her kind support and retreated to his shop, quickly retiring on the newly purchased couch in the back to research various methods of fermentation.
It was a fascinating topic for sure - almost all notable humanoid species in the Alpha and Beta quadrant had discovered the concept throughout their history. A useful way of extending the shelf life of produce and animal products alike, all of them had discovered a taste for the resulting product beyond practical properties. Garak thought back to that goat cheese - cheese being a class of fermented items made with dairy. Bajorans used dairy, but Cardassians only consumed the "milk" of roasted and ground up canka nuts. Canka curds thickened with essence of Morfan seaweed were popular in coastal areas, whereas the people of the arid plains of the central continent preferred to dry the cankaHrit to improve texture and flavour, and served it soaked in red leaf tea alongside roasted or puffed grains.
Fermentation also bore alcohol, which was almost universally enjoyed, and as Garak had read in one of the many books on Earth cooking the brewing of beers had supplied humanity with easily accessible yeasts which then in turn could be used for baking. Baked goods were not as wide-spread on Cardassia— most recipes had been borrowed from colonised cultures instead of organically developing on Prime, but proved to be popular enough. It seemed to be a constant across galaxies that civilisations rested on the cultivation of grains. There was Cardassian halakla, Tammeron gurhap, Bajoran rakan, Terran triticale, Kohlanese barley...
"Garak?"
Disgruntled at being pulled away from his grain musings Garak looked up from his copy of Recording and Understanding the Evolution of Cardassian Food Processing - From the First Hebetians to the Modern Imperial Union. "Doctor, how can I help you? You do realise, of course, that my shop is still closed down for renovations?"
Bashir nodded and sat himself down on the arm of the couch, only to lean over Garak's shoulder to glance past his PADD and into the basket of vegetables. "More beets?"
"So you came here to complain? Clearly Starfleet doesn't work you hard enough if you still have the energy to vent your frustrations outside of that infirmary of yours."
"Look, I just came here to ask you out for dinner later today," Bashir said, straightening his back a little. "You won't be busy with your 'renovations' all day, will you?"
"As a matter of fact I will be. I apologise, my dear Doctor, but I don't have time nor patience to prepare something for us tonight."
Looking appropriately guilty, Bashir shrunk back a little. "I didn't mean to invite myself to dinner, Garak. We could go to a restaurant. Er, I understand if that's too public for you, though. I mean even I myself am not exactly clear on what to call—"
"You're getting ahead of yourself," Garak warned, not unkindly. "This station is not what one would consider a culinary stronghold - it'd be wasteful to spend money on mediocre food when I could use it to pay for high quality ingredients instead."
"Maybe you should reopen your shop as a bistro, then," Bashir said dryly.
Garak clicked his tongue. "And put Quark out of business? Please, I could never be that cruel."
"Look Garak, I don't know how it works on Cardassia, but if I offer to invite you that means I'm willing to pay for you as well. You won't be wasting any latinum if dinner's on me, hm?"
"Oh, it's not about the money. It's about the principle of things!"
"If you don't want to go, that's fine with me! You don't need an excuse if you're not in the mood!"
A little too frustrated for his own liking with the good man's lack of understanding, Garak exhaled slowly. "I do not need to make excuses, Doctor. I simply am otherwise preoccupied."
"Well, what about tomorrow?"
Garak grimaced and shrugged.
"Fine!" Bashir muttered dejectedly, getting up to leave. "What's got you so busy that you can't step into the Replimat for a few hours?"
Dubiously noting that Bashir apparently considered using his Starfleet discount to pay for a replicated meal to be a highly valuable act of courtship, Garak shifted his legs on the couch and pointed his PADD at the doctor. "You do, my friend. After all it was none other than yourself that led me onto this humble path of self-improvement."
"Humble, huh? I appreciate that you've taken my words to heart and discovered this new passion of yours, Garak, but it would be nice to— oh, I don't know! Shake things up a little! Don't you agree?"
"To be frank: I don't. In fact I rather enjoy things where they are."
Suddenly Bashir sat back down, dropping his head on the backrest of the couch. "There are only so many beet dinners I can take, Garak. It's pure torture—" He raised his hand when Garak opened his mouth to speak. "No witty remarks, please. I like spending time with you. I love your cooking, sans beets, but I really think it would be nice if we did something..." With that he trailed off, clearly too frustrated to speak.
"After the regrettable events from a few weeks ago I didn't exactly see myself in the most comfortable position, Doctor. I greatly appreciate your efforts to rekindle our friendship—"
"What? And a rekindling means that we are back at square one?"
Garak hummed. Clearly the two of them had different ideas about how this... arrangement of theirs was to be properly conducted.
"Are you familiar with the process of fermentation, Doctor?" he asked before Bashir could upset himself even further.
"The conversion of organic compounds such as glucose into energy and byproducts by microorganisms under anaerobic conditions. The computer could probably deliver a more detailed definition. But I don't see how this is related to the topic at hand..."
"Well, while your definition is accurate it also is void of any practical applications. What happens to crushed grains mixed with water? To fruit that is left to sit?"
Bashir gave him an incredulous look but indulged him without complaint. "The wet grains’ endogenous enzymes break down into simpler sugars, which leaves wild yeasts from the bran to ferment these substrates anaerobically. Glycolysis, Garak. You get ethanol and carbon dioxide. Yet I can't imagine they don't teach chemistry on Cardassia— so why ask?"
"Because we both enjoy listening to those wonderfully succinct explanations of yours, Doctor. It's a fascinating thing, isn't it? Would your people be where they are today without it?"
Frowning, Bashir crossed his legs. "No, I suppose not. I assume the same goes for Cardassians?"
Garak nodded. "I've reevaluated the importance of food and exercise in my life— but this would remain a shallow endeavour if I didn't get to the bottom of the matter."
There was a pregnant pause. Bashir kept staring at the ceiling. "I— I'm glad you found something to preoccupy yourself with, Garak. If you're planning on starting a brewery on DS9 you'd better apply for a permit first, though."
"Oh, I don't have any such projects in the works. Have you been reading much lately?"
"Of course," Bashir said. "That's why I'm so confused you don't want to have dinner with me. I pictured you practically counting the seconds until you'd get to hear what I think about your Lakarian history books!" He paused briefly. "Why are there so many of them, anyway? You'd think there'd only be so much one can write about one city."
Smirking, Garak took a bold glance at Bashir's neck. Just for a moment. "Please, Lakar only has eleven. Just wait until we get to the twenty-eight volumes about the Capital."
"And next you'll tell me that blatant historical revisionism is considered an art form..."
Garak ignored his foolish digs. "If you're really so eager to spend time with me, you could at least make yourself useful. I've made my way through your own planet's ancient history - now I find it high time to cover that of my own."
"The fermentation..." Bashir finally caught on and reached for one of the Kethan radishes, holding it up. "You want to pickle these?"
"Following traditional Cardassian technique, to be exact."
"A technique which was first discovered in Lakarian city! Did you just lend me those books so I could mentally prepare myself for my inevitable fate of peeling vegetables?"
"Well," Garak said, taking the radish away from him and placing it back safely into the basket. "I'd wager it's more of a happy coincidence that you seem to be willing to offer your help with that..."
Excited with upset at being lured in so expertly, Bashir sat up straight and fixed Garak with an incredulous stare. "Volume four of the Societal and Economic Annals of Lakarian City clearly states that kiTh'il is a group activity! It's not just a way to preserve food but also strengthen familial and affiliative relationships! I cannot believe you were doing this on purpose—"
"My good Doctor, you're reading way too much into my generous attempts of educating you on Cardassian history. Where would we be if I did the same? Let's say if I had interpreted your professional support of my exercise routines as a mere cover to seek to fraternise? Now, that would have been rather presumptuous of me, wouldn't it?"
Those words wiped Bashir's disbelieving smile off his face. He settled down again, evidently chastened. "I understand. No dinner tonight. Or tomorrow. You're not too busy to make it to your check-up appointment next week, are you?"
Garak did of course realise that his strategy of keeping Bashir at arms length might permanently fracture their already fragile bond, but he still held out hope that the doctor would ultimately come to grasp and appreciate this subtle approach Garak had chosen for himself.
"Of course. Though I must admit, I've come to neglect my time at the holosuites."
"I'm sure you're fine," Bashir said and finally got up to leave, appearing earnest about his intentions this time.
"I'd still be able to make it to lunch on Thursday, if you'd be amenable," Garak offered.
With a rather pathetic sigh, Bashir stopped at the door to the salesroom. "Sure. I'll talk to you, then, Garak. Have a good day."
When the door slid shut behind Bashir, Garak returned his attention to the Evolution of Cardassian Food Processing and keenly wondered if all humans were as complicated as Bashir when it came to determining relationship boundaries. Like so often, he felt grateful for being a Cardassian, who tended to go about these things in a much more clear-cut and effortless manner.