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Corbeau looked over his shoulder at Philippe the second the elevator shut behind their latest victim—client. “You know what we haven’t done in a while?”
“Together? Or do you mean with the Rust Syndicate? Or you personally?” Philippe apparently had plenty of ideas for them to do depending on what he answered here. He almost wanted to make him guess now in case he had better ideas.
Corbeau pulled up a list of Rust Syndicate events and tapped on the screen, a personal pet peeve of Philippe’s, but he was being good and not saying anything right now because his boss was excited.
“We haven’t hosted a cookout in over 5 months now. The weather’s starting to come around, no storms or anything this weekend, what do you think?”
Philippe moved closer and nodded. “It sounds like the Syndicate’s due for one. The timing’s perfect too. I got some peppers I’ve been trying to master using in recipes from a book I found from the Alola region. Sweet peppers, but flavorful. I could take out the grill, put some meat on there—I’ve got the perfect seasoning set aside for a big pork dinner. Pork chops are on sale, or I could get a whole hog, Boss. Your call. I also have an easy recipe for rellenos that I can make ahead of time and put out a bunch all at once. Fried potato with seasoned ground beef inside, you’d love it.”
“Dessert ideas? I was thinking a big cake,” Corbeau mentioned and typed everything they talked about as they said it. He typed quickly, thinking maybe a makeshift menu might help them down the road.
“And drinks: Beer and some nonalcoholic options since some of the grunts are trying to stay sober.” Philippe waited for him to type that before adding, “Also, Boss, you hate cake. You always order it when we’re out, and you quit after one bite.”
Corbeau pouted at him. “I love cake. I just hate dry-ass cake that tastes like a spoonful of sugar in my mouth. Too much even for me, the sugar bomb most places serve.”
“I’ve never seen you enjoy cake, and I’ve eaten almost every meal with you since we merged our businesses.”
Was that true? Corbeau tried to remember the last time he truly enjoyed cake. Wait, was it before he tied the knot with the Rust Syndicate? Come to think of it, Philippe’s right. Since he refined his tastes in everything he hadn’t enjoyed a single piece of cake.
“I even got you a slice from that baker who makes the best chocolate cake in the world, and you rejected that too. Even Lysandre can’t get that cake, but the baker thought I’d like it because I have some culinary connections under my belt.” Philippe concluded with: “You don’t like cake.”
“Maybe it’s the kind of cake?”
Philippe seriously doubted that according to his face but didn’t say anything.
“Philippe, just make a giant sheet cake with whipped cream on top and that sauce thing and call it a day.” Corbeau typed out cake as plainly as possible and added some soda options in the drink section.
Philippe grew quiet for a while, but he eventually pitched in with a few suggestions, including opening it up for the public in case anyone passing by was also hungry. Of course Corbeau would agree to that. He adjusted the amount of food they’d need and added some ideas for kids too.
They added stuff at random throughout the day. During a meeting, Philippe would reach over and scribble something on a notepad, and Corbeau would take the next opportunity to add it to the list. Vegetarian options. Everything properly labeled. Stuff to put the food in so people could walk around. But also a long table as an option for his grunts to sit and chat. It wasn’t anything concrete yet, but they’d tie in the rest of the grunts once it took off. They still had time.
At one point Corbeau raised his voice at a particularly disrespectful debtor, and Philippe wrote something down for later. Corbeau expected it to be a remark about calming down and taking it easy on his prey, but it was a question.
Did you mean a tres leches cake?
Corbeau opened his laptop to type up a new agreement for the debtor where they’d sell their soul to pay off their loan—but he did a quick search to confirm what Philippe inquired about too.
Seeing a cake with milk at the bottom lit a lightbulb in his head.
“Yes, thanks, Philippe. You’re right.” He meant to write it down, but he was suddenly excited that Philippe figured it out that the words spilled out faster than he could catch them.
He happily clicked away and printed a document. “You owe us a lot of money, and you’re in hot, boiling water—but there’s a cookout this Saturday if you’re in need of food. I suggest you go as the rest of your money’s coming to us from now on.” He unintentionally laughed at that and passed a brand new contract to the client.
It took Philippe less than a day to track down a piece of that beautiful cake and pass it to Corbeau. “A renowned baker makes them all the time, just down the block from here. I can make it a semi-regular order if you like it.”
Corbeau never reflexively smiled for food, but he did here. He remembered what it should taste like, a foggy memory came to him like he was a kid waiting for a yummy bite of his favorite thing. Even as Philippe passed him a spoon and watched him take that first bite, he wiggled happily.
And he stopped after one bite. He got hit with a mouthful of cinnamon, and couldn’t taste anything else. When he pushed it away, he heard Philippe sigh.
“I don’t understand, Boss.”
“Must’ve grown out of it,” Corbeau offered and waved it away.
It hurt that he didn’t like it. He opened his laptop and erased the cake from the menu, replacing it with something more practical and then finalizing some details so they could start getting the word out about the cookout. His chest actually hurt for a few passing moments after the disappointment.
When the day finally came, Philippe cooked up a storm. He did it all with the help of a few grunts he either took under his wing or were at least good enough where he could get them to follow specific orders. Corbeau made sure everyone was eating and offered some stuff he made himself too. Some grunts brought food too, small things. One brought plates. One brought cups. Everyone did little things to help out and make it a good time.
As they wanted, they got people off the street to eat, passed them food, Corbeau offered services where he could and snagged a few new suckers—clients—for future use.
At some point, he watched someone go by with a plastic tin with a plain white cake and grabbed them by the arm to wretch them back to him.
“Where did you get that?”
He disappeared without telling Philippe in order to investigate this place that random person said they got the cake from. It came to him now as he ran down the street with no bodyguard. There was a specialty store that sold Paldean food exclusively, including islands near that region and some Alolan food. Very specific stuff most places in Lumiose didn’t sell.
He raided their dumpsters often in the past as they had food cooked inside the little supermarket as well as produce and spices and all that. Back then a woman working there packed the food separately when she realized he was after it, and while she couldn’t give it to him directly, she made sure garbage didn’t touch it.
But food was food. He didn’t care for most of it except that he had something to eat. It wasn’t memorable until she gave him a cheap little cake during some festival.
Corbeau entered the store, turned to the refrigerators, and grabbed two. Paid and left.
He walked to Philippe in mild shock and held one out to him. “Found it.”
Philippe stared at the little plastic container for what felt like an eternity. Corbeau ignored the response and went to dig in immediately. Small piece of cake, plain whipped topping, bit of that milky bottom, and he almost shook with anticipation as he took a bite into it.
It was perfect.
Philippe only ate a piece because Corbeau audibly moaned after that initial bite and nearly licked that container clean in an instant. He watched Philippe try it and almost laughed at his mild disgust.
“It’s not that it’s bad, but it just tastes like milk.”
“Milk and vanilla and cake.”
“Like soggy cake. It’s too wet for me,” admitted Philippe.
Corbeau took it from him and ate it too, with Philippe staring at him in surprise. He was tearing up suddenly from it, and Philippe pulled him inside the Syndicate where everyone cleared out for the cookout.
“You okay?”
“I kinda missed it.” He pulled his glasses off to clean his face. “I hated that I didn’t know what this was and when I found something close, it was always bad. And it’s just cheap cake that you don’t even like.”
Philippe hugged him and chuckled. “It’s okay if you like shitty cake, Boss. We’ll just have to remember that for the wedding.”