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Benoit Blanc is completely helpless in the kitchen.
He's honestly kind of embarrassed about it, desperate to keep it to himself for fear of falling short of the kinds of southern-cooked comforts you might expect from someone with an accent (and disposition) like his. He has old family recipes, all kinds of shiny mixers and cooking knives and fancy utensils that sit in his kitchen and don't do much other than shine mockingly at him, but most of the time he'd rather just go out and grab something to eat to avoid the headache of having to do it himself when he'd rather be thinking about other things. Better to support local businesses and eat out. The people-watching isn't bad, either.
Benoit Blanc is also pretty helpless when it comes to romance. He doesn't date much, far too busy with missing starlets and mysteriously poisoned aristocrats and transatlantic trips chasing down hunches with his usual bloodhound-sharp instinct, hungry for nothing but truth and the clicking-together of each scattered puzzle piece until he's finally looking at a full picture. Or maybe that's just what he's always told himself so he doesn't have to face the real reason, which is a little too close to fear for him to want to analyze too closely.
Unfortunately Blanc's well-acquainted enough with fear to be able to recognize it, and in himself he recognizes plenty of it—there's the fear of having to actually open himself up to somebody, the fear of finding somebody who isn't put off by his choice of vocation, the fear of that feeling you get when you start to really fall for somebody, dizzy and uncertain and unbearably distracted. It's been a long time since he's had that feeling. It's been a long time since he's gone looking for it.
Blanc's about as good at capital-R-Romance as he is at cooking; both are things he thinks he ought to be better at, things that people probably assume he is alright at, and both are things that, in truth, he's altogether pretty hopeless at.
*
Baking is a slightly less difficult area for Blanc than cooking because the exacting attention to timing and detail needed is more in his wheelhouse, but most of his attempts still leave something to be desired, lumpy and bland and lacking a certain charm that you only find in food made with love. He also has a habit of getting distracted and burning things until his oven is belching black smoke and he has to open every window he has, which is another deterrent for him ever wanting to attempt baking if he can help it.
Despite his efforts to avoid preparing food (and his doubled efforts to avoid ever having to show the food he does make to anybody else), Blanc still finds himself poking around an intimidatingly crowded baking supplies store in the heart of New York's shopping district a week before Christmas. It's not the kind of situation he'd willingly put himself in, but his mother insisted that he participate in the tradition she's trying to start and bake something this year. He's not sure why they can't just stick with the traditions they already have, but when he'd voiced this to her over the phone she'd told him to hush before she reaches through the phone and makes him—a fairly standard threat from her, but still one he'd taken seriously enough to respond to with a sigh and a mumbled "Can I at least make something easy? Cornbread? Cookies?"
His mother had sounded amused, voice raspy over the phone underneath the sound of a running kitchen tap. "Make whatever your heart tells you, but you know it's more fun if you try something you've never done before. I found this Kransekage recipe that they made on that British baking show, maybe you can try that. That's a wreath cake. You watch that show, right? The one with the scary judge who's tanner than an overcooked turkey?"
"I don't watch that show."
"You know who I mean though, right? Eyes like cobalt skies?"
Blanc had sighed. "Paul Hollywood."
"That's the one! It's his recipe, I think. Give it a shot. Love you, Beignet. Oh, should I make Beignets, too? Or do you want to? Beignets by Beignet would be something, can't believe I never thought of it, you've been Beignet practically your whole li—"
Blanc had hung up before she could finish. She's the only person who's ever called him that, and he'd rather not encourage anyone else to take up the nickname by making Beignets. He'll grit his teeth and try the recipe she sends him, but that'll be it.
Blanc peers at the list of ingredients on his phone, hoping he doesn't look as confused as he feels but certain that he probably does. He's decidedly out of his element and nowhere close to getting through his whole list, still stuck on the first bullet point: meringue powder. He doesn't know if that's something you make or something you buy, and the labels in the aisles have done little to help him sort that out. He's been wandering around for twenty minutes already, half-hoping someone'll notice his plight and point him in the right direction without him having to ask.
He spends another ten minutes debating over two different near-identical dough-blenders before sighing, throwing both of them into his basket, and vaguely considering giving up and coming back tomorrow. He glances up at a scuffling from down the aisle and sees a lanky man with a loaded-down basket of his own, picking through the items on the shelves with ease and adding what looks like half of the shop's contents to his pile. He's wearing a dark apron over his blue sweater, one with words on it that Blanc can't quite make out from his position.
The man has a friendly face and an ease in this environment that tells Blanc that he's probably a good person to ask, so he clears his throat. "Pardon me, I don't suppose I could bother you with a baking query or two? You seem like a fellow who knows his way around a kitchen." He holds his phone out, showing the list.
The man's eyebrows raise, bright blue eyes landing on Blanc's face then falling to his phone. He shifts his weight, moving the basket to his other arm so that he can peer down at the list. "Oh, ehm, sure thing! I'd—I'd love to help out a fellow baker in need."
"I wouldn't exactly call myself a baker," Blanc says, taking note of the man's British accent and the now-legible words on his apron, curly pink lettering that spells out Queen Of The Kitchen.
"Ah, are you just starting out?" The man glances down at Blanc's basket then back up again, curious. He gives Blanc a considering look, a grey-streaked lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. "...Or roped into it, hm?"
"Roped into it." Blanc confirms. "By a well-meaning mother whom I know better than to deny."
"Ah." The man says again, reaching out to tilt Blanc's phone slightly so that he can see the rest of the list, his fingertips brushing Blanc's, "I'm usually the well-meaning mother in my family, I'm afraid." He pauses for a moment, then, "—not literally, but—"
"I know what you mean." Blanc smiles, finding that it's genuine.
"In any case, I'd be happy to help you with this…" The man trails off expectantly.
"Blanc," Blanc fills in, holding his hand out for a shake, "Benoit Blanc."
"Very Bond, James Bond of you." The man says, giving his hand a firm shake. "I'm Phillip."
Blanc gives a polite laugh, noting Phillip's lack of reaction to his name and hoping it's authentic. "You're the one who sounds the part." He points out, startled to find that he thinks he might be flirting.
"Oh," Philip waves him off, "I've been told that I sound far too posh to be a good Bond, and I'm inclined to agree. Your accent, though…" He doesn't finish the thought, instead tilting his head, "And the French name. Louisiana?"
Blanc nods. "Baton Rouge."
They stare at each other for a moment, suspended in time and hanging on the precipice of a million different avenues of conversation, before Phillip reaches up past Blanc's head and drops a bag of almond flour into his cart. "Well, Benoit, tell me more about this Kransekage you're cooking. I always find the proportions of the rings a bit tricky."
"Blanc."
Phillip smiles, lines cutting into his cheeks. "Right. Blanc."
Phillip ends up leading Blanc through the aisles with the grace of a trained ballet dancer, dodging the slew of other Christmas shoppers with ease and already seeming to know exactly where to find everything Blanc needs. He even explains what meringue powder is, which Blanc appreciates beyond measure.
He's also rather charming, which Blanc is trying incredibly hard not to notice (unfortunately, like always, he notices everything). He notices the olive grey satchel strung over Phillip's shoulders, the sensible brown brogues that he wears on his feet, the nice but well-loved watch on his wrist. Blanc starts to compose a list of jobs he thinks Phillip might have: lawyer? Maybe a lecturer or an academic? Maybe a—
"You look rather deep in thought." Phillip says, scrutinizing a zester before seeming to deem it unworthy, scrunching his nose ever-so-slightly and reaching for another one.
"I was just wondering what you do." Blanc admits, strangely compelled towards honesty. "Other than serve as Queen Of The Kitchen." He tips his head towards Phillip's apron.
Phillip looks down at his apron like he's noticing it for the first time. "Oh, this." He smooths a hand over it slightly self consciously, staring down at it for a long moment as his mouth quirks. Finally, he looks back up. "My flat is down the block, so I ducked out to grab a few last-minute things for a bake I was going to start on."
Blanc eyes Phillip's twenty-pound pile of quirky ingredients like nutmeg foam and dragon fruit custard. They're mixed in with novelty kitchen tools like heart-shaped baking pans and fiddly little gadgets that Blanc couldn't begin to guess the purposes of. "A few." He repeats.
Phillip looks self-conscious again, a flicker in his eyes that Blanc shouldn't enjoy as much as he does. It's cruel to tease, but there's something about the rumpled-flustered-kindness of this man that Blanc feels like tugging at, a loose thread he can't help but catch his fingers on again and again. "I can get a bit carried away. Anyway, this"—he waves a hand over his apron—"was a gift from a friend a few birthdays ago." He looks lost for a moment, searching Blanc's face. "What—what was your other question?"
Blanc bites down on a smile. "I didn't ask one. I was wondering what you do, but I'd rather you didn't tell me just yet."
Phillip inclines his head, pushing a hand through his hair in a rakish move that somehow, somehow, Blanc thinks isn't as studied as it looks. "Oh? Are you one of those sorts who likes to guess at these things?"
This time, Blanc lets himself grin. "You could say that."
After they've both made their way through the winding queue and paid for their individual baskets, they find themselves at an impasse on the street outside, bag-laden holiday shoppers milling around them in a half-festive half-harried stream. Blanc lets his bag dangle from his fingertips, hearing the clink of metal against cardboard as his spoils shift with gravity. "Well, I—" He starts, cut off by Phillip clearing his throat. Blanc falls silent, gesturing for Phillip to continue, whose fingers twitch.
Phillip looks slightly lost, blinking one, two, three times before speaking. "I was, um—well, I was wondering if perhaps you—I mean, since you seem like you could benefit from some help in the kitchen, well…" His lips go tight in diffidence. "I apologize, I'm not usually like this."
"Like what?" Blanc asks, charmed beyond his capacity for reason. "I think that if you're asking what I'm assuming you are, you're doing a perfectly adequate job."
Phillip takes a breath. "And—what do you assume I'm asking?"
"If I'd like some baking succor from someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Phillip looks relieved. "Precisely."
*
Blanc goes to Phillip's flat the next day.
It's a veritable well of information the way that flats always are, down to the potted dahlias bracketing the doorway and the barely-hidden spare key tucked into a side-sconce. Blanc raises his hand to knock then pauses, something echoing through the dark green wood of the door. Singing. It's off-key and barely audible, but the backing track is slightly louder. He tilts his head, picking up on the strained tail-end of a refrain that sounds an awful lot like a certain Agony from a certain Into the Woods.
He knocks. The singing cuts off abruptly, and the music cuts off a moment later. Blanc looks at his watch. He's a bit early.
When the door opens, Phillip looks slightly sheepish, and Blanc wonders if elegantly-disheveled is just how he always looks. He's slightly more casual than he was at the shop, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up. Blanc doesn't mention the music, content to be polite and store this nugget of information about Phillip away for later, but he needn't worry, because the first thing that Phillip says is "You heard me carrying on, didn't you?"
Blanc nods. "If it's any consolation, I sing like that in my car every day."
Phillip gives him a look. "Really? You're not just saying that?"
"Every day that ends in Y, cross my heart. And Sondheim's a favorite of mine."
Phillip scrunches his face up. "Yes, well, we're both gay men of a certain age, I don't suppose either of us liking Sondheim is much of an anomaly."
"I suppose not." Blanc elects not to mention any person relationship he may or may not have with Sondheim and instead lifts his ingredient-laden bag, untouched from the way the store clerk had packed it. "I brought everything a would-be Kransekage could ever hope to be made out of."
"I watched that Bake Off episode in preparation." Phillip says, holding the door open for Blanc to step inside. "Though that show's usually far too tense for me."
"Too tense?"
Phillip nods. "It's like watching someone diffuse a bomb. My nerves can't take it."
Blanc, who's only watched someone diffuse a bomb a handful of times, finds that he agrees. Before he can respond, though, Phillip gets this look on his face like he knows what Blanc is thinking, and he leans against the counter. "I thought that I should—that it'd be good to tell you—I googled you."
"Oh?" Blanc asks, thinking about the hour he'd spent the night before googling Phillip, more difficult without a last name to go off of but not impossible.
"I thought your name sounded familiar. Something from a book, maybe."
"Mhm." Blanc prompts, returning Phillip's gaze steadily.
"It's…it's rather exciting, what you do, is all. I suppose I ought to have heard of you."
"You oughtn't." Blanc says, finally letting himself look around Phillip's place. "Really." He takes in the messy bookshelves, the cat-tower currently sans-cat, the open office door in the corner revealing a sliver of a desk covered in papers, the well-loved kitchen chock-full of shiny mixers and cooking knives and fancy utensils that actually look like they get some use.
"Well, as long as you aren't bored by the company of someone who doesn't do much other than putter around their office all day."
"I'm not. Is the office for your legal work or your freelance writing?"
Phillip blinks at him, a small smile curling his lips up. "I don't suppose you googled me?"
"I might've." Blanc looks down to see a calico cat winding its way around his legs. "Just to confirm my hunches, of course."
Phillip doesn't notice the cat, too focused on looking from Blanc to the floor and back again. "But I do my writing under a pseudonym. Google wouldn't have—"
"Hunch." Blanc repeats, enjoying this just a little bit more than he thinks he should. He really should be past the impressing dates with easy guesswork phase of his romantic life, and he thought he was, but something in him really wants Phillip to like him.
"Right." Phillip pushes off from the counter and retreats further into the kitchen, startling the elusive cat into darting away. He starts fussing with the spread of kitchen tools he already has laid out and ready. "I can put on some music while we bake, if you want. Maybe some jazz, or some…?"
"What were you playing before I got here?" Blanc asks, dumping his bag somewhat inelegantly on the free table.
Phillip squints at him. "A musical theatre mix a friend made for me. Queen Of The Kitchen Volume One."
Blanc casts around for the apron, spotting it hanging over the back of a chair. "That sounds perfect." He lifts the apron, holding it up. "Do you…?"
"You can wear it." Phillip says, measuring out a cup of flour and shaking it slowly into a bowl. "Half of my clothes end up covered in this stuff eventually." As if to illustrate his point, a dash of flour slips from the cup and sticks to the front of his sweater in a powdery smudge of white.
Blanc ties the apron around his waist, breathing in the smell of almonds and nutmeg and flour, and claps his hands together. "What can I do?"
Phillip gives Blanc easy tasks at first, the kinds that you give to a child to make them feel included; cracking eggs, measuring ingredients. He takes them on with zeal, grateful just to be of service and not confident enough in his kitchen abilities to protest. They spend a good hour on the Kransekage, rolling the dough into different lengths to get the ring sizes right (Phillip is so exact that he makes Blanc measure them with a ruler), and Blanc seems to earn his trust enough to be given the responsibility of working on the glaze while the rings bake.
"Tilt your wrist slightly more." Phillip says from over Blanc's shoulder, busy mixing marzipan in a small glass bowl. "Left, not right."
Blanc does, shifting his whisk to the right and raising an eyebrow. "Like this?"
Phillip sighs, put-upon and indulgent, and gently takes Blanc's wrist with his hand to adjust his grip. "Like this."
"Oh, silly me." Blanc says, not even trying to sound apologetic.
Phillip doesn't move his hand for a long moment. Neither does Blanc. The moment is slightly undermined by the sound of Sweeney Todd singing about meat pies, but only slightly.
When the rings are done baking and they start to stack them, they come out only a little bit lopsided. It's the best-looking thing Blanc has ever baked, and he's so awed by it that he kind of wants to take pictures just to prove that it's real, strangely more proud of this than he is of his last few cases he's cracked. Either he needs better cases, or he's more into baking than he thought.
"It's a shame we're not supposed to eat it." Blanc says, reaching a forlorn finger out and nudging the tower of pastry.
"A shame." Phillip echoes. "You know, I did make Limoncello cupcakes yesterday. They're in the fridge."
Blanc perks up immediately. "Oh? Is that an invitation to partake?"
"It's more than that," Phillip starts, opening the fridge with a flourish and pulling them out. He turns to Blanc with the plate aloft, looking like promise and hope and possibility all rolled into one, and Blanc feels like maybe he isn't as terrible at this romance thing as he thought.
Then, seized by a sudden and violent sneeze, he jerks his elbow up to catch it and sends the plate flying, pastel yellow cupcakes landing in a series of plops on the floor among shards of glass.
"You could've just said no thank you." Phillip says mildly, hands still held in mid-air.
Blanc is already knelt down, sweeping glass into his palms. "I'm not usually such a—a bull in a china shop, I swear."
"You mean you don't win all of your cases by smashing things until your suspects spill their secrets?"
Blanc considers that as he looks up at Phillip, who seems a little more comfortable now that Blanc's the rumpled one. "...Sometimes."
Phillip kneels down next to him and starts to gather the smushed cupcakes. "We can make something else, if you like. The cupcakes were really just an excuse to ask you to stay longer."
Blanc narrowly avoids cutting his finger on a shard of glass, which makes Phillip tsk and reach for a dustpan and a little brush, which he hands over expectantly, standing to discard his sad clump of ruined cupcakes.
Blanc sweeps up the rest of the glass and joins Phillip at the garbage, watching the pieces tinkle down on top of each other. "I'll stay as long as you like."
Phillip's smile is soft and sure. "Alright. Want to make Beignets?" He lights up as soon as the words leave his lips, amused. "Hey, Benoit, Beignet! Has anyone ever called you Beignet? Or does even your mother call you Blanc?"
For the first time in a long time, Blanc feels dizzy and uncertain and unbearably distracted.
He thinks he rather likes it.