Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
And the Klingon, watching him go, decided he had much to think about.
Six
Picard stood, looking down the long table at his assembled officers—both past and present. He was glad to note that Idun Asmund was among them, seated between Ben Zoma and Cadwallader. And Beverly as well—though she had been reticent at first, she had apparently managed to overcome that without any encouragement from her captain. He raised his glass.
“A toast,” he said. “To those who have served me in such exceptional fashion.”
“Here, here,” said Riker.
“Jian dan’yu,” agreed Morgen, voicing the Daa’Vit equivalent of Riker’s acknowledgment.
Everyone murmured their approval and drank—just as their plates were removed and replaced with their main courses by a cadre of waiters. Under Guinan’s supervision, of course.
The captain assessed his dinner as it was placed in front of him. The aroma was exquisite, tantalizing. “Manzakini Loraina,” he said appreciatively. He looked up at Guinan. “An excellent choice.”
Standing discreetly apart from the table, Guinan inclined her head. “I knew you’d like it, sir,” she told him.
“This is an Emmonite dish, is it not?” asked Data.
“That’s right,” confirmed Troi, who was sitting next to him. “One of the many Emmonite dishes of which the captain is so fond.” She looked at Picard and smiled.
“Nor am I the only aficionado of Emmonite cuisine,” the captain reminded her.
“It is served regularly at Starfleet headquarters.”
“Is it true,” asked Geordi, “that the Emmonites never heard of pasta before they joined the Federation?”
Picard nodded. “Quite true. As I understand it, the head of the Emmonite delegation dined at the home of Admiral Manelli—this being a good fifty years ago, of course, when Manelli was in charge of Starfleet. That night, the admiral’s wife served linguini with white clam sauce, and the ambassador was so taken with it that he insisted on bringing the recipe back to his home planet.”
“I heard he wanted to bring Mrs. Manelli back as well,” said Ben Zoma.
Picard nodded. “He did. But that is another story.”
Data consumed a forkful of the Manzakini, seemed to ponder the experience. He turned to Guinan. “Very authentic,” he said. “My compliments to the chef.”
Guinan inclined her head again. “Thank you. The food service units will be glad to hear that.”
Joseph looked across the table at the android. “You eat, Mr. Data?”
Data nodded. “It is not necessary for my survival. However, I have found that in a situation such as this one, it is often distracting to others if I do not eat.”
“Then you can actually taste?” asked Cadwallader.
“Yes,” replied the android. “I have the requisite sensory apparatus. I can even analyze the ingredients. The only thing I cannot do is derive enjoyment from the sensation.”
“Too bad,” said Morgen. “But then, we all have our limitations.”
“Pardon me,” said the Gnalish, addressing Worf. “But your Manzakini Loraina looks a little different from mine. It seems to be writhing.”
“Worf is on a special diet,” Geordi jested.
Picard gave his chief engineer a sidelong glance. “The lieutenant has a preference for Klingon preparations,” he explained, “though he seldom gets them, except on special occasions. This qualifies as such an occasion.”
The Klingon looked at Simenon as if he’d been challenged. “It is called blood pie.” He pushed the plate toward the Gnalish. “Would you like to try some?”
Simenon swallowed. “No, my boy, I don’t think so. I like my food to lie still on my plate. You know—to at least pretend it’s not alive.”
“Actually,” said Greyhorse, “blood pie is quite nutritious.” He looked around at the surprised expressions of his companions. “I didn’t say I had eaten it. Just that it was good for you. That’s not a crime, is it?”
Laughter. And from Simenon, a crackling that was as much for Greyhorse’s benefit as anything else.
“I have eaten it,” said Asmund rather abruptly.
The laughter died down.
“And?” asked Morgen.
Asmund regarded him evenly. “It is not as good as stewed gagh.”