"Tourist" isn't a new affectation. Lucien's a culinary geek with a globe-spanning record. Personal hobbies include recreating dishes from far-flung corners from memory, instinct, and inspecting what he can nick from well-stocked spice cabinets. ([i]Kitchen staff have a high turnover rate, and most of his targets never look twice at service. More importantly, if you're good enough at it, none of the other staff are going to call you out. Not until end-of-shift.[/i]) 

That means a lot of gutter food and traditions too. He's well-versed in soup kitchens and the perpetual stews of Jackdaw's youth, a comfort food for a friend in dire need of comfort. He's not going to recreate it as it was, but as it's remembered.

Tonight, he's Lucien [i]Roux[/i].

Three whole pouches of three kinds of dried beans in a big pot of water to soak. The starch will be vital. Normally he'd add some fermented sauces to it - soy, worcestshire, etc - but those are a distant memory at this point. He's lucky to have as much as he does. 

A big pot, low heat until the solid knob of tallow melts like a candle and covers the bottom of the pot. Diced onion and garlic in first, while he dices the carrot and celery into cubes as fine as the desert sand. In the pot, encouraging Jackdaw to keep stirring quickly to prevent the fat from burning. 

A battered tin of dehydrated vegetable salts, his last jar of minced surface mushrooms - not truffles, but he could never stand the things anyway. Keep stirring. A half-cup of molasses only when he's sure Jackdaw isn't looking. Black pepper and a hit of rosemary and sage - forget parsley and thyme, only ever pick two of four, no matter what the bards sing. Scrape the fond and deglaze with brandy, don't tell Ailee that's where it went. Our secret. Throw the rind of some parmesan in - he thinks this is parmesan, anyway. Break a nibble off - it was, thank goodness. 

No fresh tomatoes, not for a long time. A mason jar of sun-dried paste, a holy relic - he's willing to sacrifice two tablespoons of it for the cause, but he winces as he tastes what's there so far and realizes he needs to commit to adding a third. He does. 

Keep the cheese aside and ask Jackdaw to smell. Good? Keep stirring. You can switch to cheese grating duty in a second. The grating's not important - Jackdaw having something to hide the shaking of her hands is though. 

In goes the water and the beans and a cheerful glug of red wine vinegar - bought as wine for a special occassion that never came, but had a resoundingly successful trial the other day in a vinaigrette. Don't tell Jackdaw that, though. 

Normally the molasses would have been a whole pumpkin. The tomatoes whole and fresh, and the umami from the paste would have been brought with something richer like a soy sauce or kombu. What ingredients he did have weren't farm fresh, to say the least. He'd used far too much of a treasured reserve that was irreplacable, down here. 

Even so; it's salty, and sweet, and warm, and rich, and drapes the back of a spoon with a black-flecked red coat. A bisque on the tongue and a stew in the stomach. It's one of the only recipes he's ever considered writing down - the closest he's ever gotten to something that tastes how a warm hug from your grandparents feels. Like a fondly remembered winter from childhood, whether or not a fond childhood memory exists. Like getting healthy from sickness. 

It is without exaggeration the best he could possibly do. 

"I made more than we can eat, but it'll keep in the jars we have - it'll taste better the longer you leave it, up to a point. So no worrying about running out, and no worrying about wasting any. There's enough for ten servings here, and I'm making sure you take at least two of them - and the first one."