Chapter Text
“So, what is on the docket for the first night of my grand return to the Pacific Northwest?” Frasier asked with dramatic flair, “Dinner at Au Pied du Cochon, or perhaps Le Cigare Volant?”
“Actually, no--”
“Gui Savoy?”
“No--”
“Les Petits Oiseaux, then?”
“Actually--”
“Les Habitants? Chez Henri? Coeur du Singe?”
“No--”
“Well, then. I have named every one of my favorite restaurants in this city. If we are not going to any of them, then just what did you have in mind?”
Niles flexed his fingers around the steering wheel and fought back a snarky retort by reminding himself that his brother had just gotten off of a long flight (and, perhaps more importantly, they were stuck in this car together for quite a while if traffic didn’t improve soon). “Actually, I had planned on having dinner at home tonight.”
Frasier gave a look of approval, “What are you cooking then?”
“Actually, I’m not the one cooking--”
Frasier’s look of approval quickly melted to one of pity, “Oh, Niles, I just had a four hour flight. I don’t think that Daphne’s cooking would sit well on my stomach after all that travel.”
Niles tried to hide his eye roll by checking his side mirror before responding, “No no, David has planned dinner tonight.”
“David?!” Frasier echoed his nephew’s name, eyebrows raised in surprise.
Niles nodded, “You know he’s been working at L’Escalier on weekends for about two years now.”
“Yes,” Frasier said, before skeptically adding, “Bussing tables .”
“Yes, well, it seems that the cooking bug bit him,” Niles explained, refusing to allow his brother’s attitude dampen his pride, “He’s been taking cooking classes at school. He insisted that he plan and prepare dinner for us tonight.”
Frasier’s skepticism seemed to evaporate, “How could I refuse my favorite nephew?”
Traffic began to move and a few moments passed in silence as Niles drove and Frasier watched his former hometown pass by out the window.
“How goes the college admission adventure?” Frasier asked, breaking the silence.
Niles smiled broadly, “Very well. Vanderbilt, Notre Dame, Stanford, Yale .”
“Ah, but what about Harvard?” Frasier questioned.
Niles scoffed, “Of course, but I don’t know why he would ever want to go there.”
Frasier’s eye roll was far from hidden.
Three Weeks Earlier
“Mom?”
Daphne turned to see her eldest child and only son standing in the kitchen door with a sheepish look that made him look so similar to his father.
“What is it, love?” she asked, offering him a warm smile.
David took a few cautious steps into the kitchen.
Daphne studied his face and frowned, “Is something wrong?”
He flopped into a chair and ran a hand through his honey-colored hair, “How do you think Dad would feel if I didn’t go to Yale?”
Daphne’s face fell, “Did you not get accepted?”
David sighed and put a letter on the table, “It’s not that--”
She picked up the paper and scanned it; it was an acceptance letter-- one of many that David had received. Setting the letter down, Daphne once again saw her son’s troubled face. He needed a distraction, something idle he could do while processing his thoughts.
Daphne stood and walked to the sink where she had been washing vegetables for the night’s dinner.
“Why don’t you give me a hand peeling and chopping these?” she asked, offering him a paring knife.
He half-smiled as he took her up on the offer.
Their work found a steady and comfortable rhythm and Daphne couldn’t help but smile, remembering all the times she had cooked with his father and found a similar rhythm.
Finally, David spoke.
“I… don’t want to go to Yale.”
“Do you want to talk about why?” she asked.
He took a deep breath, “Because I don’t want to go to college.”
Daphne was shocked, but determined to not let David see it. Instead, she calmly asked, “Well. Then what do you want to do?”
He paused, gathering his thoughts, “I want to be a chef.”
Daphne’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “Do you?”
David smiled a little, “Yeah. My teachers say I’m good at cooking and I’ve been talking to Chef Marcel about it, he thinks I’m cut out for it.”
“Well, if that’s what you want,” Daphne said.
“I’m just worried about telling Dad,” David said, staring at a potato in his hand, “Worried that he’ll be disappointed in me.”
“Oh, David,” Daphne said kindly, dropping her knife and turning to look at her son, “Your father could never be disappointed in you. Not for following your dreams.”
David looked up at his mother, clearly fighting back tears.
“Come here,” she said, opening her arms.
David moved to embrace his mother. She held him tightly. Despite the fact that he was almost 18 years old and just shy of 6 feet tall, she would never stop thinking of him as that tiny baby she held on that veterinary exam table back in 2004.
“Your dad and I are so proud of you, David, no matter what you decide to do with your life.”
When they separated from the hug, she saw that David, though still a bit teary, was now smiling.
“Now, let’s get these vegetables peeled before your dad gets home, hm?” she smiled at him and picked up her knife once more.
David nodded and picked up his knife as well.
After another moment of working, he spoke up, “Do you think I could cook dinner when Uncle Frasier visits next month?”
Daphne smiled, “I think that sounds wonderful, love.”
Present Day
Frasier and Niles had barely gotten the door shut behind them before stomping footsteps and shouts sounded from the stairway.
“Oh wonderful,” Niles snarked, “Frasier, your nieces are home.”
Frasier smirked at his brother as the elder of the Crane daughters appeared on the landing holding what appeared to be a piece of broken pottery.
“Dad !” she shouted, spotting her father, “Thank god you’re here. Isabel has ruined the pot I made for my bougainvillea bonsai!”
The culprit soon bounded down the stairs, a frantic mess in a lime green shirt, “Dad, whatever she’s saying, I didn’t do it!”
“Compelling argument, Isabel,” Niles responded, calmly.
The elder daughter cast an accusatory finger toward her younger sister and said, “She broke it playing with that ball in the hallway!”
“I told you it was an accident!” Isabel shouted back at her sister.
“A likely story! ”
“Lilian, please,” Niles said, gesturing for his older daughter to lower her voice, “Let’s all calm down, alright.”
Lilian scoffed and Isabel rolled her eyes, but neither shouted at the other, which certainly seemed like progress.
“May I?” Niles asked, holding out his hand to take the broken pot from Lilian.
She sighed, but handed it over for her father to inspect.
Calmly looking up from the broken pieces, Niles asked, “Where was this when it broke?”
“The hall table,” Lilian said, suddenly looking a bit more sheepish.
Niles nodded, “Mmhmm. And haven’t we learned that the hall table isn’t a safe place to keep our fragile crafts?”
Lilian sighed, but nodded.
His eyes turned to his younger daughter, “Were you throwing a ball in the hallway?”
“Kicking,” Isabel muttered under her breath.
“Either way, you know better than to do that.”
“I said I’m sorry,” Isabel said, exasperated.
“‘Sorry’ will not bring back my bonsai pot,” Lilian replied.
Niles held up his hand to stop the argument before it could continue.
“Lilian, I would recommend that you look into the Japanese art of kintsugi. A method of repairing broken pottery with glue mixed with powdered gold or silver,” he said, returning to the broken pieces to his daughter, “It looks like the break was clean and I think that it would make for a very special piece.”
Lilian looked thoughtfully at the pieces of pottery in her hands before nodding. Isabel, meanwhile, looked at her sister with a smug expression, clearly feeling that she had emerged from this encounter victorious.
“Isabel,” Niles said as her face fell, “You’re going to help your sister buy any supplies that she may need for the repair and you are going to provide assistance with the work. Alright?”
Isabel’s face had gone from merely fallen to a full scowl.
“It’s that or you’re grounded for two weeks,” Niles countered.
The scowl quickly evaporated and, instead, she turned to her sister and said, “Just tell me when you go to the art store.”
“And be sure to let me see the finished product,” Frasier said, speaking up and finally drawing the girls’ attention to him.
“Uncle Frasier!” they both shouted. Isabel launched herself at her uncle in something between a tackle and a hug, while her older sister moved more carefully to embrace him.
“How are things going in here?” Niles asked, stepping into the kitchen while the girls caught up with their uncle, “Wow, it smells great.”
David’s head popped up from where he had been bent over a cookbook, “You think so?”
“Of course,” he said, walking around to look at a pot that Daphne was tending, “Ooh, what do we have here?”
“Nothing for you yet,” she said teasingly, sharply striking the side of the pot with her spoon.
Niles jumped slightly and, with a laugh in his voice, said “Yes, sous chef.”
Daphne rolled her eyes playfully, accepting the quick peck on the cheek that her husband leaned in for. “Is your brother here?” she asked.
“Hm?” Niles said, distractedly, looking at the dishes in the kitchen, “Oh, yes. He was welcomed by the full force of Hurricanes Lilian and Isabel.”
“Oh dear, were they fighting again?” Daphne asked.
Niles chuckled, “Only when they were breathing.”
“What happened this time?”
“It seems that Isabel was playing in the hallway and accidentally broke Lilian’s pottery project.”
“I’ve told them both so many times--”
Niles held up a hand to calm his wife, “I took care of it. All was well when I left.”
“Until the next eruption,” David said, adjusting the temperature on the oven, “I’ve never seen anyone fight like they do.”
Daphne chuckled, “They’re just like your father and Uncle Frasier always were.”
“Really ?” David said, raising his eyebrows and looking at his father.
A light blush colored Niles’s cheeks, “Well, I don’t know that I would say--”
“Eerily identical,” Daphne said with an air of finality.
After Niles left the kitchen to check on Frasier and the girls, Daphne turned to her son, “How are you feeling?”
David ran a hand along his jaw and nervously looked around at everything getting ready, “The soup’s basically ready to serve, the duck and vegetables should be done just in time, and dessert’s in the oven.”
Daphne nodded, noting everything that David mentioned, “And how about you?”
He laughed dryly, “I’m… more nervous than I expected.”
She smiled at him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, “Nervous about the food or…?”
David nodded uncertainly, moving away to sit on the edge of a stool, “I-- I think the food’s alright. I’m… I’ve done everything right. Nothing’s obviously messed up. Dad said it smelled good and he didn’t mention anything seeming off, so…”
“So you’re not worried about the food,” his mother said, completing his thought.
He smiled shyly at her and shook his head just a little.
“Still worried about how your dad will react to your decision?”
David eventually nodded, a bit reluctantly, “Yeah.”
He stood up and walked around to the stove, obviously moving with no real purpose, practically pacing. “I mean, I… I know that he’s not going to be upset or disappointed or anything, I just… knowing it doesn’t mean that there’s not a little voice in the back of my head telling me that he might be, you know?” he said.
Daphne smiled sympathetically at her son and rubbed a comforting hand over his shoulder. “He’ll be so proud of you, my love,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze, “Especially knowing that you have already been accepted into culinary school.”
David gave a shy smile and a pink tinge colored his cheeks and ears, “Thanks, Mom.”
“Dinner was magnificent ,” Frasier said leaning toward his nephew who responded with a shy smile.
“And you’ve not even had dessert,” Daphne responded, returning to the room with the cherry clafoutis that had been waiting in the kitchen.
“Thanks, Mom,” David said, watching her place the cake on the table.
“Oh, David, this looks fantastic,” his father said, “Remind me to write thank you notes to your cooking teachers.”
David laughed, ears turning pink again, as he helped his mother serve dessert.
He watched as his family tucked in to the clafoutis, involuntarily holding his breath until they showed signs of enjoying the dessert.
“You know,” Niles spoke, “I was reading about the culinary society at Yale the other day.”
David quickly looked at his mother who met his eyes with a calm expression.
“I was actually wanting to tell you all something about that,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I, uh-- I’ve decided to, uh… I’m… Not going to Yale.”
Niles seemed frozen.
Frasier, however, was not. “Ha !” he declared with a wide smile, “Of course you aren’t! Not when you were accepted to Harvard!”
This triggered a response from Niles, who cried out, “Oh, David, no!”
David seemed shell-shocked. This had not been the response he had expected; though, based on the look on his mother’s face, he shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I’m not going to Harvard either,” he spoke up, ending his uncle’s gloating.
Frasier seemed to deflate while Niles cocked his head in slight confusion, ignoring his brother’s dramatics.
David answered his father’s unasked questions, “I’ve been accepted into culinary school here in Seattle.”
“Culinary school,” Niles echoed with an unreadable face.
Daphne motioned to the living room and escorted Frasier and the girls out of the room so that David and Niles could talk things through in private. David barely even noticed them leaving, he was so focused on his father.
“My teachers think that I’m really good at cooking. I talked to the counselor at school and we figured out what I need to do--”
“David--”
“Chef Marcel thinks that I have what it takes to be a chef. He helped me get into the school--”
“David--”
“He said that I could keep working at the restaurant while I’m studying and that if I needed any help--”
“David ,” Niles said, tone finally breaking through his son’s rambling speech.
The young man stopped speaking and sank into his chair, looking very much like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
“You don’t have to explain yourself, David,” Niles said, looking at his son, “I’m just…”
“I know you’re probably disappointed that I don’t want to be a psychologist. That I’m not going to Yale.”
“You want to be a chef?”
David couldn’t meet his father’s eyes, “I do.”
Niles sighed and, when David looked up at his father, he saw a warm smile on his face.
“Dad?”
Before he had a chance to think about anything else, he was wrapped in his father’s warm embrace.
“I’m so proud of you, son,” Niles said, voice quiet but steady.
David clung to his father and felt tears escaping his eyes, “Really?”
“Oh god, yes,” Niles said, “More than you can imagine.”
“Even though I’m not going to Yale?”
Niles pulled away from the embrace and instead gently placed a palm on either side of his son’s face, holding David’s eyes with his own, “What your job is, where you go to school, none of that matters to me. What matters to me, David Martin Crane, is that you are happy. That you feel fulfilled. And that you chase down your dreams, whatever they may be.”
David sniffled, “Dad.”
“Hey, now, none of that,” Niles said with a smile that belied the tears in his own eyes. He used his thumbs to wipe the tears from David’s face.
“I just have one caveat,” his father said.
David looked at him, with worry in his eyes.
“You’ll cater my dinner parties,” Niles joked.
David laughed, “Dad.”
“I mean, if my son is a famous chef…”
“Dad .”
“Seriously, though, the duck à l'orange tonight was exquisite .”
“Really ?”
“I never lie about French cuisine, son.”
David cracked a smile, “Thanks, Dad.”
Niles gave his son a little hug, “I love you, son.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”