09-10-2014, 08:51 PM
Hood made his way into one of the long-buildings that housed the markets in the winter, casually tugging his shemagh off his chin as he walked into the warm building. He moved through the crowd around the door easily enough; folks had a tendency to just get out of his way. Once past the brunt of the crowd, he stepped aside and went over the mental notes of what he needed to pick up. He was at the markets anyway, so there was no point not making good on his time and getting a few things for the fridge.
The list was short. Vegetables were easy enough to get, even in the dead of winter. Modern technology and conveniences were truly a marvel to behold. Some fruit was next, added to the same bag he had gotten from the vegetable vendor. Then it was his butcher of choice when he was in the markets.
Hood stepped past a pair of diminutive, bent-over old Russian ladies...why did they all seem to end up like that? At what point did they go from stately, gorgeous beauties to tiny hobbling potato-creatures? It made no bloody sense. Damn genetics. Stepping past the pair, he eyed the woman crowding the table-front of the butcher's shop. American accent; entirely generic.
He stepped up beside the frilly-dressed girl, glancing from the butcher to her and back, "Stroganov meat. Probably the closest you'll get, kid. Plenty of recipes back home use minute steaks for beef stroganov for a reason. Not quite the same, but beggers can't be choosers."
The list was short. Vegetables were easy enough to get, even in the dead of winter. Modern technology and conveniences were truly a marvel to behold. Some fruit was next, added to the same bag he had gotten from the vegetable vendor. Then it was his butcher of choice when he was in the markets.
Hood stepped past a pair of diminutive, bent-over old Russian ladies...why did they all seem to end up like that? At what point did they go from stately, gorgeous beauties to tiny hobbling potato-creatures? It made no bloody sense. Damn genetics. Stepping past the pair, he eyed the woman crowding the table-front of the butcher's shop. American accent; entirely generic.
He stepped up beside the frilly-dressed girl, glancing from the butcher to her and back, "Stroganov meat. Probably the closest you'll get, kid. Plenty of recipes back home use minute steaks for beef stroganov for a reason. Not quite the same, but beggers can't be choosers."