bucuresti: ('The Thinker' de n-are nimic pe aceasta.)
[Having recently met Versailles, and finding that they both have interests in the finer things in life, Mihail has taken it upon himself to put together a formal tea party with her. Of course, anyone is invited, however, looking at the silver tea service and the hors d'oeuvres that he's carefully selected, it certainly caters to a certain type of person.

Attempting to look at least somewhat casual, while still maintaining his appearance, he attempted something a bit more low key which apparently "low key" means Versace.
]
bucuresti: (Eu iti sint tourniquet.)
[Spring isn't exactly here yet, but it's warm enough now (compared to the frigid conditions of the past few weeks) for Mihail to at least open a window or two in order to banish the stuffiness of his house. It also helps with ventilating the oddly strong smell of what ever it is that he's cooking. On one end of the stove is some kind of beef soup that doesn't seem half as bad as the meat he's grilling at the moment. Said meat, called mititei, has garlic, black pepper, thyme, coriander, anise, and paprika, among several other things. It definitely smells like it. There's also some stuffed cabbage rolls, which smell exactly like how one would imagine they would smell. The only reprieve from the overpowering smell of what pretty much sums up Romanian cuisine is an innocent looking tray of coffee cake, and even that may be tainted somehow.

Of course, this is all perfectly normal, and Mihail can't smell a thing, due in part to the fact that he's eaten like this since he can remember. And, as usual when he cooks like this, he's completely happy in his endless realm of garlic powder and paprika. It's more or less a matter of who he can ward off, other than vampires.
]
bucuresti: (Buna iubito!)
[December is a month of holidays and remembrances for Bucharest, containing a thousand things to do all in thirty-one days. The first day is not exempt in the least, being Unification Day, celebrating the reunification of Transylvania to Romania. Usually, the celebration is filled with parades and military demonstrations, but budget cuts have left two out of six districts in Bucharest celebrating, and it's pretty much food and alcohol distribution.

Thus, Mihail has taken to sprawling on his couch, headphones on (it's Moldovan music, but hardly anyone could tell the difference) and a bottle of ţuică clutched in the crook of his elbow. Being the true Romanian he is, he just took the opportunity to get the alcohol out as it was. He's not completely drunk yet, but moreso drowsy. It gets better toward Christmas, anyway.
]
bucuresti: (Eu nu te acosteaza un mincinos.)
[Upon finding out about his own apartment, Mihail was quite plainly delighted to find that, aside from obvious apartment-like changes, his room was just as it had been in HQ. Of course, it's only in his nature to want to throw a sort of housewarming party, seeing as how technically, it's still a new place. True to Bucharest style, it's a lavish sort of affair, with plenty of wine in crystal decanters, beer, whiskey, and any other amount of alcoholic beverage being strategically placed as though he was the feng shui master of inebriation. Though, that doesn't mean it's all a grand river of fermented who-knows-what, as there is some tea (exotic and well-brewed), coffee, and water.

Naturally, he wouldn't be a good host without the food, and there is certainly a gracious amount of that. The spread on his table consists of things like ciorda de peste, mamaliga with stuffed cabbage, Romanian-style pierogi, and of course pork, since no true Romanian would go without some huge amount of meat. To finish it all off as far as dessert, there's cozonaci, which he would usually save for Easter, but it's delicious no matter when you eat it, and then his centerpiece, amandine cake. All of it is covered with garnishes and decorations, naturally illuminated by candlelight.

All are welcome, seeing as how it is a party, after all. Mihail just sips at some wine on one of the sofas, dressed somewhat casually (though it is Dior, so spilling anything on it might mean death).
]
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