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Hot Plate

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Tony found Bruce in a hole-in-the-wall creperie in France, cooking on a hot plate obviously stole from a lab.

"This is the best crepe I've ever eaten," Tony said, leaning on the dutch door that led into the kitchen, really more of a closet with a sink. "What did you do to it, who are you?"

"Bruce Banner. It's the chemical composition of the butter, I make it myself," Bruce said, and then peered at him. "Don't you make pizza?" he asked.

"Did. Not anymore. Tony Stark, I want another crepe, and you're American, so clearly you should come home to America with me and make crepes for me, personally, and for my restaurant," Tony said, and then winced. "Sorry, good food makes me talk a lot. Are you into molecular gastronomy at all?"

Bruce waved a hand at his closet kitchen. "I can't afford to be into molecular gastronomy at all."

"Not a problem, I'm rich off the backs of a lot of really munchy stoners. You sound like you do science."

"I can do science," Bruce said warily.

"I want you to come do science on food with me," Tony said, offering his business card. It said FREELANCE FOODIE on it, and Bruce smiled a little.

"I'll think it over," he said. "Most people don't like to work with me, I have kind of a temper."

"Do you yell at people?"

"Mostly at food."

"Bruce," Tony said with a wide smile. "Come with me and I promise you'll never use hotplates again, unless you're using them ironically."

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