A/N: Sorry I'm about an hour late! This chapter turned out to be 6k words, as every other chapter in the sequel have, so coincidentally, turned out as well. I hope you enjoy it! I read comments asking about what Xander and Chip would be like in this timeframe and heheheh you're in for a ride! Albeit not too soon. huhu. 

[Vanilla]

Chicken was the kind of dog to wait at the door for the return of his owner. Due to the unfortunate circumstance of having our arms full of unbagged groceries however, neither of us could greet him with a mannered pat on the head. He didn't seem to mind, trailing behind us into the kitchen whilst wagging his tail and gazing up with an expectant look in his eyes.

"He's asking for food," his owner translated, nodding towards the pantry. The rest of him busied away with fresh ingredients laid out on the countertop. "Can you get it?"

The intention was to stay as far as I could from any flame-related, culinary-equivalent tasks; allowing the certified idiot a chance at teasing me for my non-existent kitchen skills despite having remained in the industry for seven years was not a mistake I was going to make. Filling a dog's food bowl was the job I had to settle for.

"Leaving breakfast to you would be a wise decision." I picked up an unexpectedly charming food bowl that had tiny cartoon chicken drumsticks all over it, setting it down in front of the dog before heading back into the pantry. "Hold on. Wasn't that pan I used... wasn't that your only...? Well, unless you have something else hidden away, I don't see how breakfast is going to be made."

I'd paused mid-step to glance his way, only to observe microwavable, air-tight containers laid out on the kitchen counter. Said chef promptly looked up from the bell pepper he was dicing with amusement on the corners of his lips.

"Don't believe in magic?"

"... you mean microwaves?" I had to stop my head from shaking and remind lungs to breathe, heart to beat. "You cannot be serious."

He shrugged with play in his eyes. "Prodigy critic enjoys microwaved food, ingenious," motioning in the air as though every word was part of some imaginary headline picked up by a cheesy tabloid without much better to write about. I, a mature adult with a developed sense of humor, could not find in myself the reason I had seemed to remain highly susceptible to one idiot's foolish madness. Not as though I was ever the kind of person to express amusement at the sort of nonsense teenagers used to laugh about, no, but.

This sole individual being an outrageous exception was making me out to be a terribly biased human being. Either way, I hadn't quite expected the microwave (albeit no one expects the microwave), not from the very man who'd nearly topped the interschool at the age of sixteen; who'd trained alongside established experts in the field since he was eight. All of that, presently reduced to the mere boxed contraption of rotating food.

"Should I clean the kitchen while you...?" I surveyed the rest of the room. "Or your laundry, for starters. There are clothes everywhere and I'm beginning to doubt you have a closet."

"Most of my stuff, they're at the firehouse," he clarified, eyes still fixed on the containers he were filling. Omelettes in a box. "I do seventy-two-hour shifts at one-day intervals."

"That's barely enough rest," I had to note, unsure if any human being could stand three full days of emergency calls, all throughout the nights.

He seemed indifferent. "Not as though I make plans on my days off anyway. Annie's been busy with her date so I see her once in... dunno. A month." He tore open the packaging of some honey baked ham we'd picked out over the butcher counter. "And odd jobs when I'm up for some extra cash but that's kinda it."

"Ah," was all I managed to come up with, pausing with the broom in my hands and standing idly by the refrigerator. To say I wasn't curious about the specificity of the odd jobs he were referring to would be a lie but not quite knowing where to draw the line between the life I thought he was leading and the truth underneath all that, I decided against probing too far.

"So um," I broke the silence after seconds turned into minutes. "So my purpose of coming here today, as in, seeing you in the morning instead of just, well, cancelling this so that we could spend another—"

He slammed the microwave shut after popping in one of the two containers and went straight for the 'start' button. At once, a loud, mechanical whir filled the kitchen and yet again, I was unable to finish without the slightest interruption. I had to raise my voice.

"ARE YOU FREE IN THE EVENING?"

The idiot's face cracked in amusement, laughing in what seemed like surprise. "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SHOUTING?"

"I DON'T KNOW. I HATE BEING INTERRUPTED BY THE MISFORTUNE OF THE NATURAL WORLD AND I NEED TO GET MY POINT ACROSS! ALSO, ISN'T YOUR MICROWAVE A LITTLE TOO LOUD?"

"IT'S OLD, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?" He was leaning against the countertop, staring me down as though this was personal entertainment. Well, he wasn't wrong.

"WELL, I-IF IT EXPLODES IN THE NEXT MINUTE OR SO, I WOULDN'T WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR—" Ding.

And we were thrust back into the silent void that was his kitchen, save the remnants of his amusement in the form of low laughter and a pleasant, savory fragrance in the air that masked the scent of fiery bacon. I on the other hand, had heated cheeks to deal with. Averting my gaze and turning away from him, I tried to regulate my voice after some momentary hollering.

"Yes. So, um. This evening."

I glanced up and he had something in his eyes that I could not quite understand. He was closer now, drawing towards the refrigerator and leaning against that, meeting my gaze sideways.

"What are we doing."

There it is, I thought. It's that thing again. He'd never really kicked the habit of spelling out things in the form of a question but saying it in a tone that gave the impression of factual statements.

"Well... it depends," I opted for, shifting the broom so that it stood between us and helped keep a fair distance. Having experienced the criminal dangers of close proximity earlier on, it was the only sane decision. "The itinerary remains undecided. As of now."

Still, one could observe at a glance the impressive build he'd grown into—courtesy of the past several years of physical training that had been a necessary aspect of his duties as a firefighter. Though I myself, had grown tremendously in terms of vertical power, the refined palate of a critic scheduled for five tastings a day so unfortunately allows only the best of culinary endeavors into the digestive system. Simply put, my additional height paled in comparison to, um, the bread rolls and the, um, whatever it was he'd accumulated in the time we'd spent apart.

"So tonight, then." I had to confirm, uncertain what he meant by the silence. False alarm; he was merely in the mood for play.

"Depends on what we're doing," teased the idiot and already, I was rolling my eyes.

Culinary aptitude, just like any other gift in the world of sports or artistry, was the kind of talent to remain in the minds of those who, at some point in their lives, made the decision of selling their soul to the hell that was the kitchen. He was one of them.

Admittedly, food was a medium no human being could wholly separate themselves from and though chefs may attempt a clean break, to achieve such disassociation was certainly no easy feat. Microwaved eggs. How he, who'd left the industry ages ago, managed to add depth to simple flavours and elevate the cheapest ingredients without spending hours buried in prep was the kind of culinary asset he'd possessed since infantile stages.

The first application of heat cooked the omelette mixture of ham, bell peppers and spinach. The second cook, he'd separated a yolk from its whites and made a meringue to top the dish that added a subtle sweetness—supporting the original savory profile without overpowering every other ingredient in the omelette.

"You?" I noticed he did not do the same for his portion; skipping the meringue entirely.

"Not like I can taste it," he snorted, grabbing his only spoon off the drying rack and handing that to me before digging in with a fork.

I hadn't a clue how responding to that would have sounded like so I settled with silence, in which he seemed to appreciate. I offered to do the dishes soon after, and right as I had returned the kitchen to a state of general decency, a call from the office came in to remind me of the time. I was cutting it close.

"I'll see you tonight," I said to him, giving my tie a quick fix before gathering everything else; my coat, briefcase, phone. "Make sure to check your phone for the address. Oh, and, um. There might be a dress code, so. Just... as long as you don't turn up in jeans, anything else should be work."

"Need a ride?"

He stood by the door, holding it open while I unlocked my phone. A pause ensued.

"Well," my gaze alternated between him and the screen. "I was about to call for an Uber, but... I suppose..." Why not?

He took the cue and reached for a different jacket located conveniently beside the one he wore to the grocery store. We left the apartment together and headed down to the ground floor where, I assumed, he'd parked his vehicle. The first of signs had been the glimpse I caught of his car keys. He was spinning them on his index on our way down when I noticed it lacked a digitized remote version that most (actually, all) modern cars would have had. Then, it was a quick stop at a row of lockers or oversized letterboxes by the bottom of the stairs.

Lo and behold, he pulled out an all-black, motorcycle helmet.

"The red one in the middle of the driveway," I made the connection at once, pinching the bridge of my nose to soothe an oncoming headache. "It's yours isn't it?"

He cracked a smirk.

"Good god I'm speechless Leroy Cox you're—you could've... said something about... nevermind, I'm calling a cab."

"Come on." He had the audacity to toss an additional helmet my way. "It's fun." I barely caught the heavy thing in my arms and could not help but think it unbelievable for any human neck to bear the weight of something like this.

To what he had to say, I'd given him a look. "I'm sure it is. Would you recommend my suit, vest, and tie any other possible treatment having braved oil splatters, fire extinguishers and now, some London breeze?" I sighed, allowing him to lead the rest of the way to his motorcycle. "It's not that I... just, not today. Not when I'm dressed like this and about to go to work."

"You'll arrive in style," wall all he had to offer, mounting the bike before meeting my gaze. The entire sequence was highly illegal, and the very thought of adding this to the list of things to be banished from existence under the category of Leroy was furthered by his unspoken persuasive power. Simply put, I gave in.

After all, the entire morning had been nothing short of a disaster and so how else could the day go wrong after nearly burning down someone else's apartment?

*

The trip was surprisingly short. Despite having spent less than a day in the city, I had, by observation, come to the conclusion that whatever research papers were writing about London being the most congested city for drivers in the UK did not very much need to prove themselves in the form of concrete numbers. Even walking appeared to be the more efficient option at times and perhaps under specific circumstances similar to this one, motorcycles weren't all that bad of a choice.

I say this, but moments earlier I had been struggling to wrap my head around the absence of a safety belt and how else anyone was supposed to ensure their safety on the bike without emulating the millions of female protagonists in romantic films riding pillion with their arms around the waist of the motorcyclist.

The solution was to pinch the back of his jacket and make do with the limited balance and security it provided. He'd said something about leaning in, forward, and thus closing the distance between us, such that our center of balance would be similar (information I'd already known some ten years ago in high school physics and could deduce at a glance) but hesitation was rampant. Eventually, after several turns and fearing for dear life, I did as told.

If there was one thing about the idiot that I was certain did not change, it was his warmth. Body temperature that averaged a little higher than that of the general human race.

I was dropped off right outside the entrance to the building, removing the helmet and handing it to him before giving the rest of my attire a check. Terrifying. Half the team was going to witness my disheveled state and that was the distance I needed to cover from the elevator to my private desk—where a change of clothes was available in the case of an emergency.

"Change of mind?" He had the gall to ask, referring to his motorcycle. Good god, that shade of red was burning.

"Well, it was much faster than I imagined it to be, but," I gave the time a quick check. "The answer is never again." The indecent finger made its prompt and expected appearance before riding off with its owner, disappearing down the bend.

"Good afternoon, Mr. White," said the receptionist, handing me a visitor's pass without a moment's delay. "Sorry, you'd have to wait till tomorrow for your entry card."

"Thank you. And I believe there's nothing wrong with receiving it tomorrow. Take your time."

I wasn't particularly concerned about the card issue—the office building featured gates that needing tapping in and out of for security purposes—and had, beforehand, expected the waiting to stretch into the next week or so but her addressing me by name turned out to be a rather disarming. I'd touched down less than twenty-four hours ago and nearly at once, made for the office to settle legal documents regarding an upcoming collaboration. That, and sifting out consultation requests for menu design.

"Nill! How's th—uhh...? You look a bit... shit."

Raul's creative descriptions of the world could have played a role in my decision to recruit him as part of the team. For two years, most of us had been working remotely from every possible corner of the world, and Raul was the culinary expert working with menu designers and our critics based in Italy. Rosi, a shareholder, had been wholly disapproving of my decision until the man in question promised to kick his habit of drinking whisky at work.

"Hm! That's rather kind of you," we shared an elevator up to the twenty-third floor. "I'd expected worse."

"What happened?"

"Doesn't matter. More importantly, have you secured the publishing contract with Chef Amelia?"

"We're in the elevator dude. The least you could do is wait till we're past the floor reception or something. You're never out of work mode," he teased, watching me fold and unfold my arms with a roll of his eyes. Having heard his complaints for the past couple of years however, I was practically immune. Just like Uncle Al, I was a workaholic; so be it.

"But, yeeah, so I was going to tell you that uh, it got delayed. Amelia wants to put her stuff up on a magazine first, like a weekly thing for marketing. So that she gets the attention and then promote the book so that it doesn't fall flat when it's out or something."

"That's understandable. Chef Amelia prioritizes the promotion period of her books more than anything else and she's never published anything of this scale so I would expect her to be more cautious. Tell Khan to get you the marketing strategy for Violet's cookbook. The second one, so that it resembles Chef Amelia's current circumstance. You'd need to convince her about the effectiveness of the model we've developed, supported by fair justification. If it's her lack of faith in the marketing team that's holding her back, I would think the issue comfortably resolved. If you happen to run into further hiccups, I suggest you redirect her to me personally and I will... well, make things happen. But I don't foresee that happening and that is why I assigned you Amelia in the first place. She prefers working with people on her side, you, being a chef, fulfils that requirement, instead of... critics."

The doors slid open at a chime and the first to greet us was our lead administrator, Claire Andrea. She was stationed at the reception desk, right below the backlit signage GLACE in matte white. I'd met her at a tasting session in New York while I was interning at the Times and noted her flair for memory work. She had been a server at the cocktail reception of the event.

"Morning, gentlemen," she motioned to the fingerprint scanner. I'd opted for the technology after some advice from my godfather's husband, who'd known someone specializing in HR and had a hard time keeping track of everyone's 'flexible hours'. "Late start to the day for Vanilla and... early for the Italian!"

Raul had given her a look that I'd come to learn was a cross between pleasure and offense. Simply put, they were flirting and I was a constant third-wheel.

"Claire, what I'm doing is shifting my schedule backwards to accommodate for the permanent overtime you put yourself on, yeah? I feel bad when you're the only one left on the floor with all the lights out."

"Now that Vanilla's here, you don't have to worry about all that because I'm sure no one's going to be staying as late as he is." Claire pushed a button under her desk that had the glass doors slide open. "I mean, if he's up at two in the morning for our zoom calls, he might as well make the office his permanent residence."

I shook my head, left them to their own devices before acknowledging members of the staff who were present. Unsurprisingly, they took interest in my subpar attire of the day.

"Mr. White you have twenty-two minutes before your taxi arrives," Florence stood the moment she spotted me heading towards my office door. "Do you need me to skip the rundown of your schedule?"

"Actually, I'd like to hear it. Just—my apologies, but could you do it from outside the door? I'm in need of a change in my... everything." I made a vague gesture to myself, dress shirt to shoes. Awful state all around. "I'll be listening. You can start now."

"The tasting at Bizzaro is for a magazine spread they paid for. They were hoping you could focus on the classic elements on the menu like their margherita pizza, antipasto della casa... things like that. The owner will receive you at the entrance and you may order up to five complimentary items on the menu.

"After which, you have an interview with The Independent and then at four-fifteen, with Daily Star—the former, about your career progress as a food critic and the latter, on starting a business at nineteen. Both are requesting permission for video cameras, one of which will be put up on the article as visual aid and the other, aired on a morning talk show. Which, um, I've done a couple of checks on and I suggest you decline. The talk show is hosted by the previous chief editor of the Sunday Star and... well I don't think your values are aligned with tabloids like that."

This, I had agreed with and proposed, out of fair good-will, the alternative of a mere audio recording which they could use as source material for the article. "Could you also decline permission for any form of videography?" I said through the door, buttoning up. "Photographs should suffice as visual aids and given a choice to start anew in foreign lands, I'd prefer some privacy."

"Okay, good call. I'll let them know. So... that's it actually. That's all you've allowed for since you did... request for the evening to be kept free. But uh... have you...? Checked Twitter...? Not the company's. The one under your name."

At this, I'd blinked—pausing to whip out my phone whilst slipping on a spare vest with one hand. The mute function on every social platform came as a blessing in disguise after years of forcefully ignoring buzzing notifications every second of the day and finally achieving some well-deserved peace and quiet without having to turn off the device in its entirety.

Either way, I was logged onto the company's Twitter account and therefore hadn't quite noticed the supposed attention I was receiving.

Apparently, the head chef of a moderately renowned restaurant in Pimlico had much to say about the review I'd published on our online collection of restaurant reviews, mostly written by trusted critics like myself. The idea was to cover much of the world as we could and therefore engage qualified, vetted writers from every corner of the planet. Still, the head chef's primary qualm was one he had with myself—the chief editor and, well, owner of the online journal and publishing company, GLACE.

@VJWhite You spend three hours in the city and claim you know bloody everything

@VJWhite Could have served you bollocks and you wouldn't even have known

The thread was decently long but the first tweet seemed to have gained quite some traction among gossip sites and, well, it wasn't all that surprising since the man himself had provided some fairly controversial material thanks to the absolute rubbish side of toxic media.

"The original review itself, Mr. White, um. It's garnered thousands of local reads in the region and the link has been retweeted more than three thousand times."

I wasn't going to expound the prospect of those Twitter-users being complete dimwits all-too-eager to overexaggerate the meaning of my words, authentic and objective, as I had been trained to produce. There were reply tweets going about the platform that further complicated things: people cancelling reservations and making memes of the head chef's hero shots that had nothing to do with the actual content of the review. They were overreacting and it was absurd beyond belief.

A two-star was the average, according to GLACE's reputation. This was no PR company, no friendly food blog that received sponsorships or clientele that paid extra for nice words, no—just the cold, hard truth: à servir sur glace.

The overwhelming response could have been a misguided view of the journal, given that the article had been the very first that featured a popular restaurant in London. People tend to be curious about fresh perspectives on things they were already familiar with.

Either way, other news sites had picked this up and ran with ridiculous headlines with my name in it, further transforming the circumstance into something uglier than it could have been. Cue a moment's pause in which I wondered if this was the sole reason that receptionist at the ground floor could remember my name.

"Come at five for the new menu if you got the balls to admit you're wrong," I read out the most recent, highly-retweeted response from the man himself, Chef Andre, whilst opening the door to usher Florence into the room. "Hm, a challenge. He wants a second chance."

"He said you have the taste buds of a baby." She set down the several contracts and proposals that needed final checks on. Some, signatures. "But honestly, no critic's ever in the right mind to give a chef a second chance within the span of a day. And he's being a sore loser dick about it so he doesn't deserve your time."

"Hm! I've had worse," I flipped through the first of the stack, scanning the walls of text. Being a critic under the age of thirty and looked down upon by chefs apparently came hand in hand. "Florence, could you reserve a table at Chef Louviere's for two at six-thirty? They've been extending an invitation since forever and I'd like to have dinner there tonight. Their new vegan eight-course piques my interest."

"Yes of course but you're not going to see Chef Andre again, are you?" She seemed particular horrified. It was a face I'd often encountered over video conferences with her and now, had the privilege to see in person. "He's just being childish and picking a fight. Don't enable people like that."

"Well yes but he's offered an alternative. A solution. People may not always be deserving of a second chance but food most certainly does. Most chefs would've made their point in the form of vulgar expletives but he's trying for a new menu to impress and that would be tremendous growth and development compared to bolstering one's ego by sticking to whatever they thought was perfect," I said pointedly, signing at the bottom of a contract before moving on to the next. "I expect to be impressed."

"Oh Vanilla," sighed my secretary of two years who'd become a decent expert of my personality and values. "You've suffered enough scrutiny as a young critic. I don't understand how you're keeping yourself sane in this industry—it's clearly a trap."

Quite frankly, the conversation was of humorous nature and I could not help but amuse myself in the exasperation she embodied.

"Well Florence, I do foresee a point in which truth and objectivity no longer have a place in the kitchen or the chef, but at the very least, what remains is our faith in the food."

====================

Bizzaro was a humble Italian restaurant in Paddington with a quaint but lovely exterior that gave the impression of amicable service—in which the owner and the staff had certainly lived up to. I'd selected a combination of two traditional, classic Italian dishes and two others that were unique to the restaurant and found myself pleasantly surprised by the quality of the latter, despite having been recommended the classics. I'd spent some time finishing a cup of English tea and a complimentary Tartufo Bianco as dessert on the patio, drafting up the review before appreciating the atmosphere of Bizzaro's outdoor seating. The owner and chef had come out to greet me at the end of my meal, staying for approximately five minutes and carefully breaching the subject of the morning Twitter fiasco—to which I'd assured them that everything was under control and provided a smile for good measure.

Overall, it was a quiet afternoon.

Arriving at Chef Andre's fifteen minutes early after the interviews had not exactly been part of the plan but I'd stood in line along with the rest of its patrons waiting for the five o'clock dinner session to start. The service manager had spotted me nearly a mile away and waved, gesturing towards the front of the queue. This, I had raised a hand to decline.

Guests were curious. Some of them had, apparently, booked a table only after finding out about the exchange on Twitter in hopes of catching a glimpse of the infamous critic. As though he was an exhibit at a museum! Limited time period only! Five to six o'clock!

Either way, the lot of us were soon ushered into the restaurant group by group and being the only lone diner without a companion, naturally, people began to connect the dots and figure out who I was. It did not help that they'd assigned the head waitress to my table (which was exactly what they did the previous time, just yesterday), and readied me a glass of infused water before I was even seated.

"Lovely to see you again, Mr. White. Let me know if you need anything," said my attendant, dressed strikingly different from the rest of her staff; a mermaid-style silk evening gown in black. "We hope you have a pleasant experience this time round."

I'd thanked her, producing a handy notepad of mine that kept every thought—wandering or grounded—safe and inked. This time, I was referring to the page from yesterday that would provide some basis for comparison. Chef Andre, though not exactly the owner of the restaurant (who was apparently his cousin), had a reputation for being particularly strict on the consistency of his staff as well as the quality of his dishes.

Unfortunately, I had left the restaurant last evening unimpressed and fairly let down by the expectations I had had in the first place.

"Here you are, sir. Egg caviar."

I was about to nod in thanks when, well, the sight of the dish jolted an instant confusion. Scrambled egg in an eggshell under a cloud of vodka infused cream, topped with Royal Ossetra caviar. Unconsciously, I was raising a hand to stop the waitress.

"Yes, Mr. White?"

"Oh, um. Sorry. It's just, if I recall..." Was this, too, part of the new menu? Still, it looked exactly as it did last evening. Or perhaps he'd changed some aspect of it and improved the textures of each individual component? "Nevermind. My mistake."

She nodded with a smile and left me to pick the dish apart, tasting every component before very quickly coming to the conclusion that it was, indeed, just as I had had the previous evening. The notes made sure I wasn't hallucinating. Indeed, Chef Andre lived up to his reputation of consistent quality—just, well, not in a good way.

For the sake of clarity, I would like to emphasize that I did not, in any manner, find the dishes inedible or unappetizing. The egg caviar was a splendid combination of flavours and decently revolutionary and up next had been Hokkaido scallops that were perfectly cooked and paired well with the texture of caramelized cauliflower but overall, the entire five-course had lacked the punch and excitement expected of a renowned Michelin star restaurant in London.

I decided to wait for the next hors d'oeuvres, just in case he'd decided for the new menu to very apparently feature the same appetizer. Alas, the same sea scallops. The same caramelized cauliflower. I glanced around. Every other guest appeared to be having the same.

Again, I called for my attendant. This time, politely asking if I'd made the mistake of understanding the dishes to be no different from those that I had the previous evening.

"Yes. I believe it is the very same."

"Ah," I tried for a smile. "I'm sorry, but I was under the impression that tonight was going to be a little different from last evening. A new menu of some sort."

She appeared unfazed. I assumed there was nothing she could do about the menu either. "I understand. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Um." Serving something I haven't already had would be nice. I sighed, unsure; entertaining the thought of Florence being right about it all being a fluke of sorts. It wasn't hard to start second guessing at things. Perhaps I shouldn't have come after all. "Could I... speak to the chef? Perhaps? Would he be—"

In slid the owner of the restaurant, Chef Andre's cousin, with a bottle of red. "I have a wonderful '09 that has been sitting in the store for the longest time. What a perfect occasion to allow it some air, if I may. I was in Bordeaux the last time and the vineyard uh, they shipped me this as a gift." He tipped the bottle into my glass and I was mildly taken aback by the sudden treatment.

"Ah. Thanks. That is very kind of you," I did not reach for the glass. "But may I speak to the head chef?"

"Unfortunately, he has matters to attend to. More precisely, we have sent him away," he smiled and while I, quite honestly, was on the brink of 'horrified'. "He has attitude issues, as we understand. Isn't that right?" The owner looked to me for some form of agreement, in which I failed to provide and could merely feel my stiff smile fading away.

After all, the only reason I'd come by was to provide Chef Andre an original chance at redeeming himself and his creations. It was the only proper, justified reason for making the effort—otherwise, this entire trip would have simply been food for the media and nothing else, judging by the number of people raising the back of their phones every now and then, directed in my general corner of the restaurant.

"Please call him back."

"Oh you don't need to do that." The man I'd seen in magazines and journals alike crossed the room in great strides and for a moment, I was genuinely relieved. Well, um, until he actually pushed past a waiter and opened with a magnificent title for myself. Everyone in the restaurant stared. "Been waiting for you, motherfucker."

Though slightly put-off by the language, I've had worse.

"Chef Andre, you're just in time. The owner said—"

"Overstated?" He spat. "Your bloody taste buds aren't even developed yet and you're shitting on egg caviar? Go home to mac and cheese, mate. You're just a kid. No one cares what the hell you think. Even a kid could appreciate a good chocolate lava cake but what would a clueless fucker like you know, eh? It's on a million restaurant menus for a fucking reason, you arse—it's chocolate eight ways. And if you can't appreciate something as simple as lava cake then why the fuck are you even in this industry?

"You don't do anything. I mean, you just sit there and you eat, and you say whatever the fuck you want for attention. For the reads and the views and whatever pays your bills," he said this all at the top of his lungs. Besides the jazz music playing softly in the background, I couldn't hear anything else. "You know how hard I work for this shit? The entire kitchen... you know how hard my whole staff works? The shit we do to make you happy and you just brush it off with a sad-ass, stupid review? No one needs you here.

"I'm gonna say this just once—a chocolate lava cake isn't an 'unexciting cup of undercooked chocolate cake'. You take a frozen cylinder of ganache and—"

"You set it in a ramekin so that the outside cooks fully and the inside is molten," I finished quietly. "Yes, I know that. The phrase was a metaphor, and metaphors are not to be understood in a literal sense."

I stood.

"My mistake. I'd come by thinking I was giving a passionate chef a second chance to prove himself. Unfortunately, I now realize that I am a poor judge of character and am now being punished for it. Perhaps—"

My eyes closed shut on instinct and felt the chill of a beverage dripping down my hair and face, all the way to my dress shirt and tie. Then, the faint scent of grapefruit and lime. It was the glass of infused water.

I did not need to hear the prompt gasping of the room and immediate silence that ensured to know exactly what was going on. Removing my glasses and passing a hand over the back of my eyes, I opened them to see the owner staring at Chef Andre in disbelief, arms out to block his way. Trying to mediate.

"Andre, get your—"

"Say something, cunt. Tell everyone what you think of this water since you're so thirsty for coverage, fucking riding my name on every headline. You whore."

Ah. It's one of those days again. The long ones.

Dripping wet and much more uncomfortable than I'd expected water-splashing to be, I sidestepped the man and everyone else around my table, heading towards the counter where a stunned attendant stared blankly in return, mouth agape. I tapped the card terminal. "The bill please."

At least I'll be seeing him later.