Chapter Text
Napoleon looks around HIS kitchen with satisfaction.
“Hurry up! He’s been waiting for 10 minutes,” Gaby rushes back into the kitchen in her classy blue suit and comfortable heels.
Napoleon rolls his eyes at the ceiling. How typical of a food critic, no thought of the actual time and effort that goes into preparing a meal.
It took years of savings and groveling before investors for him to gather enough capital to finally open his own place. Compared to all that, cooking a meal for the winner of last year’s James Beard publication award — Food Critic of the Year — is a small price to pay for some much-needed publicity before the grand opening; the restaurant business is so bloody competitive these days.
The success and failure of Napoleon’s affect more than just himself; his best friend Gaby had also joined him as the General manager, beautiful, dusky-skinned Isabella as the Matron’D, not to mention his entire kitchen team that he meticulously selected and put together.
“Almost ready,” Napoleon puts the final touch on the antipasto platter showcasing the restaurant’s offering, correcting the smallest bit of imperfection.
Details are the most important part of a meal, his Nonna had told him when he was a boy. Cucciolo, she said while bopping young Napoleon on the nose with her finger in a cloud of flour, a meal should be a feast for both the eyes and the stomach.
For as long as he can remember, Napoleon has lived by that.
He wipes his hand on a clean dish towel, the coarse material rasps against his skin, before taking off his apron. Napoleon smiles winningly at Gaby, who rolls her eyes at him, before pushing open the flap door of the kitchen with his platter. Good luck, Gaby mouths in encouragement.
This Illya Kuryakin is commonly known to the local restaurateurs as “The Russian Peril” for his high standards and particular palate. Whatever his quirks, Kuryakin is undoubtedly a talented writer for he has either been a finalist or winner of food publication awards for several years in a row. His food column in the Times is one of the most popular and well-read sections in the weekly newspaper.
However, the mutters about the Russian Peril make him seem like the proverbial bogeyman for head chefs, tough men and women had fought, survived, and found success in the cut-throat world of running and owning a restaurant. Just what sort of man is this Peril if those same people were so afraid of him, Napoleon wonders.
There is only one man sitting in the restaurant, tall, erect, and blond. Even though he is half hidden by the table, Napoleon knows that the man is fit; the width of his shoulder and the broadness of his imposing chest clad in the black suede jacket attest to that. Food critic would be one of the last professions that Napoleon would attribute to the man.
Unfortunately, the scowl on that handsome face is deep enough to put a stutter in Napoleon’s steps. But there is nothing else for Napoleon to do except smile and introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Napoleon Solo, head chef and owner of this fine establishment.”
Up close, the man is handsome and an even more imposing figure. Electric blue eyes stare intensely back at him. “Illya Kuryakin,” the deep baritone voice replies coolly, and a large hand completely swallows Napoleon’s for a brief moment.
Napoleon fights to keep him himself from fidgeting. He smiles wider instead and puts down the antipasto platter with a dramatic flourish.
“A small sampler of the many apretivo and antipasto that we would be offering our guests.”
Kuryakin says nothing so Napoleon presses on.
“The presentation is not ideal as obviously they would come separately and be presented with matching china and garnishes; their colors would not clash with one another like so. Still, the olives are fermented in-house and these rolled prosciutto cotto are made from the finest ham in the region.”
Dutifully, Illya takes a few bites from each of the dishes that Napoleon had chosen to present.
Napoleon watches for his reaction carefully.
But the man shows neither pleasure nor distaste toward anything. Don’t play poker with him, Napoleon reminds himself.
Undeterred by the non-reaction, Napoleon lifts up the metal cover of the primo course. Steam rises from the dish; he inhales the scent with a smile. The Beef Brasato with Pappardelle and Mint, “fresh handmade pappardelle, Mr. Kuryakin,” was always one of Napoleon’s most popular recipes.
“Of course, we also have a professional sommelier on staff. While my knowledge is not as extensive as Jones’, I think you’ll find this Tignanello pairs particularly well with the beef. It is an excellent vintage. The owners of the winery personally gave me a case of his best when I visited last summer.” Napoleon pours them both a generous glass of wine before passing the dish to Illya and sitting down to observe.
Napoleon swirls his wine around in his glass, watching as the food critic takes a small bite of the pappardelle.
Really, the man is a professional food critic? He hardly seems to like food at all, though given his size, he must have eaten a tremendous amount of it at some point in his life. Still, the mechanical way the man eats his food bothers Napoleon in an inexplicable way. Where is his passion for food? His joy? If only the man would smile a bit more in his direction (or at all!).
Napoleon, who hates silence during a meal, tries again to engage the man in conversation.
“I’m sure that you can tell that everything we try to serve is very fresh. We are determined to source as many ingredients locally as possible.”
Illya grunts simply in response before moving to the tiramisu Napoleon prepared for dessert. Again, there is little reaction and even less interaction. In less than twenty minutes, the man finished eating and ended his meal with a stiff “thank you” to Napoleon. Then the man rises to his feet.
Good lord the man is tall; his legs go on forever.
Napoleon feels his face heat up with a blush. He hopes that Kuryakin, if he notices — the man seems like someone who would never miss any detail— would think that it’s just the wine going to Napoleon’s head.
It’s clearly a sign that Napoleon has been working far too hard these days that even surly food critics look attractive to him.
“Did you get the reviews?” Napoleon asks as soon as he gets in.
Gaby points to a full stack of magazine and Sunday papers before going back to her smartphone.
Forgoing any pretense, Napoleon immediately grabs the Times out of the pile and flips to the Weekend section. A lovely photo of his restaurant, no doubt provided to the newspaper by Gaby, is at the top of the page. His smile fades however as he takes in the B rating and the heading “Napoleon’s dazzles in presentation but falls flat in substance.”
A new Italian place is opening up to join the gaggle of restaurants already in Regent’s Park. Napoleon’s, headed by the eponymous head chef Napoleon Solo, tried hard to style itself as an upscale dining experience. To the restaurant's advantage, the decor is chic but pleasant. The atmosphere is sophisticated but welcoming instead of aloof. The fares are reasonably priced. But the dishes are ultimately limited by their creator’s obsessive drive for style. Too much attention was paid to presentation, right down to the garnishes.
GARNISHES. DON’T. HAVE. TO. MATCH.
However reasonably priced, the dishes in Napoleon’s suffer from the flaw, in this critic’s opinion, of style over substance. The ingredients are fresh but so much attention was paid to the presentation that one wonders if the energy could be better utilized toward preparation. In the name of style, portions are also woefully too small.
Owner and head chef, Napoleon Solo, has a decent reputation amongst the up and coming chefs in the area, so presumably, he is a competent chef. And yet, throughout dinner, it is not clear to me if Mr. Solo is a chef or merely auditioning for a Hollywood role to play one. He is certainly smooth enough for the latter but the dishes that I have sampled demonstrate little evidence of his prowess at the former.
Casual diners will have a pleasant enough experience at Napoleon’s but those who seek more than just a facade of a true Italian dining experience will have to continue their search along with me.
Napoleon crumbles the page into a ball before retreating into the kitchen.
A facade! Lacking substance. That Russian asshole questioned Napoleon’s ability as a chef!
He takes a deep breath before slapping his hand against the metal preparation table.
He takes several more deep breaths.
Never cook angry, Nonna had told him. People can taste it.
“Napoleon?” Gaby comes in worryingly. “I’ve been calling your name for minutes.”
She notices the crumpled newspaper, “Oh Napoleon.” She leans against him, a small comforting presence against his side, rubbing his back with comforting motions. “The grand opening was great. We got lots of compliments on your dishes. This guy is just a —“
“A giant idiot with good hair,” Napoleon interrupts and then goes on. “He thinks that he knows something about cooking because he’s so tall and serious. What does he know about art? I’ll show him that he’s wrong. I’m a real chef. Auditioning for Hollywood! I was working in the kitchen while he was still struggling to learn how to boil water!“
“Napoleon” Gaby’s tone takes on a more cautious note. The way he’s talking about this Illya Kuryakin tells her that this is far from over.
“Gaby, do you know where his office is?”
“What are you going to do, Napoleon?” She asks warily.
“First, I’m going to bring him the best-damned cannoli he has ever tasted and then drag him over here for another taste,” he replies, slipping his head through his apron. “He’s going to admit that I’m the best Italian chef that he has ever known if it’s the last thing I do.”
Gaby rubs her forehead and feels a headache coming but she knows from experience that it’s best to let Napoleon do what he wants to do when he gets like this; you can try to stop him but he’s just going to go behind your back and do it anyway. Between her, Isabella, and Jones, they’ll keep the place running.
Illya glowers at the cursor blinking on his blank computer screen.
Unlike most of his colleagues, his office is spotless, nary a used coffee cup in sight. The books on his shelves are organized, interspersed with plaques from his numerous award; even more decorates his walls. His one indulgence in his office, aside from the ergonomic Aeron chair that Chief Editor Waverly made everyone get, is a handmade wooden chess set.
Most people at the office think that he’s got the cushiest assignment of all, getting paid to try and then pass judgment on delicious food. What they don’t understand is the near impossibility of trying to describe one’s own experience and sensations to another, how much effort he puts into his review so his readers aren’t duped by some silly craze.
But Illya is glowering, not because he doesn’t know what to write for this week, but because of what Waverly said to him earlier that morning.
The chief editor, while handing him a freshly printed edition of the Sunday paper, had said, “Being a bit harsh about that new Italian place, aren’t you, Mr. Kuryakin. I had dinner there on Friday and the truffle risotto was the best I’ve had in years.” And then the man had sauntered back into his office, ignorant of the black mood he left Illya in.
Illya scowls even more when that memory prompted a camera perfect recall of Napoleon’s head chef’s Hollywood visage Illya thinks uncharitably that men like Napoleon are effortlessly charming and all too often, given much more than what they deserve by the world at large.
He had thought it was fair to give the place a B rating, but maybe he too had fallen into the spell of the place, like Waverly had. He tries to recall every imperfection, every overdone bite, but the only thing that stuck in his memory is how well the chef filled out his crisp white shirt and the symmetrical planes of his jaw.
Illya shakes his head, trying to dislodge the mental image. He’s about to angrily start typing this week’s assignment when he hears a light knock on his door.
“What,” he barks, then making a mental note to apologize for his tone if it’s Waverly’s elderly secretary Mrs. Schmidt.
It’s not.
Instead, Napoleon Solo and his distracting curls step lightly into his office. “Hello,” he says brightly, “Yvonne said I could just come in.”
Mrs. Schmidt decided to let this idiot wander around by himself? Illya is about to tell him that he’s busy when Napoleon drops a box onto the middle of his desk.
“What is this?” The furrow between his brows deepens in puzzlement.
“I bought you some fresh cannoli. I noticed that you enjoyed the tiramisu, so I figured that you might want to try something else.”
Illya is just about to tell him that this is unacceptable behavior and escort Napoleon out of his office when Waverly barges in.
“Mr. Solo,” he greets the chef warmly, reaching out to shake the other man’s hand. “I didn’t get a chance to compliment you in person about the risotto. It was a very fine dish.”
Illya observes that the man is practically glowing at the praise, no doubt used to and crave any and all sorts of adoration.
Napoleon smiles happily at the older man, “Thank you, Mr—“
“Waverly, chief editor.”
Napoleon’s smile gets broader and he gestures towards the box, “I bought some freshly made cannoli, would you like some?
“Oh, rather.”
Illya has not heard his aristocratic British-born chief editor sound quite so enthusiastic about anything in a very long time; a smile appears on Illya’s face.
Then his mouth pulls downward immediately as he recalls Napoleon’s overly familiar tone. Is the man trying to convince Waverly that they’re some sort of friends? He’s about to try to tell Napoleon to get out of his office when the man starts talking again.
“I was hoping to invite Illya --- who bristles at the uninvited use of his first name --- to come back and visit my restaurant again.”
Illya smirks; waiting for Waverly to tell Napoleon that would be unacceptable, completely unprofessional, except the next word out of Waverly’s mouth isn’t ‘no’ but ‘interesting.’
“Sir, the review has already been published. What would be the point of me going there again?”
Illya looks over the top of Napoleon’s head, specifically to avoid the slightly hurt expression on his face.
But Waverly has an answer ready for him. “We’ve been getting a lot of requests from our readers for longer pieces from you. People want more than just reviews these days. They want authenticity, an experience. I was just coming down here to discuss the possibility of an in-depth series on cuisine, history, and culture from you. And since you and Mr. Solo are already such good friends —- Napoleon nods enthusiastically at this utter falsehood——- Italian cuisine seems as good a starting point as any.”
“An excellent idea!” Napoleon cuts in before Illya can voice his own opinion on the matter. “Illya and I will get right on it. And please,” he takes Illya’s box of cannoli and hands it to Waverly instead, “enjoy this.”
Waverly leaves with a wave and his ill-gotten box of handmade pastries.
A satisfied I-ate-the-canary-and-you-just-caught-me cat grin appears on Napoleon’s face. “Well Peril,” Napoleon tries to begin but Illya already has a firm grip on his (surprisingly toned) upper arm and is currently dragging him toward the door.
Illya leans down and over the man, close enough that their noses nearly touch. “Get out.”
“Fine. But it’s a date. Friday at 9 PM,” the man simply says, infuriatingly good-natured still.
Illya closes the door in his face with a mumbled suka.
