Chapter Text
The basement of Bistro 666 went by many names. It was “the kitchen” to patrons, “downstairs” to the front of the house, and “Hell” to those who worked in it. The descent to Hell was short and steep. It was so treacherous, in fact, that a dumbwaiter system had been installed to decrease the number of broken plates. This had little effect because most of the plates were broken by Executive Chef Belle Z. Bub. Chef Bub was known mostly for her foul temper and carnivorous appetite. She often reduced her employees to tears within their first shift. The turnover rate was as fast-paced as her orders, and those who remained became as bitter and cantankerous as their boss.
Hence the moniker “Hell.”
Anthony J. Crowley happened to be one of the unfortunate souls employed at Bistro 666. He may have been the most unfortunate of the souls, as his job was to clean every inch of the establishment from floor to literal ceiling. He worked six days a week from close (midnight) until every surface, dish, and glass were spotless. The restaurant wasn’t large, but it still usually took him around six hours. The hours were shit, but it paid the bills and he could, for the most part, avoid everyone else. In fact, the only interaction he had had with Chef Bub was the day he had been hired.
Chef Bub shifted her glare from Anthony’s CV to Anthony. “So. You’re Anthony J. Crowley.”
“Yes, Chef,” he replied, careful to keep his voice and facial expression flat.
“You received a BTEC Level 3 Technical Level in Professional Cookery for Professional Chefs (Kitchen and Larder).”
“Yes.”
“You worked at Pott’s Pies as soon as you were old enough to get a job.”
“Yes.”
“You used all of your savings to attend Le Cordon Bleu where you graduated with a Diplome de Cuisine.”
“Yes.”
“You were hired at Eden, Gabriel’s vegan restaurant with the rooftop garden, where you worked for 14 years, slowly working your way up the ranks. You were top choice for sous chef this year.”
“Yes.”
“Gabriel fired you after one of the four horsemen gave Eden a bad review.”
Anthony suppressed a grimace. “Yes.”
“And you want to work at Bistro 666, an establishment that specializes in smoked meats and in-house butchery, as a porter.”
“Yes.”
“Gabriel and I dated for a while,” Chef Bub disclosed in a rare moment of vulnerability. “I dumped him when I realized that the man was an absolute wanker. All his ‘pure food’ bullshit. It’s the kind of stuff only Raven Sable would enjoy.” She looked at Anthony with something that may have been pity. He knew better than to respond, so she continued. “I’ll hire you.”
“Thank—”
She raised a hand to cut him off. “For a year. You make a deal with the Devil, and you pay the price. A year from today you’ll be fired. You’re better than this, and you know it. You could be ‘Chef Crowley.’ I get that you need time to get back on your feet, so I’ll give you that time. No more, no less. Understood?”
“Yes, Chef.”
It was day 133 of his 365 days of employment, and Anthony was tired. He’d finished later than normal, around 6:45, thanks to the mess the two meathead butchers, Hastur and Ligur, had left behind at their station. In a zombie-like state, he made his way to South Kensington station where the Tube was full of people on their daily commutes and tourists eager to beat the crowds. He had just enough energy to pick up a small pastry at Nutter’s Cafe just as it opened at 7:00 and crash at his flat by 7:15.
Nutter’s Cafe was the brainchild of Agnes Nutter, legendary cookbook author of The Nice and Simple Recipes of Agnes Nutter. The cafe and its secret recipes had been passed down by her children, and the cafe was owned by Anathema Device since her mother had retired five years prior. Anathema was affable despite her goth quirks and occult dabblings. Her boyfriend, Newton Pulsifer, was overwhelmingly normal besides his lack of coordination. The two of them, along with a few other baristas and pastry chefs, ran the opening shift during weekdays.
On more days than not over the past five or so months, their first customer of the day was a red-haired man dressed in black, tight-fitting clothing. His walk could only be described as a saunter, as that seemed to be the only way he could coordinate his gangly limbs. His age was a subject of debate among the staff. There were many conflicting aspects to his appearance. The outfits, bold tattoos, and wiry forearms suggested a twenty-something, but the flecks of silver in his hair, rough skin, and reserved attitude implied early forties.
And then there was the matter of his sunglasses. The man always wore large aviator glasses even when the sky was dark. This only added to his aura of mystery. Were they hiding bloodshot eyes? An eye disease? His identity? The only thing they knew for sure was the name he gave for his orders: Crowley.
Nutter’s Cafe had another regular, and his name was Ezra Fell. He was the opposite of Crowley in almost every way. Whereas Crowley was angled and concave, Ezra was soft and rounded. His clothes were light neutrals with pastel blue accents and would have looked quite stylish in the late 19th century. Fluffy white hair made a halo to match his angelic personality.
Ezra beamed brightly as he entered. “Good morning, Mr. Pulsifer!”
“Good morning, Mr. Fell. Your usual?”
“Please, and thank you, dear boy.” He paid and took a table for two in the back corner near the window. From his faded leather messenger bag, he pulled out a contrasting sleek and modern laptop.
“Your hot cocoa and butter croissant, sir.” Newt set them down on the table.
“Thank you, dear boy. It smells wonderful as always.”
Newt mumbled something between “thank you” and “you’re welcome” and scurried back to the kitchen, but not without tripping on the leg of a chair. Ezra chuckled softly and took a sip of the cocoa. It was as rich in a way that blossomed in his chest and made him think of all the romance novels he had read that attempted to capture the physical sensation of love, and it was the reason he ordered the same thing day after day.
Ezra Fell was the owner of a bookshop by day and a popular food blogger by night (and weekends. And sometimes brunch if he didn’t want to sell books that day). He had eaten all over the city, from food trucks to fine dining. He rarely went to the same place twice. If he did repeat a restaurant, he always made sure to order something different. Of course, he had his favorites that he returned to from time to time, but with so many places to go and so many dishes to try, there simply wasn’t time in the world or room in his stomach. That was why Ezra’s patronship at Nutter’s Cafe was such an honor to Anathema.
Over the years the two went from acquaintances to friends. Anathema had been the one to suggest that he start the food blog, and Ezra had been the one to urge her to begin dating Newt. Since then, they had grown quite close and often confided in each other about their troubles and in matters of the heart. Anathema had become fluent at reading his tells, and that was how she knew there was something weighing on his mind. Ezra was not secretive, but he was reserved, so the situation required some strategy on her behalf. When there was a lull in the number of customers, she went on break and approached his table.
“Hello, my dear.” He gave her his trademark smile, but the twinkle was missing from his eyes.
Anathema took the seat opposite him. Best to start with a generic question. “How’s the shop?”
“Well stocked.”
“And the blog?”
“It’s going well, but I’m afraid my attempts to get a reservation at Bistro 666 have been thwarted once again.”
Anathema hummed and allowed the conversation to pause. It was only when Ezra exhaled softly and let his shoulders drop that she knew he was ready to talk.
“Is something going on? Your aura has been rather dull lately.”
“It’s nothing to worry about, my dear.”
“But it is something.” She shifted forward in her seat and lowered her voice. “I’m here, Ezra. I’m your friend. You can talk to me.”
His eyes darted away from her to Newt who had just spilled some powdered sugar on his apron. “I’m glad that Newt has you.”
“I’m glad that I have Newt. We are happy together.”
“And I am happy for you. I hope you know that,” Ezra said, his blue eyes wide open and earnest. Anathema nodded, encouraging him to go on. He sighed deeply and looked down. “I know it’s selfish, but I want something like that for myself.”
“I want that for you too. It’s not selfish,” she reassured him.
“It’s not that I’m unhappy. I have my books. I have my blog. I’ve got my godson, and I’ve got you and Newt. And for most of the day, I feel perfectly content. It’s when I’m alone in bed at night that I find myself wishing that I had someone with me.”
“Oh, Ezra…”
“The books just make it all seem so easy, as if you just meet the right person because Fate decides it’s time.”
“You know just as well as I do that books aren’t perfect reflections of life,” she said. “According to that tarot reading I gave you, Fate has a lot in store for you. Your man, he’s passionate and loving, even if he’s a little rough around the edges. I know he’s out there. You just haven’t met him yet.”
“What if I have met him and he just doesn’t like me? What if he thinks that I’m unattractive?” Ezra folded his arms over his stomach as all his fears boiled to the surface. “I’m a year away from 40. I’m much too old for dating, and hookups certainly aren’t my style either. I’m—I know what I look like: soft, frumpy—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, Ezra. You are a beautiful man, on the inside and out. Anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve you.” Anathema rested her hand on his forearm and squeezed. “Besides, you haven’t met him yet. I’d be able to tell from your aura.”
Adam Young’s favorite day of the week was not Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, as it was for most kids his age. Instead, his favorite day of the week was Tuesday. On Tuesdays he went to a cooking class. The class itself was fun, especially because he was allowed to hold a knife and use a stove with real fire (not like the lame electric one he had at home). But there were two people that made the class even better, and their names were Pippin and Anthony.
Pippin was the same age as him (11). She had no interest in cooking, but her parents had enrolled her under the insistence that it was an “important life skill”. Of course, she rebelled on the basis of sexism and argued that she wouldn’t have to do this if she were a boy. Her parents refused to budge on the matter, so Pippin usually spent classes intentionally burning her dishes or seasoning them excessively. She had earned the nickname “Pepper” after adding so much to her pasta that it looked as if there were ants crawling over her plate.
Anthony was the teacher, and he was the epitome of cool. His hair was such a shade of red that his head looked as if it were on fire. The tattoo on his face was of a snake, and the one on his left forearm was a giant knife. This made him look like he was in a gang, which really enhanced his cool factor. But the coolest thing about Anthony wasn’t his hair or his tattoos: it was that he was funny and knew how to make anyone feel better when a dish didn’t turn out right or when they nicked themself with a knife or cheese grater. He wasn’t like most adults who brushed off what kids had to say. He really listened and cared and responded.
So, all things considered, regular Tuesdays were the best day of the week. But this Tuesday was even better because after cooking class, Adam was going out to dinner with his godfather Ezra. Dinners with Ezra were the best because he always let Adam get dessert. Also, he could talk to Ezra about anything, even the things he couldn’t talk to his parents about. And Ezra always answered his questions, even when they were big questions about the universe. Really, the only sort of bad thing about Ezra was his poor navigation skills.
“Adam? Would you like me to call your parents?” Anthony offered.
“No. My godfather is picking me up.”
“Shall I call him then?”
“No, I think he’s just a bit lost. He’s got a poor sense of direction. Always says—”
Ezra walked in with flushed cheeks and a crooked bowtie. “I am so sorry I’m late. I just got a tad lost. I swear, I’m going to lose my own head next.”
“Hello, Ezra!” Adam ran up to greet his godfather. “Ezra, this is my cooking teacher, Anthony.”
The two men extended their hands to shake. “Pleased to meet you. Adam really enjoys your classes.”
“He’s a joy to have. Glad to meet you.” They stared at each other a tad longer than was necessary.
Adam’s eyes flickered between the two of them. He may have been 11, but he knew when adults needed his help. “Ezra and I are going out to dinner tonight.”
“Yes,” Ezra said. “We’re going to Pott’s Pies this evening. Do you happen to know of it?”
Anthony’s face lit up with joy. “Pott’s Pies? Of course I know it! I worked there for some time when I was younger. I’m good friends with Madame Tracy and Sargent Shadwell.”
“Do you want to come with us?” Adam asked with a touch more enthusiasm than he intended.
“Oh, I really wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t, I swear! Right, Ezra?”
“Adam,” he placed a hand on his godson’s shoulder, “it’s very kind of you to invite him, but I’m sure Anthony already has dinner plans.”
“I don’t, actually.”
Ezra blinked in surprise. “Oh. Well. Jolly good, then. If you’re so inclined, that is.”
“That sounds great. I’ve been meaning to stop by and see Tracy and Shadwell again.” He shrugged on his moto jacket (also black to match the skinny jeans and henley). “Lead the way!”
The three of them set out for dinner with Adam grinning like he just got away with a clever prank.