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“Heads up, your boy is here again,” Eponine says, when she brings a new ticket into the kitchen. She holds a hand up before Grantaire can say anything. “No, he did not bring anyone with him. Yes, he looks as good as he always does. Yes, I’ve told him that you’ll personally prepare his meal.”
Floréal snorts from her station, and turns to look at Grantaire. “You know that we have an empty Chef’s Table tonight, yes?”
Bossuet overhears and says, “I vote yes!”
Grantaire sighs. “We are not inviting him to the Chef’s Table,” he says, because having Enjolras back at the Chef’s Table again will bring back memories of him tripping over words and making a fool out of himself the very first time Enjolras dined in his restaurant.
He doesn’t think he made a particularly good first impression on Enjolras; he’s just glad that his food has been apparently good enough to warrant Enjolras’ repeated visits.
“Why not?” Eponine whines. “It’s weird that I’m flirting with him for you, and vice versa. Some of the things you want me to tell him make me want to throw up a little in my mouth.”
“I haven’t been flirting with him!” Grantaire protests. “All I’ve been doing is telling him about the dishes he orders! To give him a context! So he knows what he’s eating, and can better enjoy his meal!”
Eponine ignores him, and turns her gaze onto Combeferre instead. “We all know you’re the one who really calls the shots here,” she says.
Grantaire lets out a noise of indignation that is, again, ignored.
“So are we asking Grantaire’s boy to dine at the Chef’s Table?” Eponine continues smoothly.
“Combeferre, please,” Grantaire says, and knows from the way Combeferre’s lips quirk up, and his eyes crinkle in amusement, that it’s a lost cause.
“I say we put it to a vote,” Combeferre says to everyone’s cheers.
It’s official. He hired a bunch of traitors, and now he’s got a mutiny on his hands.
“You’re fired,” Grantaire grits out, scowling at Combeferre.
Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh,” he says archly. Turning to Eponine, he says, “Tell Enjolras that Chef Grantaire personally invites him to dine at the Chef’s Table.”
Eponine grins. “Yessir!” she chirps, and leaves the kitchen before Grantaire can think to say anything.
“I hate everyone,” Grantaire groans.
“At least we’re pretty early into service, and you don’t look like crap yet?” Joly offers.
Grantaire groans again.
—
When Eponine leads a smiling Enjolras into the kitchen, Grantaire suppresses another groan. He flashes a smile at Enjolras, instead, when Enjolras passes by, and hopes that it’s a professional smile that says I am very glad you enjoy the food I make, and not his besotted-puppy smile.
“Go talk to him,” Cosette whispers when Grantaire comes by to check on the fish station.
“How’s the salmon going?” Grantaire asks in lieu of acknowledging her statement. “Watch the heat on that pan.”
Cosette turns to shoot him a glare. “The salmon is perfect. The heat on the pan is perfect. Don’t get all stroppy on me because you don’t know what to do about your gigantic crush on Enjolras.”
“I don’t have a crush-”
Eponine appears by his side. “The gentleman at the Chef’s Table is ready to take his order,” she says, loudly enough that Enjolras must be able to hear her. “I thought you’d like to do the honours yourself, like you always do?”
Grantaire smiles widely, just in case Enjolras is looking in their direction, but mutters under his breath to Eponine, “I swear I’m going to fire you.”
“I’d love to see you try,” Eponine says in a sing-song voice, and pushes Grantaire towards the Chef’s Table.
“Good evening, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, when he reaches Enjolras’ table. And it’s going well. He sounds calm and professional. Enjolras probably can’t tell that Grantaire’s heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. “What will you be having tonight?”
Enjolras sets the menu in his hands down. “Hello, Chef Grantaire,” he says. “It’s good to finally see you again.”
“Hi,” Grantaire says, flustered, because Enjolras is smiling at him now. Grantaire was doing so well, too. “And Christ, it’s just Grantaire. Or R, to my friends.”
“And he definitely wants you to call him R,” Bahorel hollers from the roast station, not even pretending that he isn’t eavesdropping.
“Christ God,” Grantaire mutters, twisting to scowl at Bahorel, mouthing at him to shut up.
When he turns back to Enjolras, Enjolras is grinning.
“R, then,” he says, which, wow, okay.
Grantaire can feel the flush on his cheeks. “Right,” he says. “R’s good.”
Enjolras’ lips twitch. “Yeah, it is.”
Christ, Grantaire needs to leave before he embarrasses himself even more. “Have you decided on what you want yet?” he asks.
Enjolras is a regular; he’s been dining at the restaurant twice every week, since about a month ago, but he doesn’t seem to have a favourite dish yet. Grantaire would know if he did; Grantaire spends a remarkable amount of time analysing Enjolras’ orders.
Enjolras’ fingers drum against the menu. “Surprise me,” he decides.
Grantaire blinks at him. “Really?”
Enjolras shrugs. “I trust you,” he tells Grantaire, shrugging a little. His smile is soft when he says, “Everything I’ve tried so far has been to my liking, Chef.”
Grantaire sort of wants to kiss him. Scratch that. Grantaire really wants to kiss him. He settles for nodding, and says, “I’ll be back with hors-d’oeuvres soon.”
—
“Cream of barley, huh?” Combeferre says quietly beside him. “That’s not on the menu.”
“Neither was the baked camembert tart,” Joly tells Combeferre. “Grantaire is going all out to get his boy tonight.”
“I can tell,” Combeferre says.
Grantaire scowls at them. “Can no-one leave me alone when I’m trying to cook?”
“Follow with the poached salmon,” Combeferre murmurs. “Not the one on the menu, the one with the Mousseline. That’ll go well with the cream of barley.”
“You, I hate a little less than all the others,” Grantaire tells Combeferre, glancing over to flash him a tiny smile.
—
“How’s the food been so far?” Grantaire asks, when he brings Enjolras the salmon.
Enjolras beams at him. “Fantastic,” he says. “But then again, I wasn’t expecting it to be anything but. Your food has always been fantastic.”
Grantaire ducks his head, shy. He’s always been pretty good at accepting compliments, but he doesn’t really quite know what to do about the sincerity he can hear in Enjolras’ voice, or the intensity in Enjolras’ gaze.
He really is usually smoother than this.
“Any preference for how you want to end the meal?” Grantaire asks.
The corners of Enjolras’ lips curve slightly. “I can think of a few things,” he murmurs, and Grantaire thinks he’s going to have a heart attack right here, because he doesn’t think Enjolras is just talking about desserts, “but I’d rather have you make the decision.”
“Right,” Grantaire says, throat dry. “I’ll just- Go see to that.”
“Okay,” Enjolras says, smile widening.
“Now.”
Enjolras’ eyes twinkle; he’s definitely mentally laughing at Grantaire now. “Okay,” he says again.
Grantaire flees.
—
“I’m just saying,” Joly, who is currently sharing his dessert station with Grantaire, says, “that it looks like you’re definitely bringing him home tonight.”
“Shut up,” Grantaire grits out, blushing bright red at the thought. He quickly redirects his focus onto the chocolate he’s melting down.
“He’s smouldering at you,” Bossuet chimes in from Grantaire’s other side. “He looks like he wants to lay you down on a flat surface, and lick every part of your body.”
“Christ,” Grantaire groans. “You’re both fired.”
“Uh huh,” they both say in unison.
And how is it that Grantaire’s been reduced to being a figurehead authority here in his own kitchen? He obviously needs a staff overhaul.
—
When Grantaire brings Enjolras his dessert —Grantaire’s take on molten chocolate cheesecake balls—, Enjolras asks, “Are you done for the night?”
Grantaire looks to the dessert station, where Joly and Bossuet look to be finishing up the last tickets. “Looks that way,” he tells Enjolras.
Enjolras smiles. “Will you join me, then?”
Grantaire’s heart is racing when he slides into the seat opposite Enjolras. He watches Enjolras examine the dish before him.
“It’s not as fancy as anything else on the menu,” Grantaire tells him, gesturing to the cheesecake balls. “But my mother used to make them for me, and they’re my favourite things to make. The recipe’s gone through a few changes over the years, but I’ve never figured out how to elevate them, while still keeping the concept of the dish, so now it’s a thing I make for the kitchen crew as treats. Or bribes.”
Enjolras laughs. “You all seem really close,” he observes.
“Yeah,” Grantaire says, huffing out a laugh. He points to Combeferre. “That’s Combeferre, my sous chef. We went to culinary school together, and he’s been there for me through everything. Everyone else? Well, I don’t hire people I can’t get along with, and I can only get along with nice people, so it just all worked itself out, really.”
“I’ve been watching you work,” Enjolras says. “You always look like you’re having a good time when you cook. It’s…fun, watching you cook. I’ve had fun tonight.”
Grantaire smiles at that. “I’m glad,” he says. And then, “Christ, don’t let my chattering keep you from eating. Try it, let me know what you think.”
Enjolras nods, and picks up a fork.
Grantaire shakes his head. “Use your hands, trust me.”
Enjolras sets the fork down. “How should I do this? Do I bite into it? Do I just put it in my mouth?”
“My official recommendation for you is to just pop the entire ball into your mouth,” Grantaire says. “There’s nothing wrong with biting into it, I actually like doing that more, but it might get messy, and I’d hate for you to ruin your suit.”
Enjolras’ grin is sly when he says, “You could offer to help me out of my suit when I dirty it.”
Grantaire chokes on air, and breaks into a coughing fit, making Enjolras laugh. He’s just about more or less recovered recovered from his coughing fit when Enjolras pops one of the cheesecake balls into his mouth, and outright moans.
Grantaire definitely hears Bahorel and Cosette sniggering in the background. Fired and fired, definitely. He’s going to make good on his threat to start a staff overhaul tomorrow, if he doesn’t die from either embarrassment or unresolved sexual tension tonight.
“These are amazing,” Enjolras says, when he’s swallowed.
“They’re just cheesecake balls,” Grantaire says, blushing helplessly. “I could- I could teach you how to make them?” he offers, even though he’s always kept the recipe as a well-guarded secret.
He’s got to be able to control his crew one way or another, doesn’t he?
“Okay,” Enjolras says happily, picking up his next cheesecake ball. “How does tonight sound? At my place? After we get rid of my suit?”
“What,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras’ easy confidence slips a little. “Have I been misreading the situation?”
“No,” Grantaire says quickly. “No. It’s just… Me? Really?”
Enjolras leans forwards just a little. “You really don’t know how attractive you look when you’re cooking, do you?” he asks, and grins at the look of startled confusion on Grantaire’s face. “I would tell you in great detail, but your roast chef looks like he’s having a hard time keeping himself from bursting into laughter as it is,” he says, raising his voice a little so as to be heard.
Bahorel, not one to disappoint, stops trying to hold in his laughter. “Sorry, I really couldn’t help myself,” he says, when Grantaire sighs at him. “I’ll make it up to you by taking care of cleanup tonight so you can leave now, if you want?”
Grantaire turns back to Enjolras, who shrugs, as if telling Grantaire that the choice is all his to make, and that he would be fine with whatever Grantaire chooses.
Grantaire makes an executive decision. “How do you feel about having the rest of your dessert to-go?”