Chapter Text
”Ugh!” Stella cried out in frustration. “Did you have to have him park so far?”
“It’s only one block,” Stolas replied, trying to avoid sounding confrontational.
“My feet are killing me!”
Stella kept her skirt elevated to keep the hem out of the small puddles of acid rain spotting the pavement. Her webbed feet were crammed into far too narrow pumps, which was likely adding to her discomfort. Stolas was carrying her purse for her to lighten the load, but it had no positive influence on her mood.
“We’re almost there,” Stolas said, trying his best to sound reassuring.
It didn’t help that the restaurant they were heading towards was situated on a steep hill. Stolas was already starting to regret suggesting the place. Ever since Stella’s 17th birthday, her family had insisted on them going on a date once a month to get them accustomed to the impending marriage, but last month Stolas had managed to wiggle out of it, feigning a headache, and she hadn’t pressed the issue. It was clear she liked their outings as little as he did, but their families didn’t give them a choice.
They reached the restaurant and Stolas held the door open for Stella as she climbed the three stone steps leading up, grunting with effort. While standing there, Stolas noticed a help-wanted sign on the window. It was unclear why it caught his eye, as there was nothing outstanding about it.
Once inside, Stolas helped Stella take off her jacket and hang it on the coat rack. A tired-looking waitress came over, asking if they would be having the buffet or à la carte.
“À la carte, of course!” Stella said with a frown. “Do we look like peasants?”
Stolas cringed with sympathy towards the poor server.
“Right this way, ma’am, sir,” the server said, her eyes looking like she had seen too much shit for insults to cut into her.
She led them into a table and handed over the menus. Stella kicked off her shoes under the table.
“This had better be good,” she said ominously.
“Would you like some wine?” Stolas asked, knowing very well that they were not going to demand an ID check on a Goetia, no matter how under-aged they looked.
“I suppose it would make this more tolerable,” she agreed begrudgingly.
Stolas flipped over to the drinks section.
“Red or white?”
“White. You should know by now I cannot stand red wine.”
Stolas didn’t say anything.
Once the server returned, Stella ordered pan-fried trout, while Stolas went with the tenderloin with peppercorn sauce. He thought about asking for red wine sauce first, but decided against it, worried that Stella would take it as a jab against her.
“If my fish is dry, I’m sending it back. Just saying.” Stella spoke loud enough to ensure the server heard it, even though her words were nominally directed at Stolas.
…
“Ugh, why is it so dark in here?” Stella groaned after a moment. “It’s as if they are trying to hide something.”
“It’s called mood lighting, dear,” Stolas said, trying to placate her.
“This knife has spots on it,” she said judgmentally. “They can’t even polish their silverware right.” She grabbed her napkin and rubbed the blade fiercely, muttering: “Have to do everything myself around here…”
Stolas winced when he saw the knife poke a hole in the napkin.
“You could just ask for a new one, you know?”
“I certainly should.”
She never did.
“Ugh, what’s taking them so long? They must be understaffed, or just horribly incompetent. How long does it take to do it right? They are probably overcooking it.”
Once the food arrived, Stella poked at the garnish with a look of absolute disgust.
“What the devil is this supposed to be?”
“They’re known as microgreens,” Stolas explained. “Kale, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I did not come here for a biology lesson! Satan, you’re so boring.” She continued poking at the pile of greens with her fork. “These leaves look wilted. I can’t believe we are paying for useless crap like this. It’s not like it’s even edible.”
Stolas sighed and reached out with his fork.
“I’ll eat it.”
Stella stared with open disgust when Stolas swallowed the kale greens. She cut into her trout fillet and took a bite, her face scrunching up.
“What is it?” Stolas asked. He knew that look.
“It’s lukewarm and there’s far too much salt.”
“Would you like to swap dishes with me?”
“Eww, no.”
She sat with her back straight, casting daggers at the waitress until she came over.
“Are you enjoying your food?”
“I most certainly am not!” Stella screeched.
“Would you like to send it back?”
“Yes. Make sure they do it properly this time!”
“May I inquire what is wrong with it, so that I can inform the kitchen?”
“It’s cold. Also, the salt. I can feel the skin peeling off my tongue. This is an act of assassination!”
“Please, calm down, Stella,” Stolas pleaded, placing his hand on the back of her forearm. She wrenched her arm away from him.
The waitress picked up the plate with an apology and hurried into the kitchen. Stolas cut another piece of his tenderloin, about to put it in his mouth when he was stopped by Stella’s icy stare. He put his fork down.
“What?”
“Oh, go on, eat your food. I’ll just sit here and wait.” She waved her hand dramatically.
Stolas folded his hands under the tablecloth. He knew very well that Stella would blame him for being inconsiderate if he continued eating.
Stella took a sip of her white wine. Then she glanced at the other tables.
“I see they let imps in here. How… quaint.”
Over the 15 minutes that it took for her plate to be remade from scratch, she found several things to complain about.
“They should put families with kids in a different section. I cannot stand kids, they’re all so noisy and disgusting.”
…
“Look at that couple over there! I bet that’s not her husband! You can bet your scrawny ass they’re having an affair.”
“Please, keep your voice down,” Stolas muttered, feeling sorry for all the other customers, not to mention the staff.
Once the food arrived, Stella heaved an exasperated sigh at the new pile of microgreens. Stolas reached out with his fork when she slapped the back of his hand.
“Stop! You’re embarrassing me.”
Stella cut into the trout while the waitress stood anxiously by her chair. Stella chewed slowly, then swallowed.
“I suppose it’s edible. Please, leave us alone.”
After the waitress left, Stella rolled her eyes. “It’s bland, and far too hot. It’s like they’re trying to make me burn my tongue on purpose.”
“You can add salt to it,” Stolas muttered, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.
“No, no, this must be the way the chef intended it,” Stella exclaimed, like she was just about to lay her head on the figurative executioner’s block.
She was washing down every bite with wine, grimacing like it took everything out of her not to vomit. Stolas cut into his tenderloin and took a bite. It was cold. He knew it wasn’t the cook’s fault. Someone back there had tried their best to make this meal enjoyable and Stella was doing everything in her power to ruin the experience.
Stolas tried to enjoy the nuances of the food, despite it being cold. Meanwhile, Stella was getting gradually more inebriated and louder. Stolas poured the rest of the bottle’s contents into his glass. He didn’t want it. He just needed to ensure Stella didn’t have her fourth drink.
He watched the staff go by their business. They were in a hurry, carrying heavy trays into the buffet with oven mitts, wiping spills, refilling glasses, running orders. Every patron was met with a smile, no matter how strained. They smiled through the complaints, tried to find compromises, tried to ensure every customer left happier than they had arrived.
His eyes wandered back to the white rectangle of paper taped to the front window. They need someone. They deserved someone to balance the load.
Despite all the complaints, Stella finished every last bit of her meal. Stolas felt relieved when she didn’t ask for dessert. He paid the bill and helped her put her jacket on.
Once they went out on the sidewalk, Stella heaved an exaggerated sigh.
“I’m so glad we’re through with it. Did you notice the smell?”
“What smell?”
“That nasty, greasy stench! Their ventilation must be inaccurate.”
“I thought it smelled nice.”
“Ugh!” Stella rolled her eyes. “Just take me home, already!”
Once the car pulled in front of Stella’s parents’ palace, she gathered her skirts and climbed out of the back seat.
“This is my favorite time of the month, knowing I won’t have to bear your twiggy ass for another four weeks,” Stella exclaimed.
“Have a nice evening,” Stolas said, forcing himself to swallow the insult.
The next day, Stolas put on very plain but neat clothes and had the driver take him back to the restaurant, alone.
“Table for one?” the waitress asked.
“No, actually, I’m here about the help wanted poster.”
She cast a second glance at him, silent for a moment. Then:
“I’ll go get the manager.”
The manager turned out to be a short, stumpy dinosaur demon, wearing a suit and tie. His top button was unbuttoned, not that it would have even fit to close around his massive throat. When he saw Stolas, he straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
“You’re here for the opening?”
Stolas nodded.
The manager offered him a handshake.
“My name is Wallace.”
“Stolas of the Ars Goetia.”
“Let’s go to my office.”
They walked into a booth half filled with a desk and a filing cabinet. The dinosaur demon sat down in a creaky office chair, gesturing towards a black stool with peeling paint. Stolas’ knees were nearly up to his chest when he sat on the low stool.
“Correct me if I’m wrong but you’re applying for this job… personally? Not for a friend?”
Stolas nodded again.
“That’s right.”
“But you’re a Goetia. Why would a Goetia need a job?”
“I just saw the sign, and I saw last night you needed help. I have a lot of free time, and I thought I could be of some assistance.”
“Do you have prior experience with working in a kitchen?”
“Not in a professional setting. I tried a couple of things when I was 12.”
“What kind of things?”
“Chopping carrots, frying pancakes.”
“Right…” Wallace stretched out the word, biting his lip afterwards. “We are looking for a prep cook. We are generally looking for people who have either gone through culinary school or have at least two years of prior experience in the restaurant industry. What makes you think you would be qualified for this job?”
“I might not have the prior experience, but I really want to help. I can follow written directions. You need someone. Please, give me a chance to prove myself.”
“The starting wage is $10 an hour. We cannot afford to go higher than that, despite your status.”
“That’s alright. Money is not an issue.”
“You need to wear a uniform. Are you capable of wearing shoes?”
He cast a tired glance at Stolas’ bare talons.
“I don’t normally wear shoes but if it’s required by the health code, I’m sure I can find something in my size. What else do I need to buy for my first day?”
“I’ll write you a list. How many hours a day are you able to work?”
“I don’t know. What’s the standard?”
“To be clear with you, we’re not going to book you longer than 6 hours a day, either way, since anything above that, we’d be contractually obligated to give you a lunch break, and that ain’t gonna happen.”
“Six hours is fine.”
“We’ll get you started on Friday through Sunday and later we can bump it up to Thursday through Monday if it feels like it’s working out for both parties.”
“Thank you for trusting me with this chance.”
Wallace stared at the wall behind Stolas’ shoulder.
“We’ve been swamped ever since Aretha broke her hip and James quit. I hope this works out, for both of our sake.”
Wallace printed out a contract for Stolas to fill out. Then he gave him a note with a list of clothes and gear to buy. Afterwards, he took him out into the kitchen.
“Everyone, meet Stolas. He’ll be starting as a prep cook this Friday.”
Everybody stared at him. No one said a word.
“…Hi.” Stolas waved uncertainly.
“Hi Stolas,” the kitchen staff muttered in an out-of-sync chorus.
After he had been escorted out and Wallace returned, a boar demon dressed in a chef’s uniform with puffy, pink eyes, broke the silence.
“Is the kid any good?”
“I doubt it,” Wallace said. “He’s got no prior experience.”
“Then why did you hire him?”
“We can’t take the risk he gets disgruntled and gets us shut down if we don’t let him play chef. He’ll get bored with it, I give him a week, tops. He’ll move on and we can hire someone competent.”
“Jesus Christ. Everybody, get ready to work twice as hard,” the boar demon said, exasperated.
The others grumbled in protest.