Work Text:
Erik Ehrlich tied his waiter’s apron for his first shift at Le Papillon, a discreet little French restaurant tucked away in Mayfair. He checked his topknots were tidy, made sure his nail polish wasn’t chipped, and reminded himself not to panic.
The job paid well, included a staff meal, and allowed employees to take home any special that hadn’t sold. As a university student studying culinary science, Erik considered this practically like a scholarship with better food.
He entered the dining room and tried to remember everyone’s names.
Nina Loquaci, the manager, stood beside Maggie Bell, the hostess. The restaurant was warm and elegant, with dark wood beams, green plants, and a quartet playing softly.
Then there was Crowley. The sommelier. One name only. Like the sort of celebrity chef everyone referred to simply by their first name. Crowley wore all black, including sunglasses despite the restaurant’s deliberately dim lighting.
Nina had given Erik one instruction. “Do not upset the sommelier.” She had not elaborated.
She didn’t need to.
The man who entered late that evening seemed like the sort of person who might upset him.
He was pale, softly spoken, wearing a beige tweed jacket with a bow tie. Erik was fairly certain the only person he had ever seen wear one before was his grandfather. The man carried a notebook.
A food critic? An inspector?
The entire dining room staff seemed to pause.
Crowley and the man held each other’s gaze. Erik immediately understood: this was a battle.
He approached the table with a menu. The man did not look at him. Not even a glance. He was watching Crowley.
“Would you care to hear the specials?” Erik asked.
The man nodded.
Erik listed the evening’s feature: duck confit with cherry reduction, accompanied by roasted root vegetables and a particular French preparation he was fairly certain he was not pronouncing correctly.
“I’ll have the special,” the man said.
Crowley approached. Erik retreated.
“Wine list,” Crowley said.
“No. Thank you.”
Erik froze. He refused the wine list. What did that mean?
Crowley blinked. “You will not be drinking wine?”
“Oh, I most certainly will. I simply do not need the list.”
Crowley studied him. “Interesting.” He recommended a Bordeaux.
The man smiled politely. “I’ll have the Sancerre.”
Crowley’s eyes narrowed.
Erik hurried away before witnessing whatever happened next.
At the bar, the other waitstaff gathered.
“Don’t interfere,” Nina whispered.
As if Erik would dare.
They watched as Crowley returned with the wine and performed the entire ritual with impressive precision. He presented the bottle, opened it, poured a sample, and waited.
The man tasted it.
“No.”
Crowley took the glass away.
A second bottle appeared.
“No.”
A third.
Crowley lifted one eyebrow.
“Absolutely not,” the man said. “What were you thinking?”
Erik wondered if this was how people died in expensive restaurants. Then the meal arrived.
Erik served it carefully and asked if everything was satisfactory.
The man smiled. “Excellent. You’re doing very well.”
Erik almost relaxed. Then Crowley appeared.
The man looked at him expectantly.
“This one,” Crowley said, placing the bottle down, “is not on the restaurant’s wine list. It’s a little unconventional.”
The man tasted it. Closed his eyes. Smiled. “Perfect.”
Crowley smiled back. Erik nearly dropped his tray. He had worked with Crowley for three hours and had not known Crowley was capable of smiling.
The man finished his meal, clearly enjoying both the food and the wine. Crowley watched him with an expression Erik could only describe as deeply suspicious. Or deeply fond.
The man paid his bill and stood.
As he passed Crowley, he stopped.
Crowley caught him by the lapels and kissed him. The man kissed him back. Then he straightened his bow tie and walked out as though nothing unusual had happened.
Erik stared.
“What was that?”
Nina smiled. “That… was foreplay.”
“And who was that? He didn’t even use his notebook!” Erik found this level of uncertainty deeply unsettling.
Nina laughed heartily.
“That… was Crowley’s husband.”