Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Chef Jonah Hendershott looked over the three candidates his HR manager sent over for the new hostess-slash-reservationist in his third and newest restaurant. It was also his first foray into haute fine dining, and he was trying to make every movement with the precision and forethought of a Grand Master chess player. This could finally be his ticket to a Michelin star. The usual lower-level hiring decisions that he would leave to his team were to be up to his final review, and nothing was below his scrutiny for this project. Internally, he was terrified — what if Washington, D.C. wasn't ready for his version of 'nose-to-tail' cuisine?
He had grown up poor in the country, so the careful and regular preparation of offal, trotters, and other ‘less desirable’ bits of the animals his father slaughtered and prepared at the local abattoir were as second nature to him as holding his own knife. Sure, pork belly was finally trendy and now hard to come by, but when he was a child, unless prepared as bacon, it was considered less than worthy for the customers who wanted loins, shoulders, and top rounds. He was making it his personal mission in life to source all the parts of the animals other chefs eschewed and convert them into beautiful plates befitting the luxurious hotel that housed his ambitious new restaurant.
He had chosen the name simply, with brutal honesty that laid his culinary soul bare; it was what it was, 'Parts + Labour', nothing more, hopefully not less. He wanted a place where he could rehash the past and cast it into the light of luxury he always thought it deserved, a place where meat-free pies and casseroles weren’t just because one's family ran out of money and where tucking into a plate of kidneys wasn’t a sign of poverty. He had the creativity, the will, the drive, and the financial backing — at least for the time being — but he needed to make certain that his team was always as driven as he was.
Experience was paramount, which was why he was perplexed at Newton Pulcifer, his human resources guy, his trusted Chef de Cuisine, and himself for even considering one of the particular candidates his inbox.
“No industry experience, no culinary or beverage training, nothing," he muttered to himself as he looked over the résumé on his screen. He read the wordy, poetic, almost breathless cover letter for a third time. The grammar was impeccable, the words artfully chosen, and the research and personalised reference to Chef Hendershott’s own background were impressive. Who ever this was, she certainly knew what she wanted. He glanced back at the name, “He,” Jonah corrected himself out loud. Even that was unusual for the position. And then there was this guy’s age; doing a little quick arithmetic, the chef calculated that this applicant must be in his mid thirties, almost as old as he was, and definitely too old to be just dipping his toe into a first restaurant job. He was completely wrong for the job, and would most likely be either awful at it or run screaming for the hills once he got a taste of how rough the crew assembled were. The chances that he would be a font of untapped talent and ability were slim to none, and Chef Jonah was not previously a man known for taking risks, but that was before P+L.
He glanced down at the one-way text conversation his onsite CdC had been having with him to urge him on whom to recruit.
He hit the reply arrow at the top of the message and wrote just two words in reference to the misfit candidate.
“Hire him."
CHAPTER ONE
It had been a whirlwind week for one poor, beleaguered, and overwhelmingly anxious Ezra E. Fell, a man of little note or regard up until this fateful day.
He had always managed to fly below the radar everywhere he had ever worked; always toiling productively and achieving appropriate benchmarks and goals, but even as he would attest, never truly advancing. Such a trait had been appreciated, even heralded, at his previous job as a municipal clerk at his first job in North America in Toronto by way of his native England. He was almost beloved for his silent efficiency and ability to soullessly multitask.
But all that was about to change.
He figured that it was probably for this reason, and this reason alone, that he found himself working in the dank, dreary, and somewhat fetid annals of an otherwise hip and well-appointed former-church-turned-boutique hotel in Washington, D.C. – and was utterly terrified.
To be sure, Ezra had wanted to work in the restaurant world since the day he could fathom the concept of jobs, careers, or ‘what Mum and Da did for a living’ in the world he formally knew at the time. He had wanted to be a chef, but since that currently seemed out of his immediate reach, he was delighted to just be allowed to work in the office of an award-winning restaurant. Well, a restaurant whose head chef had won an award. He was sure that was the same thing.
The one thing he hadn’t anticipated, however, was how abruptly he was subjected to the vernacular swirling around him. Granted, none of it seemingly applied to him, and he had done his due diligence and studied up on kitchen slang, but it was different when being hurled through the air above him in the office. Things were forever doing ‘86s’ or whatnot, there were Captains, or Midshipmen or perhaps Admirals, seemingly everywhere; ‘Essays’ were allegedly not doing their jobs sometimes, and then there was something about service stations.
Ezra was one hundred percent sure there were no petrol stations at his location, so he relaxed a bit at that.
And all of this was supposed to be background to what he was hired to do – simply mind the office, answer the phones, take reservations, and print the daily menus.
Ezra received training, though to call it that was most likely an insult to the entire concept of instruction. After his initial interviews with an affable HR director and a somewhat less congenial General Manager, he had been ensconced in his role as a reservationist. The position he applied for was supposed to be a combination of host and office minder, but it was explained to him that his experience was more befitting full-time office work, and the current girl would be a full-time hostess, which suited her just fine. He knew he was a bit old to just be sticking his toe into the hospitality industry, but he didn’t care. He was finally doing what he wanted rather than what was wanted of him, and he was elated – until this first week, that is.
He was ‘trained’ by a short girl of twenty two named Taylor with nondescript features and a pervasive dislike for computers, printers, keyboards, programmes, typing, and just about anything that was technological and didn’t involve her phone and selfies. She scowled and pecked at the keys as she half-heartedly droned through an explanation of the tedious process to editing the menu each night.
“So, like, then you gotta go back upstairs each time the kitchen makes even a little change, b’cos, like, they gotta sign off on it ‘fore you print, ya know?” she sighed.
“Yes, I get that. Accountability and all,” Ezra nodded sagely.
His cohort sighed so dramatically she nearly withered. “Yeah, but, like, no. Like, they’re total pricks. They’ll change just total bullshit things, even after I’ve printed, and it’s like, then I get in trouble, but it’s like, you changed the bullshit thing for no reason, right?”
Ezra looked at her in complete confusion. Taylor attempted to prove her point by holding up one of the hundreds of menus in the rubbish bins beside an early version of the previous night’s menu.
“See?” she demanded defiantly, “It’s all the same shit."
Ezra leant in and examined both carefully. His comparisons stopped once he reached the fourth starter.
“‘Cheese Pumpkin Velouté’ is not even remotely the same as ‘Cheesy Cream of Pumpkin Soup’,” he pointed out evenly.
“Whatever," she rolled her eyes. “Name me one major difference."
“There’s no cheese in a ‘Cheese Pumpkin Velouté’, for starters,” Ezra began calmly.
Taylor started out laughing nastily, but it escalated in intensity and mocking, but she sneered out an additional, “You’re even dumber than you lo…” before she was cut off from the doorway.
“Finally. Someone around here who fucking knows food."
Ezra’s gaze snapped up from the large computer monitor and found itself resting one of Washington D.C.’s most storied fine dining chefs, not to mention one of the objectively hottest.
Rather than soothing the humiliation he briefly felt from being mocked for being right, the urge to hide under the nearest desk was stronger than ever before. Chef Anthony J Crowley — known to everyone just by his surname — a fellow British ex-pat with an accent that oozed roughcut London-lout swagger with every syllable, was a vision in effortlessly casual perfection. His flame-red hair was piled and coiffed into submission, his somewhat lined, angular face was shaved smooth except for the long, flared sideburns that transformed his whole look into retro 1950’s bad boy, and his black tee shirt was soft and faded to a worn grey, but he had still taken the time to tuck it into dark wash jeans. His belt buckle was hidden by the grey, sturdy apron that hung from his neck and shoulders from the same webbed strapping that fastened around his back and tied in front of his trim waist. Those black criss-crossing straps had already given Ezra plenty to think about when he wasn’t the subject of the chef’s attention. Now, he just shifted uncomfortably.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mr Crowley?” Taylor asked without even bothering to hide her snideness.
“What the hell does my father have anything to do with the fact that you don’t know anything about fine dining, Taylor?” Chef Crowley crossed the room in long strides and was peering down at Ezra with curiosity before the blonde man had time to brace himself. “And, as for you,” he said to the soft man gazing up at him, “I don’t believe we’ve properly been introduced." His voice was quieter and far more gentle. Intimate, even.
“No, Chef, I don’t believe we have. I’m Ezra Fell. Taylor, here, is training me to work in the office for you."
“Oh, she is, is she?” Crowley smirked, not unkindly, at his new office worker. “And in exchange are you going to teach her how to make a classic sauce Mornay?”
“Oh, Chef!” Ezra blushed in spite of himself, “I’m sure Taylor knows how to make a cheese sauce!” He felt his eyelashes flutter beyond his corporeal control. In a weak attempt to salvage the situation, he limped out, “Right, Taylor?” His attempt to tear his gaze from where it was double-deadlocked with Crowley’s curiously light brown eyes.
She snorted dismissively. “Yeah. You open the packet, shake it in, and stir."
The spell was momentarily broken. “Whut?” and “Pardon?” came out of Crowley and Ezra, respectively.
“It’s not like it’s fuckin’ hard. Like, it comes right in the box." Her eye-rolling was beginning to genuinely trouble Ezra who was fearful she might cause permanent damage to some delicate ocular ligament.
Without prompting, the chef and Ezra’s gazes slid back together, but this time with no flirtatious undertones whatsoever. They were both equally aghast. Chef Crowley was stunned into silence, which considering his rank was most likely for the best, however Ezra had just lost control of his internal filter.
“Do you mean that disgusting powdered orange nonsense that children make?” he blurted.
“I guess it’s kind of orange,” she shrugged, “But who are you to say it’s disgusting? And what kids are making their own dinner?”
“That’s not dinner,” Chef Crowley interjected, “That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention. Furthermore,” he added with a glance toward Ezra, “It is disgusting, and orange, and absolutely nonsense. Well said, Ezra. And in answer to your question, Taylor, I was making my own dinner as a child, which is probably why I grew up to do what I do, and you grew up to whatever the fuck it is you do. What do you do, anyway?”
“I’m a hostess," she glared at him, “I used to have to work down here in this stupid office too, but thankfully they hired him to do that from now on,” she emphasised her point by jamming an outstretched thumb in Ezra’s direction.
Chef Crowley flicked his gaze up and down over Ezra, sizing him up visually. “Where did you work before?” he asked the stout, short blond man seated in front of the computer.
Ezra fiddled with a sticky note before shrugging sheepishly. “Toronto City Hall," he offered quietly.
“No, no, I mean which restaurants," Crowley shook his head.
“I haven’t, Chef,” Ezra practically whispered. He couldn’t bear to make eye contact anymore, instead focussing on a bit of dirt on the cold linoleum floor.
“So, this is your first time in the industry?” the chef asked slowly, “And luck would have it that you ended up in my office? Doing my menus, with my name on them? Every night?”
“Yes, Chef,” Ezra nodded and fought back tears. It was bad enough to cry at work as a 35 year-old man, but in front of someone like this local icon and culinary powerhouse, it was unthinkable.
“Well, in that case, welcome to the shitshow, Ezra. Don't worry — you’ll do great. Glad to have you aboard our little pirate ship. Hope you can swim." The chef patted him gently on the shoulder and left without another word.
The physical contact snapped Ezra out of his sullenness and popped his eyes open wide as he watched the handsome man walk, or rather, slink, out of the office.
“That was wild,” commented Taylor drily.
“I’m sorry, what?” the soft little man turned his confusion on his temporary officemate, oblivious to his own rudeness.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr Crowley touch anyone, except for that one time he almost beat the shit out of Jordan, the former sous chef. But he, like, petted you. Weird."
Ezra took in this bit of information with curiosity and didn’t even consider reminding her that the correct honorific for someone who ran a kitchen and had a culinary degree was, and always would be, Chef.
***
At noon, when Ezra went up to the pass with the previous day’s menu for the chef to make any revisions on, there was music blaring from the kitchen where the flurry of preparations were taking place for that night’s dinner service. Ezra recognised it as an uptempo version of Glen Miller’s ‘In the Mood’, but with fun, catchy lyrics. He looked at one of the guys prepping onions, but who ran a station during service, a Chef de Partie, as he had learnt last night on Google, and held up the menu with a timid wave and an apologetic wince that might’ve passed for a smile.
Bobby, as he knew his name to be, nodded and smiled genuinely. “I’ll get Chef.” He set down his knife and wiped his hands on a little towel beside his station before flinging it over his shoulder and disappearing into the back.
A moment later and Ezra was face to face with Chef Crowley for the second time that day, though this time was all business. Gone was the twinkle in his warm, amber eyes. Instead, he wordlessly held out his hand for the menu. He handed it over and the chef bent his tall, lanky frame double to scribble his changes for the night. Ezra had no idea what to do, so he opted to wring his hands and listen to the music wafting out from the back.
“Oh!” he exclaimed mildly when it registered what song was playing. It was ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square’, but it was different to what he was accustomed. “This isn’t the Bobby Darin version,” he blurted.
“You got a problem with Brian Setzer?” Crowley mumbled into the thick card stock below him before looking off to the side in thought.
“No, Chef,” he offered quickly, “To be honest, I’ve never heard of him before."
“Then you haven’t lived," Crowley countered. “You should probably get used to it if you’re gonna be up here off and on all day. Sometimes I let the guys pick the music, but R.H.I.P., yeah?”
“Pardon?”
“Rank has its privileges, Ezra," Crowley looked up and suddenly all the playfulness was back for a moment. He even threw in a cheeky wink that was entirely endearing, at least to Ezra. He drew a line through an ingredient on a description and continued, “Just like if you get good at your role in that office down there, maybe you can play whatever music you like. Well, within reason,” he conceded with a small smile, “Probably can’t have you blaring death metal when you’re on the phone with guests."
He felt the giggle escape before he had a chance to quash it. “I don’t think that’s a problem, Chef,” he replied and smiled at the fiery-haired man scribbling an additional dish to the bottom of the menu. Being this close to him, Ezra could smell a wondrous array of delicious scents wafting from his skin and clothes. He smelled of fresh herbs, garlic, something rich and savoury, and the pervasive woodsmoke from the open hearth and rotisserie that seeped into everything at this restaurant. It had only been a couple of days, but Ezra had come to love the way everything he owned was becoming imbued with the aroma.
Crowley turned his face up to smile directly at Ezra. “Yeah, I didn’t think so, pet." He looked pointedly at Ezra’s beige tartan bowtie and smirked.
The chubby blonde couldn’t be offended when the chef’s eyes were crinkling so kindly. He laughed loudly and appreciatively.
“No, I suppose you’ve caught me out, Chef. I don’t secretly leave work and head to biker bars, or what have you." At the mention of motorcycles, Crowley’s head cocked and his eyebrow darted northward on his face, so Ezra hurriedly back-pedalled. “Not that there’s anything wrong with motorbikes,” he stammered, taking in the chef’s heavily-tattooed arms and overall appearance. “In fact, I’ve never ridden one. I’ve always wanted to, though; seems terribly exciting,” he fibbed, just to continue feeling a bit ostentatious and, perhaps, a bit flirtatious with the handsome man.
Crowley stood and handed over the menu. “Well,” he drawled, “Maybe if you’re a very good boy, I’ll take you for a ride sometime, pet. You’d make an adorable Fender Bunny on the back of my Lizzy."
“Pardon?”
“My bike, Ezra. She’s a Triumph Bonneville T100 and she’s an absolute stunner."
The playful banter had lowered Ezra’s defences and made him forget to be skittish. He rolled his eyes. “You would have a motorbike. You look like the sort."
Crowley snorted with laughter. “And, tell me, is that a bad thing, pet?”
Ezra took in the chef’s chiselled good looks and 1950’s greaser aesthetic, ‘SOUS VIDE’ tattooed knuckles and all. “Not a damned bit,” he breathed in appreciation, momentarily forgetting himself.
Bobby, who had finished with the onions and was now meticulously rolling, cutting, and individually marking gnocchi for the dish Chef Crowley had just added to the menu for the night, barked out a laugh. He looked up from his task whilst his fingers kept nimbly attending to their duties. “Ya hear that, Chef? Ezra thinks you’re almost as pretty as you do,” he jibed.
Ezra gasped in humiliation and shock, but Crowley laughed and swatted the young chef de partie with one of the ever-present towels that seemed to materialise out of nowhere. “I am pretty, goddamn it! Ezra, tell this arsehole how pretty I am,” he was still laughing, but Ezra didn’t know how to respond.
He opted for playing along and still being honest. “Oh, come now, Bobby,” he started with a feigned sigh that dripped of sarcasm, “Look at those cheekbones. Look at that hair, the tight shirt. Chef, here, is indeed the very prettiest of pretty, pretty princesses."
Crowley stopped clowning around with Bobby and stared at Ezra with a seriousness he hadn’t had before. “One: Oh so you noticed? And two: Who the fuck are you calling a princess, Princess?”
Ezra opened and closed his mouth in shock several times, making him resemble a rather confused salmon. He had heard that the restaurant industry, specifically the kitchen crew, or 'Back of House' as they were called, could be harsh and even occasionally homophobic, but he had never read anything about Chef Crowley being anything but accepting. He was constantly doing fundraisers for D.C.’s LGBTQIPA+ community and had even been in several of the local Pride Parades. He had no idea if the man was gay or bi or queer, but it seemed unlikely given his stature in the hetero-dominant, primarily male world of head chefs. Still, he had always portrayed himself as nothing but friendly in the local press, yet here he was, seemingly mocking Ezra’s soft demeanour and effeminate mannerisms.
“In fact,” Crowley continued, leaning forward, “I think that’s what I’m gonna call you from now on, Princess." He physically grabbed the front of Ezra’s soft sweater vest and pulled him forward, though surprisingly gently. Ezra followed obediently with eyes wide and leant forward over the marble pass until Crowley could whisper in his ear. “I can tell you’re a good little Pillow Princess when you go home to Daddy every night, aren't you, Ezra? I bet you are. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have a princess like you, the bastard. Well…” he pulled him in even closer, “If you ever get tired of him…” he left the statement unfinished, but leant back and flicked his gaze from Ezra’s eyes to his lips, then back up again.
The plump towhead’s blue-grey eyes got even wider and he sucked in a breath sharply as he processed what his senior colleague was implying.
“I’m…I’m single, Chef,” was all he could manage.
Crowley let go of his jumper and smoothed it out with a dark chuckle. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered again before straightening up and smirking at the flustered, sputtering man in front of him.
“You…um…you assumed I was single, Chef?” the mild hurt in Ezra’s voice was noticeable.
“Not at all,” Crowley shook his head and began to busy himself with checking the contents of the salt bowls stationed around the open-hearth grill. “But I am right about the rest of it. Aren’t I, Princess?”
Before Ezra could think of a witty retort, or any retort at all, the lanky redhead slunk off back into the depths of the gleaming professional kitchen. He stood there a moment longer in utter confusion at what had just occurred. He looked to Bobby for some guidance, but he was prepping gnocchi with a determination that telegraphed how embarrassed he was to have witnessed the previous tableau. Ezra stared at him long enough that it was clear that he wasn’t leaving without some sort of explanation.
Bobby stopped rolling the fork across the plump little dumplings and looked up at Ezra. “He’s really a cool guy,” he began, indented another gnocchi, then continued, “He seems to really like you. I mean, we all do — you’re really nice — but he does, too, ya know. Like you." He shook his head and shrugged. “You know what I mean. I mean, I hope you do, but he’s a cool dude. I’ve only worked for two other chefs, but he’s the nicest. He’s tough, don’t get me wrong, but he takes care of his own. Like, he has all our backs, so now he has yours, too. You even get a nickname on your first week, so…that’s something."
“Is that…good?” Ezra questioned haltingly.
“Yeah, that’s real good,” Bobby nodded and got back to the endless pile of gnocchi left to be rolled under the tines of his fork.
Ezra knew those little indentations would hold whatever sauce and flavours Chef had decided to anoint them with for the evening. With a furtive glance down at the menu in his hand, he saw that they were to be graced with braised pork head ragout, broccoli rabe, and fried sage.
“And beurre noisette, no doubt,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, nothing,” his embarrassment flooded back, but this time for being caught out talking to himself. “I was just wondering if these gnocchi are going to be finished in beurre noisette before the braised pork head, or if that would be too rich. But that shows how much I know, I guess." He chuckled at his own self-deprecation.
“Hold on, that’s a good question,” Bobby stopped and put down the fork, “I mean, of course they will be, but I don’t know if Chef wants that on the menu. I’ll be right back." He, too, disappeared into the back, only to re-emerge a few moments later. “Chef says you should add it to the description, but to just call it ‘brown butter’ instead."
“Got it. Be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” and with that antiquated turn of phrase, Ezra was off to make the changes.
Back in his tiny, new office, he looked at the menu and assessed the order of the dishes. They seemed a bit disjointed and didn’t appear to have any rhyme or reason as to their places. Obviously, ordering the items by price was gauche; besides, that wouldn’t give diners any insight as to where to look based on the enjoyment factor, which was the main reason for coming to a restaurant like Parts + Labour. Since this was his first opportunity to do this task alone, he decided to take a chance and guess at the respective lightness or heaviness of the dishes from the descriptions listed.
In between answering phones and trying to figure out the reservation platform on the iPad, he carefully moved the menu items around on the layout until they were listed from lightest to richest in each section, making sure to add the buttery, porky gnocchi second to the bottom, just above the mammoth serving of steak that was meant for two and carved tableside. He added the browned butter before the fried sage, because that wouldn’t be a dominating portion of the dish, whereas the butter would be more prominent. He looked up at all the other dishes and applied the same logic, moving things like ‘fines herbes’ and ‘parsnip tuille’ at the end, the sauces just before that, and kept all the other things as they were.
“Chef can decide if he wants anything else moved,” he thought to himself. He looked at the menu with satisfaction after printing it out and began the labyrinthine trek back upstairs to the empty restaurant on the second floor of the hotel. Since they were only open for dinner, Ezra technically had until five o’clock to make the menu perfect, but a version of it had to be done by four when all the servers, hosts, bar, and other staff in the ‘front of house’, or dining room, assembled for their pre-shift meeting. He was the sort to want it done well before the deadline, so by two o’clock he was standing back at the pass and waiting patiently for Chef Crowley.
It wasn’t until Kang, another chef de partie, saw him and nodded before wordlessly vanishing to fetch the chef did Ezra suddenly feel a wave of insecurity. Why, oh, why did he have to go changing things without permission? What had he been thinking? He was just about to make a dart for the swinging doors to the kitchen and the safety of the staff service elevator when Crowley emerged with Kang in tow.
“Let’s see it, Princess,” he said as he reached out an open hand that was clearly waiting for a menu to be placed in it.
“Umm, well, I don’t think it’s done. Maybe I should just go,” Ezra stammered and stepped backward. When he saw the chef’s hand didn’t waver or lower, he sighed, stepped forward again, and handed it to him. “I’m sorry in advance."
The chef was already studying the menu so he didn’t respond. He lifted an impossibly large, scarred and tattooed hand to his face and scratched at his sideburn. Just for a brief second did Ezra allow himself to think about the mythological inferences of hands that size, but then he went back to fretting about the alterations he himself had made, but then also felt terribly for thinking about his boss’ nether region on top of that. He was in an awful state by the time Chef Crowley did speak, so much so that he couldn’t really comprehend the words being said to him at first.
“Who told you to do this?” he evenly asked the anxious catastrophe of a man on the other side of the marble-slabbed pass.
“I’m sorry, wha—? Oh. I’m sorry. No one, Chef. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what order you preferred your menu items to be placed, so I guessed. I know I shouldn’t have touched them, but I can put it all back. Please don’t worry…I can put it all back, Chef. I promise." His voice was trembling and he was nearly begging by the time he finally stopped speaking, so he wasn’t looking up at Crowley as he made his profuse apologies.
The taller man’s face was contorted in confusion and he almost looked hurt. “Ezra — what the hell are you on about? Why would you put it back the way it was? It was a fucking disaster but I had pretty much given up on getting it done correctly and on time, so I settled on ‘just printed by the time the doors open’. This is great. The only thing is I’d swap these two starters; this one is actually richer than it sounds, but I see now that could also be an issue with my description. I think I should add in that there’s not just crispy shallots on top, but also an herbed crema, which makes the dish considerably more fun. In fact,” he pulled the pen from the top of his Hedley & Bennett apron and bent over to write again, “Let’s add that little fucker in right here. Just bukkake that shit. There." He pulled himself up and admired the piece of card stock again. “Perfection. I love it. Add in that herbed crema and we’re good to print for tonight."
“Yes, Chef!” Ezra fairly shouted from his cloud of excitement and rapidly ebbing anxiety. “I’ll do that and bring it right back, sir!”
“Don’t bother bringing it back, Ezra. Just get that printed and get it set up for tonight. Do you know where everything goes so you can start helping out front of house?” Ezra shook his head and started to wring his hands again, but Crowley continued, “Well, that’s okay, you’ll figure it out. If you can figure out the way I want my menu laid out without me saying a word, I’m pretty sure you can go around the dining room and place menus in the server stations and at the host stand. Just make sure you get rid of all the ones from yesterday, yeah? And burn that shit when you’re done — I don’t want to see any more rubbish like that in my restaurant." Ezra nodded again and failed to suppress a little smile.
Just as the stocky blonde was turning to leave, he heard Crowley call to him once more.
“Great job, Princess. Thank you."
Ezra floated back down to the office, grinning like a sandboy the entire way and probably making more than one of his coworkers wonder about his mental state along the way as he passed them.