Where is the fic where Charles is a chef and Erik is a hard-to-please restaurant critic? Where?
Because I can’t say no to her cow eyes, here goes:
Knives dashed against cutboards as pots and pans clanked against the metallic surfaces in the white tiled room. Chefs feverishly slaved over ingredients in the kitchen to fulfill another completely booked night. It was only the start of his second week since his promotion to Chef du cuisine and Charles Xavier already wanted to quit.
The steam angrily gushing out of the nearby crock assaulted his senses and aggravated his migraine. Each plate he helped to expedite made him more cross-eyed, his fingers shaky as he cataloged every one in his mind to calculate if he properly stocked the kitchen for the week. It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of experience when he was the sous chef, but seeing his name officially printed on the menu drove the responsibility home as sure as shucking an oyster.
As if the pressure of maintaining the reputation of 2-Michelin star restaurant wasn’t enough, it was rumored that the infamous food critic Erik Lehnsherr was lurking about, no doubt to rate the new culinary charge. The maitre-d had been tipped off from the hotel clerk that he spotted the dour man in the lobby that afternoon. What name or disguise he’d don, if he showed up, was anyone’s guess.
Trying to block it out of his mind, the young man bounced from station to station, fulfilling random tasks as needed. Running on autopilot, it wasn’t until he stared down at his stained white apron and uniform, wishing he was clean-shaven and wearing a favored cashmere sweater or cardigan instead, that he noticed the crustacean cradled in his hand.
Mid-step, he regarded the slight waves of its legs and the cock of one of its antennae, its beady black eyes shifting to stare into his blue ones. How could something be so casual when it was about to meet its delicious demise? Then again, with its pincers bound, maybe it was simply resigned to its fate. Whatever the case, Charles wished he could channel the lobster’s apparent zen state of mind.
"Charles!" a redheaded chef snapped, his hand stretched out and ready to receive the lobster. "Over here!"
"Oh, pardon me, Sean. Must have lost my mind for a second there," he said sheepishly as the freckled man rolled his eyes and proceeded to drop the delivery in a boiling pot. Charles apologized to the lobster wordlessly, vowing to not eat seafood for a week. Before he could continue, sharp clicks of stilettos caught his attention.
"Charles!" The young woman clad a navy dress hissed. "He’s here.” The maitre-d tossed one of her long blond stands behind her shoulder as she pointed to the pot containing the lobster. “And he ordered that.”
"Raven, are you serious?" Now Charles’s stomach twisted into knots as he stared dumbly at his sister, especially knowing that the lobster would be wasted on Mr. Lehnsherr. When was the last time he wrote a favorable restaurant review?
"Yes! Wearing these ridiculous aviator glasses that he refuses to take off. It just screams suspicious," she emphasized with gesturing from her manicured hands. "Anyway, just make sure ‘Max Eisenhardt’ enjoys his main course. I couldn’t get back here in time to warn you about the appetizer. And no, Charles, I won’t tell you which one it was unless you die of nerves before he even gets his entree."