fic: RPS: Mighty Fine Shindig (1/1)
Title: Mighty Fine Shindig
Author: Havenward
Fandom: Kane RPS (waiter au)
Pairing: Chris/Steve
Rating: PG13
Words: 1882
Note: A huge, huuuuuge thank you to shannonrita for all the foodie info, and to shanachie_quill for the hand holding and letting me steal a few lines. This was inspired by watching an episode of Top Chef Masters, namely, for the pick up line. Yes, one of the chefs actually used the line. In any case, the idea fell mostly formed into my lap, and was consolidated by the fact that there was a waiter at a restaurant the other night that looked like he could be Steve's older brother. I stayed up til 5am finishing this, so any mistakes are all on me...
Note the second: I'm not entirely happy with the title, but after limited sleep, that's what my brain is sticking with. Snagged it because of the Firefly episode Shindig, and an unhealthy love for Mal (and Whedon). There's probably something intelligent I could say about underdogs. But I haven't had enough sleep for that...
Summary: Steve is a waiter who likes to cook, and cook well. He enters a contest as the underdog, but if this guy will keep smiling at him, he'll count it as a win...
As a waiter, Steve sees a lot of people. A lot of laughs, tears, smiles... Hell, he's pretty sure he's seen a con or two. He can read people well enough. It's a useful skill, in a town like LA. Keep your head on your shoulders, and the place just might not kill you.
It's also netted him a pretty face or two in his time. Someone he could go home with, and forget he's alone, if only for a little while. He's as good with his hands as he is with his head, after all. Cooking, music... Yeah, he'd definitely found a few pretty faces just by being a good waiter.
But not like this. Oooh, no. Not in all the years since he'd first crossed the threshold of the diner round the corner from his mom's and first become a busboy. Bright blue eyes, with just a hint of mischief, framed by gorgeously soft brown hair that should be too long for a man, but suits him surprisingly well. And that smile...
"If I had a smile like yours," Steve hears himself saying, "I wouldn't have to cook for a living." He blushes almost immediately, but only looks away long enough to plate his food expertly (and, if he's honest, a bit of a flourish as well). He looks up again to find his guest grinning, eyes crinkled in pure amusement. "That's roasted shrimp, butterflied and set atop a crostini and topped with a chipotle mango compote."
The guy lifts his eyebrows appreciatively and Steve takes a moment to take the rest of him in. A black suede jacket settles easily over a black silk shirt, just enough buttons open to be comfortable and still be classy. The black jeans and cowboy boots are kind of a surprise, looking just this side of worn in and comfortable. He's shorter than what Steve normally goes for, but there's a subtle presence to him that more than makes up for it. He fills Steve's senses, his attention, even from across the table.
Of course, watching him lift the toast, his ring finger and thumb settling around the toast while his other two fingers balance the tail, sliding it into his mouth... He's watching Steve as he does it, eyes sparkling with a silent laugh.
"Y'know," the guy says as he pushes the meat from the tail onto the remaining toast. "Normally I get either compliments or good food. Don't normally get'm both." Steve can't help but beam a little at how pleased he sounds. "You're certainly aimin' to win, ain'tcha."
"Absolutely," Steve preens, and motions to one of the waiters with a tray of drinks. "I reccomend the India Pale Ale."
The man takes his last bite before accepting the drink off the tray, making a soft noise of appreciation before he accepts his drink. He sips and nods, smiling over at Steve again. "Very good choice."
Steve wants to keep talking to him. Thinks that maybe there's a question hiding behind the amused quirk of lips. But then he steps back, lets other party goers approach for their food. Steve does his best to focus on them, to explain to one girl who seems to have had one margarita too many how to eat it. Still, he's well aware of being watched for a good bit after.
He keeps hoping the man will come back before the party's over, before he's got to go face the judges. There's no point entering a contest, if not to win. But Steve hasn't got any expectations - he's only a waiter, after all, and it'd be nice to at least end the night with a pretty face like that. And maybe start the next morning with it as well. The guy never comes back though, and Steve has to bite back his disappointement.
They haven't got long to wait. Mostly they're clearing their sections while the judges finish deliberating. They're scattered across the room, of course, so guests could browse freely instead of being herded like sheep, but still Chef Jon Maroc seems to find the time to saunter around bragging about how much the judges loved his food. He never speaks to Steve directly, but he certainly manages to crow loudly about how his fois gras on bruchetta was superior to mere shrimp on toast.
Finally, they're brought into the room where the judges have been having their discussion. There's not much fanfare, just a photographer and the minutes keeper for the charity behind the whole shindig. But they're still sitting behind a long table like it's Top Chef or Chopped. It's more intimidating this way, of course, and Steve feels his stomach flutter a little in anticipation.
They take their places as Sarah Hunter, the charity head, takes her place at the end of the table. "I'm sure you all remember our judges. Food critic and afficionado, Ted Allen. Editor of Gourmet Magazine, Ruth Reichl. Celebrity chef and owner of the restaurant Bottega, Michael Chiarello. And our special celebrity judge, actor and country singer Christian Kane."
Steve steels himself through the introductions, looking at each judge as she names them. Right up until the end, when his stomach flips and bottoms out, and all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears. Because there, at the end of the table... Christian fucking Kane... is... the guy who...
He'd bury his face in his hands if he could, but he's standing in front of the judges and that would just be stupid. Steve can feel himself flushing hot from head to toe, though, and keeps his eyes on the floor. He can't tell if he's... if Kane is looking at him or not, and the thought makes his cheeks burn hotter.
He's sure Miss Hunter must be talking. The sounds of the judges voices as they address the first two contestants buzz in his ears, but he can't make any of it out. Can't seem to focus until he hears his name through the haze and he looks up.
"It was a gorgeous," Ted Allen says. "The light colors worked really well against the black dish, and I thought the way you plated it framed the food well. The way you draped the compote was a brilliant example of beautiful simplicity. My only problem with it is that it could have used just a little more salt..."
Steve nods and thanks him, though he isn't sure where he finds his voice. His mind glazes through Reichl's assessment, really only absorbing the fact that she enjoyed the combination of textures. Which brings Chef Chiarello next, and Steve swallows hard. His shrimp had been a little over cooked, which he'd realized just too late and there was no taking the plate back. He comments some on the combination of flavors as well. And then, because he knew he'd be called out for it. Especially from a distinguished chef.
"I was surprised to find out from some of the other guests that you were..." he pauses, to choose his words. Steve drops his eyes again, biting his lip. "Well. I think by the look on your face you know what I'm talking about. Building a rapport with your diners is important, but that was flat out unprofessional, especially in this kind of competition."
Steve nods, just starting to open his mouth to agree with him. To apologize, even if part of him would want to do it again in a heart beat. But Christian and Ted both start to speak.
"He was very friendly with everyone though--"
"To be fair, I don't think he had a clue who I was--"
They each pause, to give the other room to finish. And in the small pause, Maroc mutters, "Well, what do you expect from a freakin' waiter?"
Steve flinches. It's true, after all. To a certain extent, anyway. He hasn't had the training they have, and a little flirting can do a lot for a waiter. He tries to find his voice again, forces himself to look up at Kane to apologize. And is surprised to find him glaring cold heat at Maroc.
"This comin' from the guy that garnished the rim of his plate with parsley dust?" Kane growls out, his accent just a bit thicker from his anger. "Even a waiter knows you don't do that, especially when the dust ain't even dry. D'you know how many of us have green stains on our thumbs from your goddamn garnish? A chef should damn well know better. And what was the point? Ain't like it looked good. Wasn't any kinda artistic flare. Speaking o'which, that little... what was it, a drumstick parody? That rubberbanded cluster of parsley with the little bootie on it? Tasteless, man. With fois gras that's just really fuckin' tasteless." Kane huffs out a sarcastic laugh. "I mean, Jesus. You scorched your fuckin' onions for the jam. I know Michael's shrimp was a little over cooked. What I had was perfect. Everything I wanted, and the best beer to go with it. I don't think I heard anyone that came away from your tables very pleased with what went into their mouths. Never-fuckin'-mind the fact that you ignored half the people that even wanted a plate."
The other judges weigh in on Jon Maroc's dish. If they'd been less than pleased with the dish to begin with, they all sound completely put out about it now. Chef Chiarello even chastizes him about how the guests always had to come first, and that the front of the house was what sold the meal before the food ever touched the table. Reichl and Ted Allen were put out by his choice of fois gras to begin with.
Thankfully he was the last of the contestants, and the judges withdraw for one final discussion. Maroc glares at him petulantly. Which is all well and good, because Steve glares right back. When they come back out, they dismiss a few people immediately. Steve can't help the small smirk over the fact that Maroc's name was listed first.
Which puts Steve in the top four. He's pleased, even if he wonders just a little if it was out of pity. He smiles up at Kane, hoping that his appreciation is clear at least. Someone else is let go, and for a moment, Steve lets himself hold his breath. Miss Hunter congratulates them all, since they're all winners. A waiter comes in with a bottle of champaigne, popping the cork even as she announces that the top student from a culinary school in Portland is the one who came in third.
He blinks. Time seems to skip a beat, because Hunter is congratulating the up and comer from Kentucky on winning first place. He deserves it, his prochutto and butter nut ravioli with creme fresche had been all but divine. But that... that means that he's in second place...
"Congratulations," Kane says, holding out a flute for him.
"Thank you," Steve says. He takes the glass, blushing all over again when their fingers brush. "For everything."
"My pleasure," he says, all charm and brilliant smile. He doesn't step away.
Ted Allen coughs as though he's interrupting and claps Steve on the shoulder. "Congratulations are in order. I hope we'll be seeing more of you. At the next competition or... out and about." He winks knowingly at Steve before raising a glass to Christian and going to congratulate the other winners.
Author: Havenward
Fandom: Kane RPS (waiter au)
Pairing: Chris/Steve
Rating: PG13
Words: 1882
Note: A huge, huuuuuge thank you to shannonrita for all the foodie info, and to shanachie_quill for the hand holding and letting me steal a few lines. This was inspired by watching an episode of Top Chef Masters, namely, for the pick up line. Yes, one of the chefs actually used the line. In any case, the idea fell mostly formed into my lap, and was consolidated by the fact that there was a waiter at a restaurant the other night that looked like he could be Steve's older brother. I stayed up til 5am finishing this, so any mistakes are all on me...
Note the second: I'm not entirely happy with the title, but after limited sleep, that's what my brain is sticking with. Snagged it because of the Firefly episode Shindig, and an unhealthy love for Mal (and Whedon). There's probably something intelligent I could say about underdogs. But I haven't had enough sleep for that...
Summary: Steve is a waiter who likes to cook, and cook well. He enters a contest as the underdog, but if this guy will keep smiling at him, he'll count it as a win...
As a waiter, Steve sees a lot of people. A lot of laughs, tears, smiles... Hell, he's pretty sure he's seen a con or two. He can read people well enough. It's a useful skill, in a town like LA. Keep your head on your shoulders, and the place just might not kill you.
It's also netted him a pretty face or two in his time. Someone he could go home with, and forget he's alone, if only for a little while. He's as good with his hands as he is with his head, after all. Cooking, music... Yeah, he'd definitely found a few pretty faces just by being a good waiter.
But not like this. Oooh, no. Not in all the years since he'd first crossed the threshold of the diner round the corner from his mom's and first become a busboy. Bright blue eyes, with just a hint of mischief, framed by gorgeously soft brown hair that should be too long for a man, but suits him surprisingly well. And that smile...
"If I had a smile like yours," Steve hears himself saying, "I wouldn't have to cook for a living." He blushes almost immediately, but only looks away long enough to plate his food expertly (and, if he's honest, a bit of a flourish as well). He looks up again to find his guest grinning, eyes crinkled in pure amusement. "That's roasted shrimp, butterflied and set atop a crostini and topped with a chipotle mango compote."
The guy lifts his eyebrows appreciatively and Steve takes a moment to take the rest of him in. A black suede jacket settles easily over a black silk shirt, just enough buttons open to be comfortable and still be classy. The black jeans and cowboy boots are kind of a surprise, looking just this side of worn in and comfortable. He's shorter than what Steve normally goes for, but there's a subtle presence to him that more than makes up for it. He fills Steve's senses, his attention, even from across the table.
Of course, watching him lift the toast, his ring finger and thumb settling around the toast while his other two fingers balance the tail, sliding it into his mouth... He's watching Steve as he does it, eyes sparkling with a silent laugh.
"Y'know," the guy says as he pushes the meat from the tail onto the remaining toast. "Normally I get either compliments or good food. Don't normally get'm both." Steve can't help but beam a little at how pleased he sounds. "You're certainly aimin' to win, ain'tcha."
"Absolutely," Steve preens, and motions to one of the waiters with a tray of drinks. "I reccomend the India Pale Ale."
The man takes his last bite before accepting the drink off the tray, making a soft noise of appreciation before he accepts his drink. He sips and nods, smiling over at Steve again. "Very good choice."
Steve wants to keep talking to him. Thinks that maybe there's a question hiding behind the amused quirk of lips. But then he steps back, lets other party goers approach for their food. Steve does his best to focus on them, to explain to one girl who seems to have had one margarita too many how to eat it. Still, he's well aware of being watched for a good bit after.
He keeps hoping the man will come back before the party's over, before he's got to go face the judges. There's no point entering a contest, if not to win. But Steve hasn't got any expectations - he's only a waiter, after all, and it'd be nice to at least end the night with a pretty face like that. And maybe start the next morning with it as well. The guy never comes back though, and Steve has to bite back his disappointement.
They haven't got long to wait. Mostly they're clearing their sections while the judges finish deliberating. They're scattered across the room, of course, so guests could browse freely instead of being herded like sheep, but still Chef Jon Maroc seems to find the time to saunter around bragging about how much the judges loved his food. He never speaks to Steve directly, but he certainly manages to crow loudly about how his fois gras on bruchetta was superior to mere shrimp on toast.
Finally, they're brought into the room where the judges have been having their discussion. There's not much fanfare, just a photographer and the minutes keeper for the charity behind the whole shindig. But they're still sitting behind a long table like it's Top Chef or Chopped. It's more intimidating this way, of course, and Steve feels his stomach flutter a little in anticipation.
They take their places as Sarah Hunter, the charity head, takes her place at the end of the table. "I'm sure you all remember our judges. Food critic and afficionado, Ted Allen. Editor of Gourmet Magazine, Ruth Reichl. Celebrity chef and owner of the restaurant Bottega, Michael Chiarello. And our special celebrity judge, actor and country singer Christian Kane."
Steve steels himself through the introductions, looking at each judge as she names them. Right up until the end, when his stomach flips and bottoms out, and all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears. Because there, at the end of the table... Christian fucking Kane... is... the guy who...
He'd bury his face in his hands if he could, but he's standing in front of the judges and that would just be stupid. Steve can feel himself flushing hot from head to toe, though, and keeps his eyes on the floor. He can't tell if he's... if Kane is looking at him or not, and the thought makes his cheeks burn hotter.
He's sure Miss Hunter must be talking. The sounds of the judges voices as they address the first two contestants buzz in his ears, but he can't make any of it out. Can't seem to focus until he hears his name through the haze and he looks up.
"It was a gorgeous," Ted Allen says. "The light colors worked really well against the black dish, and I thought the way you plated it framed the food well. The way you draped the compote was a brilliant example of beautiful simplicity. My only problem with it is that it could have used just a little more salt..."
Steve nods and thanks him, though he isn't sure where he finds his voice. His mind glazes through Reichl's assessment, really only absorbing the fact that she enjoyed the combination of textures. Which brings Chef Chiarello next, and Steve swallows hard. His shrimp had been a little over cooked, which he'd realized just too late and there was no taking the plate back. He comments some on the combination of flavors as well. And then, because he knew he'd be called out for it. Especially from a distinguished chef.
"I was surprised to find out from some of the other guests that you were..." he pauses, to choose his words. Steve drops his eyes again, biting his lip. "Well. I think by the look on your face you know what I'm talking about. Building a rapport with your diners is important, but that was flat out unprofessional, especially in this kind of competition."
Steve nods, just starting to open his mouth to agree with him. To apologize, even if part of him would want to do it again in a heart beat. But Christian and Ted both start to speak.
"He was very friendly with everyone though--"
"To be fair, I don't think he had a clue who I was--"
They each pause, to give the other room to finish. And in the small pause, Maroc mutters, "Well, what do you expect from a freakin' waiter?"
Steve flinches. It's true, after all. To a certain extent, anyway. He hasn't had the training they have, and a little flirting can do a lot for a waiter. He tries to find his voice again, forces himself to look up at Kane to apologize. And is surprised to find him glaring cold heat at Maroc.
"This comin' from the guy that garnished the rim of his plate with parsley dust?" Kane growls out, his accent just a bit thicker from his anger. "Even a waiter knows you don't do that, especially when the dust ain't even dry. D'you know how many of us have green stains on our thumbs from your goddamn garnish? A chef should damn well know better. And what was the point? Ain't like it looked good. Wasn't any kinda artistic flare. Speaking o'which, that little... what was it, a drumstick parody? That rubberbanded cluster of parsley with the little bootie on it? Tasteless, man. With fois gras that's just really fuckin' tasteless." Kane huffs out a sarcastic laugh. "I mean, Jesus. You scorched your fuckin' onions for the jam. I know Michael's shrimp was a little over cooked. What I had was perfect. Everything I wanted, and the best beer to go with it. I don't think I heard anyone that came away from your tables very pleased with what went into their mouths. Never-fuckin'-mind the fact that you ignored half the people that even wanted a plate."
The other judges weigh in on Jon Maroc's dish. If they'd been less than pleased with the dish to begin with, they all sound completely put out about it now. Chef Chiarello even chastizes him about how the guests always had to come first, and that the front of the house was what sold the meal before the food ever touched the table. Reichl and Ted Allen were put out by his choice of fois gras to begin with.
Thankfully he was the last of the contestants, and the judges withdraw for one final discussion. Maroc glares at him petulantly. Which is all well and good, because Steve glares right back. When they come back out, they dismiss a few people immediately. Steve can't help the small smirk over the fact that Maroc's name was listed first.
Which puts Steve in the top four. He's pleased, even if he wonders just a little if it was out of pity. He smiles up at Kane, hoping that his appreciation is clear at least. Someone else is let go, and for a moment, Steve lets himself hold his breath. Miss Hunter congratulates them all, since they're all winners. A waiter comes in with a bottle of champaigne, popping the cork even as she announces that the top student from a culinary school in Portland is the one who came in third.
He blinks. Time seems to skip a beat, because Hunter is congratulating the up and comer from Kentucky on winning first place. He deserves it, his prochutto and butter nut ravioli with creme fresche had been all but divine. But that... that means that he's in second place...
"Congratulations," Kane says, holding out a flute for him.
"Thank you," Steve says. He takes the glass, blushing all over again when their fingers brush. "For everything."
"My pleasure," he says, all charm and brilliant smile. He doesn't step away.
Ted Allen coughs as though he's interrupting and claps Steve on the shoulder. "Congratulations are in order. I hope we'll be seeing more of you. At the next competition or... out and about." He winks knowingly at Steve before raising a glass to Christian and going to congratulate the other winners.