Chapter Text
Eugene hated the name Greg.
Perhaps it was a bit hypocritical to hate a name like Greg when your own name is something like Eugene (and definitely more than a bit hypocritical when a stupid, cocky fifteen-year-old-version of you had shamelessly demanded that everyone call you Flash), but honestly, Eugene couldn’t think of a worse name for the life of him.
Greg.
It was just as boring and plain and common as John, but didn’t even have the same feel to it. It wasn’t as simple, or classic. It didn’t even meet the bar for mundanity.
Also, it had no hard consonants. It had nothing that stuck out. It just kind of…rolled. Without rolling. It slid off the tongue, but in a gross way. Like mud.
And it had two ‘g’s. What kind of name has two ‘g’s? Two ‘t’s, Eugene can understand. ‘E’, ‘a’, maybe even ‘s’. But not ‘g’. God. What kind of monstrosity is that?
Greg was really just the worst name you could give a child, in Eugene’s humble opinion. Look at it logically.
Their full name would be Gregory. What faster way to say you hate a kid? Or an adult, for that matter.
Eugene hated an Adult Greg.
Specifically the one that asked for his number in a small hipster coffeeshop and then had the audacity to ghost him like Eugene was the desperate one who had asked for a stranger’s number in a coffeeshop while wearing an outfit that was offensive to the eyes and needing glasses that were oddly reminiscent of Harry Potter’s and having a comb-over that did nothing to hide how he was balding.
But that was beside the point.
Greg. An awful name. Terrible. Should be banned on principle.
Unfortunately, regardless of the fact that Eugene had recently taken a rather large hit to the ego, it was soufflé night at La Lune de la Nuit, and Eugene didn’t think his boss would appreciate his head chef begging off on account of a new-found hatred of a name.
This, of course, led him to here.
“Ch- chef?”
“What?” He snapped, not looking up from the stove top.
The pan of caramelized onions sizzled, flipping expertly underneath the careful, practiced flip of his wrist.
The waiter swallowed.
“Uh, ta- table 33 is asking for a new server.”
Eugene frowned at it, and turned the heat down.
“So? Why are you telling me?”
The girl shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t know, sir. Gwen asked me to.”
Eugene paused.
“Gwen asked you to? Why?”
He glanced around the kitchen for his maitre’d, not finding the blonde head amongst the smoking pans and the sound of vegetables being chopped.
“She said something about keeping an eye on it and wanting you to know.”
“Great. Thanks.” Eugene said belatedly, mentally repeating the number in his head over and over again.
The server scurried away, mumbling apologies and thanks, but he didn’t notice.
33. 33. 33. Right. Okay.
“Chef, I’ve got a platter of cream puffs for table 24, ready to go,” Abe called from the other side of the kitchen, and Eugene immediately forgot about table 33 and Greg-from-the-coffee-shop.
“Good, let’s get them gone,” he yelled back, and moved to correct an assistant’s chopping technique, hissing, “Jesus, what are you doing , do you want your ring finger in the celery-“
Twenty minutes and one large plate crash later, Harley and Gwen found him at the ovens, watching a commis chef delicately place a prepped duck on one of the racks.
“Hey boss,” Harley said tiredly. “We’ve got a problem.”
Eugene snorted.
A problem, he says.
“Don’t we always.”
Gwen made a noise of agreement.
“Table 33 has asked for another server.”
Eugene’s gaze swiveled to her.
“Table 33?” He asked incredulously. “Didn’t we already give them another one?”
She gave him a pained smile.
“Yes, chef.”
He closed his eyes, rubbing vigorously at his temples.
“That’s…fucking fantastic. Just give them another one. Hell, serve them yourself. Clearly they want nothing but the goddamn best, Jesus.”
Harley cleared his throat delicately.
“There’s- ah- another issue.”
Eugene slowly opened his eyes, and even more slowly looked over at his sous chef, incredibly reluctant to hear the next words out of his mouth.
“Table 33 has…rejected a plate.” Harley said carefully.
Eugene’s jaw dropped slightly.
One of the most common misconceptions about high-end restaurants is that they regularly have customers reject their food. This is incorrect for two reasons. 1. High-end restaurants rarely provide food that isn’t up to par with a customer’s standards. The restaurant is, of course, high-end for a reason, and that reason is good food and better reviews. There’s hardly room for complaints. And, 2. The food is so goddamn expensive that most customers wouldn’t dare. Would you complain about the slightest imperceptible imperfection on a Gucci bag? A Ferrari? No, no, you wouldn’t.
When a plate was rejected, though, it was an insult. An insult to the customer, to the chef, and to the kitchen itself. To the customer, who received subpar food. The chef, who created said subpar food. And the kitchen, whose reputation and credibility were tarnished due to the chef’s mistakes.
An insult all around.
This, however, was a different case entirely.
Because Eugene knew his kitchen, knew his staff, knew the chefs and servers and the dishwashers and the dishes and the meals and the courses like the back of his goddamn hand, and- they didn’t make mistakes. Not like this. Not mistakes worthy of rejecting a dish.
And this came after refusing not one, but two different servers? This wasn’t a picky eater, or even an experienced critic. No, this was a table that was deliberately rude and spiteful to his staff just for the hell of it.
And Eugene was entirely done with assholes for the day, thanks.
“What the fuck,” he breathed.
Harley winced.
“Yeah.”
Well, guess what? You get three strikes in this kitchen, and then you’re out.
Reject on server; strike one.
Complain about another; strike two.
Send a plate that had been expertly cooked back to the kitchen simply because you could; strike three, baby. You’re out.
“Fuck that,” Eugene muttered, shoving his hands down the side of his apron in a last haphazard attempt to clean them, and then reaching to tug at the knot. “Time to teach this fucker a lesson, then.”
Harley sighed, crossing his arms.
“Gene, c’mon, dude. We weren’t telling you for that-“
“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to come into my restaurant, harass my staff, be a total fucking dick to everyone, and then send back your food. No. Not happening.” He yanked the apron off, dropping it onto the table.
He was going to enjoy this.
“Chef, I don’t think you want to mess with this one,” Gwen said warily.
“I don’t give a flying fuck who it is, Stacy. They can be a decent goddamn human being.”
He snagged the rejected dish, brushed past the line of frozen, terrified chefs who had suddenly gone suspiciously quiet and were pointedly looking away from him into the dining half of the restaurant.
He marched towards the table, face set in a scowl, ignoring the slowly-growing amount of looks and whispers following him.
“Excuse me,” he said sweetly, and dropped the plate on the table with a loud clatter without a response. “The food you asked for.”
Five pairs of eyes blinked back at him.
The man sitting directly across from Eugene raised an eyebrow, looking smug and thrilled at the same time at the display.
Ah . Eugene’s mind hummed.
That one.
“Does it match your liking, sir?” He asked, smiling so hard that it bordered on demented.
The man smirked back.
He was brunette, just like Greg.
It made Eugene’s blood boil a little bit more.
“No, actually. It was overcooked.”
Eugene looked down at the plate.
It was a beef shoulder, drizzled artistically with their famed béarnaise sauce and topped with a pinch of cilantro that looked effortless but probably took at least thirty seconds of careful deliberation. Eugene could tell from the lightly seared meat that it was cooked rare, and from the looks of it, executed perfectly. A Harley Keener creation, no doubt.
Eugene looked back up.
“Overcooked?” He echoed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Something in the man’s eyes flashed indignantly, and he leaned back, smirk deepening, forcing Eugene to hide the way his fists were clenching behind his back.
“Harry,” one of his friends hissed.
Both Harry and Eugene ignored them.
“It was overcooked,” he enunciated slowly, like Eugene’s hearing was the problem with his lack of understanding. “I want a new one made.”
Eugene stared at him, customer service smile becoming more and more forced as the seconds ticked by.
“Well.” He finally said. “That’s a shame.”
The man’s face morphed into an ‘oh?’ expression.
“And why is that?” He drawled.
Eugene’s fists tightened.
Don’t hit him, don’t hit him, don’t hit him, he chanted internally.
“Because my kitchen won’t be making you a new plate.” He said through his teeth. And then, as an afterthought, “Sir.”
The man- Harry- stared right back at him, looking like he was patting himself on the back, incredibly annoyed, and begrudgingly impressed with Eugene at the same time.
“Is that so.” He said flatly.
Eugene finally let his smile drop into something closer to a smirk of his own.
Eat shit, asshole.
“It is,” he said. “If you want another, you’ll have to come into the kitchen yourself and make it.”
His words weren’t loud, but the tables around them descended into a complete hush, completely forgetting their facade of not eavesdropping.
Harry nodded slowly, digesting this.
“Or,” Eugene added before he could think better of it, ”You could try the butcher three blocks down. I’m sure they’ll give you some raw meat that you can eat.”
With that, he spun on his heel, turning back to the kitchen before Harry could respond or actually get up and leave before paying.
Gwen met him at the door, expression grim.
“Table 33 is no longer a problem,” he informed her candidly, involuntarily pleased with himself.
She grimaced.
“No, Eugene- table 33-“
He blinked at her.
“Yes?”
She sighed, and tugged him closer by his lapel, pushing up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.
“Table 33…”
Eugene felt his face go slightly pale as she pulled away.
“Ah.” He said lightly, swallowing. “Well. Shit.”
Gwen nodded sympathetically.
Eugene hated the name Harry.