Uploaded this to AO3 and apparently forgot to put it here. Whoops.
Part of a loosely formed series of stories revolving around Hunk, and his adventures as a cook and a paladin in the wide, wide universe. I call the project Hunk's Kitchen. All fics in it are canon-compliant and can be read individually, or out of order. This is just the first one I wrote.
Respect in the Kitchen
—
There's no such thing as shyness in the kitchen.
Certainly not during the dinner rush.
"Sal! Order Number Three, medium rare!" Hunk shouts across the kitchen, above the bubbling pots and sizzling stove. "And a couple of fives, chop chop!"
Just wasn't time. He doesn't really care that he's yelling at a fullgrown Galra, who technically owns the joint. He also doesn't care that he owes Sal a large sum of money.
They're in the kitchen, dammit, with orders on deck and food to plate, and he just doesn't have the time.
"What is this?" Hunk asks, pointing to the frying pan. "You call that a sauté?" There's no such thing as politeness in the kitchen, either. "I wouldn't feed my own grandpa this slop—and he's dead!"
"Sorry sir!" Sal buzzes from station to station, frayed. "I'll fix it sir! I'll—gah! I spilled the flour!" The bin rattles across the countertop, leaving a pitiful trail of white dust as it rolls away.
Hunk pinches the bridge of his nose. Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. How can the Galra race conquer half the universe, seize a thousand worlds' woth of recipes, and never learn the proper way to cook?!
Sal and the kitchen bot have been reduced to dashing in circles. Useless. Sighing, Hunk makes a circuit around the kitchen, chopping Ikkia shrooms, adjusting the heat on the fryer, scraping the bottom of the pan with the spatula to flip the Marg steak—ugh, that is not medium rare—and plating the next dish, a vegetable platter, slathering it with hot sauce before putting it out to serve.
"Number 7—Olkarion Sprout Medley! Order up!"
When he turns to bark the next orders, Sal stands there, staring at him, awed.
"Teach me your ways," the Galra whispers.
Hunk shoves the busboy bin at him, rattling the newly dirty plates inside. "Start with the basics, rookie! You do the prep work, I do the cooking, we'll switch when you've actually got the hang of something. Now go! We've got three more orders to plate! Go, go, go!"
Sal, no less starstruck, throws himself into dishwashing with renewed vigor.
Hunk dumps the Ikkia into the fryer, shaking the pan to toss and coat it in the sauce before starting the two Order Number Fives - Breaded Worshtoff Patties, side of fries. After dusting the patties in spiced flour, Hunk sets them in oil to fry, and then grabs the Ikkia-Marg steak, now medium rare, and turns to plate the dish.
In the few spare minutes Hunk's been away, Sal has swiped ten plates clean, and stands by them at attention, waiting for inspection.
Hunk eyes the dishes, gleaming white. He can see his own reflection.
"Good job," Hunk says, dumping the steak on its plate and arranging the Ikkia shrooms atop it, with a green sprig as a garnish. He then turns to Sal. "Prep the spices next."
"Yes sir, right away Sir!" Sal gives the Galra salute, then rushes off, eager to learn.
Hunk smiles. There's no such thing as shyness in the kitchen, or politeness, either.
"Number Three—Ikkia-Marg steak! Order up!"
But there is room for respect, and if Sal keeps this up, he'll be quick on his way to earning it.