"I still don't get why you wanna eat here, Sammy. This place looks like it's full of those fancy-shmancy, 'Oh dear, this pasta is absolutely divine, you must try it' asshats who like to pretend their existence has any meaning." Dean gestures in the vague direction of the restaurant, left hand casually remaining on top of the steering wheel. His face is drawn in a mild frown. He's not actually pissed, but he's not exactly pleased either.
Sam turns his head towards him and gives him bitch face number 6.
"Dude, I've told you, I'm sick and tired of having to eat either disgustingly greasy hamburgers or disgustingly limp and tasteless salads. I want some actual food for once. Also, 'asshats who like to pretend their existence has any meaning'? That's kinda dark, Dean."
Dean raises his shoulders as he turns back to the road, looking for a good parking spot. "It's true, Sammy, what can I say."
"It's Sam," the taller Winchester huffs, knowing it's useless to argue about it, but still unwilling to give up. He turns and looks out the window to observe the façade of the restaurant, right forearm leaning against the window frame of the car. It's called DI'Giorrno's restaurant. It looks like a proper Italian place, though the spelling seems off, so maybe the owners just tried to go for the Italian vibe. It has a nice, backlit sign, the name written in elegant letters. The structure itself is built with a clean, red brick front wall and a modern-looking, light brown wooden door. It's nice. It's not fancy-shmancy, it's actually nice.
Okay, maybe it's a little fance-shmancy, but come on, years of having to live off of grease and cardboard mean that, at least every once in a while, he gets to eat something that actually tastes nice.
"Well alright, lets get this show on the road then," Dean says as he exits the car. They actually managed to park pretty close to the restaurant, even though the place should be nearly filled to bursting at this time of night. Oh well, just means they won't have to wait too long for food, right?
He steps out of the car as well. The second he's out, Dean locks the doors and heads for the entrance. Despite all his complaining, Dean's probably starving, so he won't be yammering away about the place too much at least. Sam uses the fact that he's walking behind his brother to give him another quick once-over. Dean'd almost left their motel in his worn-through jeans and dirties flannel shirt. Seriously. If he tried to get inside looking like that, they might throw 'em out. Luckily, some bitching and whining had done the trick. He can't quite control the self-satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The puppy-face still works. Now, both brothers are dressed in their nicest jeans and flannel. Granted, not that much of a step up, but at least it's clean.
Once the oldest Winchester reaches the door, Sam takes another look at the building. It really does look nice. A little homey, a little chic. A proper smile finds its way to his lips as he enters, expectations high.
Only two tables are occupied, which is kind of a surprise. There really aren't that many people here… Maybe the people in this town eat late? A quick glance at his watch shows it's only 6 p.m.
"Dude, I told you. Fancy-shmancy, man. And that waitress does not look happy to see us."
Sam fights an eye-roll and looks at the waitress his brother's pointing at.
Yeah, okay, she really doesn't look very happy to see them. She looks extremely bored and gives them the stink-eye before walking over. If she's supposed to be wearing some kind of uniform or follow a dress code, he has no clue what it could be. Her skirt is extremely shot and has a split in the side that goes up almost all the way to her hip, and her boobs are all but falling out of her leopard-print blouse. If someone told you to think of a hooker and describe the first thing that came to mind, this lady would be it.
"Uh, hi, uh, we'd like a table for two, please?" Sam asks her as he plasters on a friendly face. Can't hurt to be polite.
"No shit, Sherlock," she replies, bitch face almost as impressive as his own.
Wow, seriously?
Sam feels his face pull down into a frown, but before he can even think about it being rude, she's already turned around.
"Just sit wherever," she says, and she saunters back to the bar… and grabs a cocktail.
She's drinking on the job. Nice.
Christ, Dean's never going to let him live this down.
"Wow, I gotta say, Sammy, I think I was wrong about this place."
"Wait, what?" Sam quickly turns, hair sweeping across his face with the motion. "You think so?"
"Oh, yeah, this place isn't fancy-shmancy at all."
Enter bitch face number 8. But, to be honest, he's right. God, hopefully the chef doesn't have the same attitude as the waitress.
The brothers make their way to one of the tables. It's got four chairs, but the restaurant isn't very busy, the tables are super small, and screw the waitress. If she gets any issues seating other guests, too bad.
Sam heaves a deep sigh as he sits down, knees bumping into his brother's. He'd been pretty excited about this, but now…
"Alright, let's check out the menu in this joint," Dean says, and he hands one to Sam while giving his own laminated sheet of paper a once-over. A quick glance down tells Sam that, while the waiting staff is horrendous, at least the cook seems to know what he's doing. There's the classics like a Caesar salad and a few different varieties of pizza's and paninis, but also pasta alla vongole and a few other delicious-sounding dishes. Looks like they might be in luck after all.
Both brothers decide on what they want to eat and wait and wait and wait…
The damn bitch just won't come over to take their order.
They've raised their hands, waved, yelled… Dean is just about ready to aggressively chicken dance in her direction.
"This sucks, man, maybe we should just leave and… and get some burgers or something," Sam says. Dean notices his dejected look, and while he does feel bad for his brother, he agrees with his reasoning. Getting food here clearly takes ages, might taste awful, and the bastards would probably try to rip 'em of after dinner. A burger is quick, easy, cheap and delicious (Sam can get a side of lettuce if he really wants).
They exchange a look of understanding, and just as they're about to get up, they hear shouting. They quickly look outside the window before it registers that the yelling isn't coming from the streets, but from the kitchen.
They glance at each other, then back at the door separating them from the kitchen.
"… FUCKING… …HORRI… … SERVE…"
Dean leans over the table a little and fake-whispers "The hell kinda place you drag us into, Sammy?" out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving the kitchen door. Dean can't quite hide his amusement. They might not get any food, but at least they can get some entertainment out of this.
"Oh, come on, like I was supposed to know these were all nutjobs!" Sam hisses back.
"WELL LET'S GO BLOODY ASK THEM THEN, SHALL WE?!"
The yelling got close enough to be understandable right before the kitchen door bangs open, revealing a blonde man in a chef's outfit walking out angrily, full plate in hand.
Several men holding cameras and a boom mike walk out after him.
What…
"Is that… Gordon Ramsay?" Dean asks, astounded.
"…Uhu." Sam responds, equally astounded.
…
Oh my God. No.
No way in hell.
They just walked into Kitchen Nightmares.
Sam turns a panicked face towards his brother.
"Dude, we gotta go, NOW."
Dean gives him an incredulous look.
"Are you insane? At least now this night is gonna be some fun! I bet Ramsay's gonna chew out everyone who works here! Oh man, I love this show." Dean looks happy as a kid in a candy-store.
Aaaaand there comes bitch face number 3. "Dude, you watch Kitchen Nightmares?" One eyebrow takes of towards the stratosphere to indicate his surprise and disbelieve.
Dean dares to look shocked at the question.
Gordon, meanwhile, is talking to a family of four, sitting at one of the tables lining one of the side-walls of the restaurant. Apparently, the dish had been meant for one of the kids. Apparently, it does not taste very nice.
"You see this?" he asks the skinny, near bald guy next to him who must be the chef, "Nobody likes your food, Mike, you've gotta face it. YOU are a terrible cook." Gordon accentuates almost every word with a pointing finger, looking like he's trying to pop invisible bubbles. The cameras follow every movement, making sure to get a good shot of both Gordon and 'Mike'.
Meanwhile, Mike if all but foaming at the mouth. "Oh, shut your fucking mouth, everybody loves my food, they always compliment me on my food! How dare you!? These people don't know anything!"
"Oh, oh they don't, do they? And tell me, why is that?"
"Because they always eat the junk food and the candies! They can't taste anything anymore!" The man gestures wildly, arms milling around and pushing at the cameras whenever they get to close for his liking.
"Okay, you know what, let's says these people really can't tell the difference between good food and absolute garbage. Let's have someone else taste it then, hm?" Gordon turns to the family again, mutters something that might be an apology to the child, and picks up the plate. He then turns towards the closest occupied table… us.
Oh shit.
"Dean, we gotta leave NOW!" he hisses, panic clear on his face.
"Dude no, it's just getting interesting!" He's got a gleeful look on his face. He's enjoying this way too much.
"Did you NOT see the cameras? We can't be on tv man, we're wanted for friggin' murder!
"Oh relax, Sammy, this shit isn't live. It'll take month before this airs."
"Yeah, and then the whole country will know we're still alive!" Sam hisses… but by then it's to late. Gordon is walking towards them, confidence clear in the look on his face and the way he holds himself.
Oh God no, please…
"Hello there, excuse me gentlemen," he says as he puts the plate in between Sam and his brother. "I was hoping if maybe you could help us out for a bit. Would you mind taking a quick bite and then explain to this MORON" he says as he turns and points in Mike's vague direction, "that he can't cook for shit?"
Gordon's smiling, but Jesus it is not a happy smile. It kinda makes you wonder how the hell he keeps churning out episode after episode if he's gotta be around these kinds of people. Sam'd always assumed it was staged, but clearly, at least some of the time, it is all too real.
That is when all the cameras catch up to Gordons quick stride over to the brothers. Two cameras get jammed into Sam's face, one more is on Dean who is enjoying this way too much and two more are handling Gordon and a more overall shot of the scene.
"Sure thing, Gordon, I'm starving," he hears his brother say, and for fucks sake, he's pulling out his killer smile. He really intends for this shit to go on tv and clearly wants to look his best.
Dean picks up his fork and stuffs it into the plate in front of him. It looks like a simple spaghetti Bolognese, and at least it looks fine. His brother gets a big heap onto his fork and takes the time to twirl it around, forming a neat roll of spaghetti. Usually, he would just jam his fork in there and shovel it into his mouth. The bastard really wants to look good on tv. I can't believe it.
Dean puts the fork into his mouth. Everyone waits with bated breath for the verdict. Gordon has an intense look on his face, and Mike, who made his way over as well, looks like he's willing to commit homicide if he doesn't like what he hears. The camera people keep a straight face, and seem focused.
Sam glances back at Dean and… he's not moving. He looks like he just stopped half shew, and now he just sits there, frozen. His expression is unreadable.
Now, usually, Dean eats whatever's available. He's not picky and doesn't care too much about whether something actually tastes good. The few times he's eaten something that he thought tasted bad, it was clear on his face that he was not pleased with what he's just put in his mouth. This non-reaction is new, and a little disconcerting.
"Dean?" the youngest brother asks, and it seems to startle him out of whatever trance he's been in. He blinks a few times, and then swallows everything down. His Adams apple is so clearly visible that it must have hurt.
He sits there for a few more moments and then mumbles "Excuse me," and gets up, moving past the camera man next to him. He then goes over to the bar and past the waitress (the camera man follows him), grabs some whiskey and drinks a few big gulps straight from the bottle.
"Dean, you ok?" Dean takes another swallow and swishes it around in his mouth.
"That," he says, "was horrible."
"Well then, perhaps a second, no wait, seventh opinion?" Gordon asks. He turns to face me. He looks smug.
Mike looks like he's about to have an aneurism.
Oh boy.
Sam picks up his fork and scoop up some of the spaghetti himself. He doesn't really want to taste it, but if Dean had that reaction… he really wants to taste it, ya know? He need to know how bad it really is.
He's not as brave as Dean, so he makes sure there's only a little bit of food on the fork. He casts a quick glance at Gordon, who is waiting expectantly.
He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and eats.
The flavor is… You can tell it's spaghetti, tomatoes, … and that's about it. The 'meat' has an odd, rubbery texture which should not be possible with mincemeat, the pasta hasn't been cooked long enough, the sauce is both too salty and very bitter… It tastes like Mike upended a bottle of vinegar into the dish as well. You might not expect that this would be this bad but… together, if creates a flavor that is anything but savory. There is also an undertone of expired medication. Ugh.
Clearly, Sam's expression says it all, because Gordon seems content with the reaction. He turns to Mike to reinforce how horrible a cook he is.
"Now then, I think we can all agree that the food is disgusting, yeah?" he says, aiming a 'pleasant' smile at Mike. Sam takes the opportunity to quickly spit out the pasta into a napkin. No way he's swallowing this crap.
Sam shoots Dean a look saying we are getting out of here right now, and finally he seems to agree. He gives a small nod and works his way around the cameras, who are to focussed on getting the renewed screaming match on tape. By the time he reached their table, Sam's already at the door, holding it open to ensure a quick escape.
The fresh air outside is amazing, but it does nothing to get the foul taste out of his mouth.
"Here, need some?" Dean asks next to him, holding out the bottle of whiskey.
"Dude, did you seriously just steal that?"
He just raises an eyebrow, shaking the bottle and sloshing around its contents.
With a sigh, Sam take the bottle and take a swig. The alcohol does seem to work in getting rid of the flavor at least. Thank God for small favors.
"Dude, I can't believe we just ended up on Kitchen Nightmares," Dean laughs.
"God, don't remind me. We totally need to get rid of that footage, by the way."
"Yeah, I know," the oldest brother concedes. "Still, maybe we can just steal it and store it in the bunker somewhere? Watch it on Christmas and special occasions?"
Sam huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, sure, let's do that," he says, looking up at the stars. "Let's get something to eat first though, I'm starving."
"Ya know, we passed a McDonald's not to far from here," Dean says.
"Sounds awesome."