Cold Bruschetta
It's cold.
She waited the half hour that every schmuck off the streets who waltzes into a restaurant waits, and by the time it finally gets to her, it's cold. Saucy, Spitfire Ruby, whose snarky, biting reviews sink restaurants and companies to the ground, and here she is being served cold food. She doesn't know whether to laugh or break the table, or both.
It ends up she does neither, slouching back in her chair, crossing her arms, thinking up all the ways she can tear this restaurant apart with nothing but words. Right now she should be sitting in the best seat the place has to offer, getting all the chef's special dishes, being waited on like the absolute Queen of Food that she is. Waiters should be keeping their eye on her—and her glass—constantly, offering refills whenever it's even the tiniest bit low. But no. Here she is with a plate of cold bruschetta and breadsticks, her glass of complimentary water depleted to such shallowness that you might as well say it's empty, slammed in a corner next to families and babies and the guy who just got off from his crappy part-time job.
Unbelievable.
What could she even say about such a place? She leans further back on her chair, far enough that just two legs hold her up, and places her feet on a blank space of the table. The next Ice Age could come and go by the time you finally get your food, she thinks. And it sure feels like it, too. Once the server comes by and slams your dish down in front of you oh-so-politely like there's nothing wrong with it, you'll notice that there's not a bit of a steam coming from something that's supposed to be served warm, and once you touch it to your lips, you realize you're gonna need something a lot more powerful than a little 'ole Chapstick to cure the damage you just subjected yourself to—you feel like you've got frostbite all over your mouth. She chuckles at herself, bringing her chair level again, and calls over a passing server.
She won't bother with sending the food back—that would just mean more waiting, and she's already wasted enough time here. Instead she demands to see the owner.
"I want to know who wakes up the morning and goes to bed at night thinking this kind of service is acceptable," she says.
The server nods and goes, and Ruby realizes that she's going to be waiting for something no matter what she does. She takes to playing with the food rather than eating it in her impatience, poking at it idly with her fork. She won't subject herself to eating a cold mass of garbage that never should have been given to her in the first place.
Who could even run a dump like this? She imagines a bitter old man (balding, of course, because bitter old men must be balding—it justifies the bitterness). Maybe his wife left him and his son's a loser and he doesn't care about good food anymore, if he ever did. Maybe the world was so cruel to him that he decided to be cruel to her of all people. Maybe he hates everything and shouldn't even have one foot in this business. Ruby smiles at the thought. If anyone has the power to get him out of the business, it's her.
But her ideas are proven more-than-wrong when a figure approaches her after ten minutes of daydreaming and imagining. It's not a cranky man in his 70s. It's a lady—a young lady, and a beautiful one at that. Ruby finds herself flushing as the woman sits down in front of her with the grace and poise she would never expect from a restaurant owner. After all, Ruby knows full well of the pressures of the kitchen and the business, but even with a hairnet tightly in her hair, this lady seems like she just stepped out of a fancy opera rather than the messy, anxiety-filled restaurant cook room.
She introduces herself as the owner and head chef. "I was told you wished to see me," she says.
Ruby nods, thinking over her words carefully. Normally she wouldn't hesitate to spit out whatever's on her mind in a situation like this, but something about the woman in front of her has left her tongue-tied, and cautious.
"This service is deplorable," she says, eventually, "don't you have any idea who I am?"
"Of course." The woman looks bored, as though she's been through this a million times before. "Restaurant reviewers come here often, Miss Ruby. And each time, they are aghast that I would have my staff treat them as any other customer."
She smiles, brushing a bit of hair that'd fallen from her hairnet out of her eyes and back away where it should be. Ruby is speechless.
The woman continues, "But I have this philosophy: If I gave special treatment to reviewers and no one else, the review wouldn't exactly be fair, now would it?" A laugh. Even in the situation, Ruby can't help but find it an unbelievably wonderful sound. "It's not my desire to run a restaurant of lies. I will take the truth, even if it is cruel."
Ruby is left staring at her, mouth agape. She has never been spoken to in such a way. Not at any restaurant she's ever reviewed in before. She doesn't know how to react, whether to feel shocked or impressed, or both. She doesn't know what to say.
The woman speaks for her. "It seems you haven't touched your plate. I would think it fair you do before you tear my restaurant apart, wouldn't you?"
Ruby flushes harder. She's right. This lady who has the guts to speak to her like this is right. With a groan, she picks up her fork and eats.
Maybe it is a bit cold, but somehow… it's wonderful.