One would think that 100% cotton would be comfortable, but apparently not when you hadn't figured out the right amount of fabric softener to wear it down. Kenny grumbled under his breath, anxious and fidgeting with his starched sleeves as he walked the sidewalk, shaking his head. He'd never had to wear a dress shirt to work before, had only worn one three times in his life: His graduation, Karen's graduation, and Kevin's first wedding. Having to wear one daily seemed like a stifling nightmare, like his posture was going to snap into rigidity, he was going to randomly develop a posh accent and care about how much his swanky new black work shoes shined.

Maybe this was a little too far from his upbringing.

He gritted his teeth, walking alongside a crowd across Harrison Street while he struggled to button his right cuff. He folded his lips and bit, wondering if he should just skip this step and leave them both unbuttoned. He'd have to roll them up for dishes anyway, right? Or did Kyle expect him to look like the fanciest dish bitch this side of the Mississippi at all times? Kenny groaned, head leaning back as he stepped up onto the curb, continuing down his way. He should've asked this when he got hired. Or told Craig to ask when he picked up his uniform. Given, he was much more comfortable telling Craig to not say anything more than he was there for the uniform and a thank you. Last thing he needed was Craig trying to get Kyle's attention and snag his restaurant as a goddamn filming location. Craig had come home that night telling Kenny it looked just like the kind of place suited for him to work, that it screamed an essence of 'I take it up the ass' that few other locations could capture so elegantly.

Kenny chose to take that one as a compliment for his employment achievement. He needed to know when to pick his battles with Craig and that one was just not worth his frustrations.

Ken jerked as he collided arms with another walker in his distraction, whirling his head around. "Sorry!" he called out, teeth baring in the slightest as the man didn't so much as stagger his walk.

"Good luck gettin' a response out here," a playful voice cooed. He shot his head back around, nearly stumbling over himself at Bebe leaning against the wall of the restaurant with a smirk. "Almost missed it, didn't ya?"

"Uh… no?" he tried, getting a small laugh out of her. He pouted, waiting for a distracted teenager to pass in front of him before making way to beside of her, taking a long, agitated breath and staring shadily at the thrall of people continuing to go about their days. "This place is crazy," he drawled.

She shrugged a bit, carefully rubbing under her eye to avoid smearing a thick painting of liner, "Not really. Some parts, yes. Not this one. 'Sides, it doesn't take long to get into the swing of things. Given it might for you since I hear-tell you're a small-town kinda guy?" she teased.

He looked down at her curled head and lips to match, returning the expression. "What can I say? Cities can't handle me."

"Oh really?"

"No, because they eat me alive and I give 'em indigestion," he scoffed, getting another chuckle out of her. "I take it you're a city-slicker, then?"

Bebe nodded, moving to begin sticking her thick hair up into a loose bun. "Mhm. Born and raised right here in Chi-town. What about you? You from Joliet?"

He shook his head, "Nah. Lived there 'bout three years. I'm from Colorado."

She paused, looking at him with a small smirk, "Wow. You're really a fish outta water here, huh? How do you handle not being able to smoke weed wherever you want?"

"By having a landlord that doesn't care so long as I hook him up with my dealer," he shrugged, face dropping at once wondering if he'd said the wrong thing already.

Bebe caught the fear in his eyes and laughed, "Kyle doesn't drug test unless you come in high," she promised, reading the question flooding his mind. "I've smoked with him. If you're doing your job and not endangering anyone in his building, he couldn't care less."

Kenny nodded, "Good to know." Last thing in the world he needed to know right now, but at least that was one perpetual fear that he could keep well off his mind. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair and dropping his eyes to the ground, feeling closed in by the sound of footsteps clacking against the sidewalk as person after person passed them by.

Bebe finished putting up her hair, unwinding some curls along the front of her forehead to drop down and frame her face, watching Kenny curiously. "Nervous, Hon?"

He looked back over at her, head slightly tucked towards his chin, and she couldn't help but smile at a pure puppy-dog timidity overtaking his face. "A little," he admitted.

She patted his arm a tad, "Don't be. Unless you set people on fire, you'll do just fine."

"Honestly it's not the customers I'm nervous about…?" he winced and she let out a soft 'ah' before chuckling.

"He's not usually as scary as you saw him," she assured him. "That was pretty rare for him, at least here. Just remember, you're working for someone who crafted this place by himself. If something messes up, he thinks he has no one to blame but himself, even if it was something he wasn't involved with like another chef screwing up an order," she said. "It gets to him sometimes, but he never does more than snap at any of us. Just stay light on your feet, don't upset the customers, and do what Kyle needs you to do and you'll be golden," she promised. "Honestly, consider yourself lucky."

Kenny blinked, looking around a bit before falling back onto her and moving to unbutton his done-up cuff. "Because I got the job so easily?"

"Well, that, yes. He's usually pretty strict about who he hires. But I more meant feel lucky that you're working for someone in the service industry who isn't going to fuck you over," she shrugged, brushing stray particles off her pea coat. She frowned, struggling with a piece of lint caught on her sleeve hem. "He's a perfectionist, but he's not going to beat you over the head for making a mistake. And he's really great about the fair hours thing. Though you might get a little overtime in the next few weeks until he finds another busser."

Kenny nodded, "Well, I still got a week left at my old place, after that, though I'm more than happy for some extra cash."

Bebe flashed him a smile, "Good attitude to have. Keep that up and you're lookin' at a pretty decent raise if you stick around."

Kenny scoffed, "What? Six cents? That's the exact same line my boss at the station pulled on me."

She shook her head, "I think the lowest increase he gave last year was about six percent. Pretty damn decent compared to other jobs I've had in this town."

Kenny blinked slowly, turning out and looking at the traffic passing them by and heaving a deep breath. Okay, so far it all was sounding pretty damn good. Seemed to him like he just needed to learn how to play his cards correctly with Kyle and he'd be smooth sailin' right on through this place. Or at least he could hope.

Bebe scoffed, finally defeating her fuzzy foe and flicking it off into the wind, watching it sail down the sidewalk and catching a familiar figure approaching. She grinned, "You're laaaaate!" Kenny turned, watching as Kyle came up to them with a large cup of coffee and a heavy paper bag dangling from aching fingertips having to lug it through town.

He shrugged with a yawn sneaking through him, ripping the keys out of his pocket and fumbling about as he came up beside them. "Sorry, line was huge at Agua Dulce," he shook his latte a bit. "Needed it, though."

"Ohh, late night? Bein' kept all busy?" Bebe teased, nudging him with her elbow.

He smirked at her a bit as he fought the lock, "Stop scaring the new guy. And none of your business. Besides, all my damn nights are late."

Bebe turned up at Kenny and shrugged, "That's code for 'yes, Bebe, my gorgeous friend, I totally got laid last night.'"

He rolled his eyes, "Oh fuck off, Stevens," he nudged her back before managing to shove the door open. Kenny smiled, a bit more relaxed with their casual demeanor and following them inside. Kyle nodded at him as he flipped on the lights, that comforting orange glow slamming back into place and wrapping the three of them in subtle shadows. "Lock it back up"

"Got it," he nodded, doing as told and shifting a bit in his place, unsure exactly of what he was supposed to jump into doing.

Kyle put his cup and bag down on a table and yawned, peeling off his jacket, "Bebe, can you check fifteen? I asked Jason to fix it last night but… Jason."

She snorted and whirled on her heel, the boys watching her make way to a table in the middle of the dining floor and shaking it a bit with noticeable give. She rolled her eyes, "That'd be a no on that, Kyle."

"Faaaaantastic," he scoffed, tossing his coat down and making way to the bar, raking his hair back. "Ask him to do one extra thing," he grumbled, leaning down behind the counter and sifting through the supplies under the sink. Bebe turned and smiled, laughing softly at Kenny's blank expression before waving him over. Kenny gulped, hoping he wasn't supposed to be doing something right now as he made way towards her. Kyle popped back up, nearly elbowing a displayed bottle of wine on the way and sighing irritably. "Gonna be one of those days, I think," he said, grunting as he grasped the bar's toolbox and hefted it up, awkwardly making his way towards the table. "God why aren't there smaller tools?" he griped.

Bebe grinned, "But look at you carrying that. You're so strong," she cooed.

He shot her a look, "Don't patronize me." She shrugged innocently as he plopped the box down onto an adjacent table and snapped it open, eyes scanning and narrowing. "Um," he blinked, looking between the mess of metals and plastics, bending down a bit to stare at the hex bolts holding the underside of the surface. "I uh… wrench?" he asked, looking at her for confirmation.

"How would I know?" Bebe scoffed, mindlessly poking at a hammer head jutting through the jumble. "That's what my landlord is for."

Kenny looked between their bewilderment and couldn't help but laugh quietly. "Want me to look?" he offered.

Kyle looked at him and shrugged, "Hey, if you know tools, please. Be my guest," he gestured to the table.

He nodded, tossing his apron next to the toolbox and squatting down, swiveling to put himself under the table and stare up at what he had to work with. "Ah. Got a ratchet up there?" he asked.

Kyle blinked, considering the kit. "Uh… and that would be…?"

"It's like a spoon with a little knob on the flat end," he elaborated. "Should have some different sized sockets that go with it in there, too if you have one."

He furrowed his brow, sifting through the box and clicking his teeth, snagging out what seemed to fit his descriptions. "These?" he winced as he displayed them.

Kenny nodded, "Yep," he took them and opened the socket box, testing through varying sizes to fit the table's bolts.

Bebe chuckled, flicking Kyle's arm. "Now come on, don't let the newbie show up your masculinity already," she taunted.

Kyle pouted, "Dude, I never learned this stuff. My dad is a fucking lawyer. We just took whatever needed fixed to shops. Kind of got distracted once I came here and didn't need to fix anything for my apartments, so excuse me for not being a regular Tim Allen."

Ken snorted, "Aw, don't feel too bad, Man," he reassured him. "Only reason I'm good with this stuff is I worked at a mechanic's back home."

Kyle looked down at him and tilted his head. "No offense, but why didn't you just hit up working for another shop then? Lot more money than a gas station."

"Yeah, but in Joliet, 'bout all the fuckin' shops are family businesses," he scoffed, attaching his matching socket to his wrench and starting to rapidly torque the six bolts above him. "You gotta know someone since they don't trust outsiders, 'specially outta staters. And no one would quit at the Midas. So you just take whatcha can get in that town."

He nodded slowly, "Makes sense." He watched Kenny's hand sneak around the edge of the table and wiggle it a bit.

"Look good?" he asked.

"That's great, Kenny. Thanks," he grinned, stepping back out of the way as Ken rolled back out and shook his head as he hopped back to his feet. "Last thing we need is a table collapsing onto someone's lap."

He nodded, packing the socket back up, "Might ruin their appetites a bit."

He smirked, "A little."

They glanced over at Bebe moving back towards the table holding Kyle's things and rummaging through his bag, humming to herself. "Specials in here?" she called, snagging his coffee and taking a sip.

"Yeah, should be in a bag under the basil," he answered, giving her a small laugh. "And please, help yourself to my latte."

"Will do," she smiled cheekily, taking a longer gulp before going back to scavenging while Kyle snapped the toolbox back shut and headed back to return it to the bar. Kenny snatched his apron and tossed it over his shoulder, shifting a bit as Bebe finally found her target and tore out a set of small papers tightly secured in their plastic prison. "Doesn't seem too fancy today," she commented.

Kyle shrugged as he walked back up by Kenny and jerked his thumb towards him. "Well we have him to train, Kevin has today off for a dentist thing, and I'm fucking lazy. Plus, stuffing is cheap and we have way too much chicken that needs used by tomorrow," he waved his hands around a bit before stepping off and gesturing for Kenny to follow after him.

She nodded, scanning over the description a bit, "Not gluten-free, then?"

"Or dairy," he rolled his eyes. "The Pecorino di Farindola is cheese," he walked up beside her and pointed down to the line. "We're not doing substitutions, I'm gonna have Butters pre-mix the batch before we get people in."

"Cow?"

"Sheep," he corrected. "Push the absolute fuck out of the Krimiso Catarratto for a pairing," he scratched through his hair as Bebe nodded along, Kenny completely lost amid their discussion. "Or any of the higher end sauvignon blancs or chardonnays, those aren't seeming to sell as well as the reds."

Bebe smirked, "Who can blame them? Who doesn't prefer red?" she tugged one of his curls and he looked at her with a wryly raised brow.

"Oh, so witty," he scoffed, pulling his hair out of her fingers and taking his belongings from the table. "You good to go out here?"

She looked around a bit and nodded, "Should be. We get those new napkins in yet?"

He shook his head, "We should get 'em in by Saturday, but you know how our luck is with that shit." He turned to Kenny and smiled tiredly, jerking his head. "C'mon, I'll show you where you can put your…" he paused, brow raising. "Dude. Wear a coat."

Kenny smirked, "Not until snow hits the ground, Mom."

"So long as you don't get sick on me right away," he drawled. "Either way, let's get you set up." Kenny nodded, stepping off behind him and Bebe flicked his arm a bit, mouthing an 'it'll be fine' that settled his nerves in the slightest. He heaved a deep breath, following Kyle through the kitchen door and wincing as Kyle flipped on the lights, the color difference between the areas staggering. "All right," Kyle started, making way to his office and quickly unlocking it to mindlessly lob in his jacket. "Break room is back over there," he pointed down the wall behind the brick oven. "When you finally conclude pneumonia is a possibility, your coat goes in there." Kenny snorted, giving him a short nod. "You can eat lunch in there but most of us do at the bar, it's just easier to breathe," he shrugged. "We have special tickets over there by the heating lamps," he shifted his hand to direct towards the front of the room at a long, stainless steel bar with dangling lights, Kenny spotting a hanging pad of bright blue paper and a pen chained to the wall. "You write down your order and your name on those and then the chefs know it's for you and won't send it to the floor. You can get your own soda or whatever from the bar."

"Is there like… a break schedule or?" he winced.

Kyle shook his head, awkwardly reaching around his corner and fumbling his hand around the wall, "Nah. We'll help you figure it out your first few shifts, but eventually you'll get into a good mindset of when's a good time to go. Usually we just try to keep it to one chef and one 'other' off at a time for lunch so we're not two down in one department. You're all adults, I'm not going to tell you when you're allowed to sneak out for a smoke. Just you know, try to keep it reasonable, that's all I ask."

Kenny blinked, almost overwhelmed with that amount of freedom right off the bat. "Yeah, that's no problem."

"Good," he nodded, finally snatching his chef's coat and apron from the hanging hook by the doorframe and pulling them against himself, shutting his door and sighing. "Okay, rundown," he started, setting his bag and drink onto the pantry prep station and slipping on his found items. "You're, for a lack of better term, the chefs' bitch. Not as much as Butters though. Since you hold the cards on their pans being cleaned efficiently, they're pretty much at your mercy," he shrugged as he rolled his sleeves to his mid-forearm, Kenny giving him a small snort. "There's never not a dirty dish once we get started. And you have the unfortunate job of also needing to clean off the tables. Wait staff will let you know when there's a party leaving. That is always the priority, we're almost always full out there so we need everything ready to go for the next group."

Kenny nodded slowly, watching Kyle moving over to one of the sinks, shifting it on and waiting for the water heater to kick on as he struggled to smash his head wrap over his curls. He growled, managing to tie it and declaring it good enough as he moved to wash his hands. "Dish sink is back there, which you've seen," he jerked his head down the small hall. "If anyone tries to wash something in there that isn't a dish aside from their hands, punch them in the face and let me know."

"I feel like punching them in the face might slow your serving time," he smirked, moving to tie his apron around his waist.

Kyle shrugged, turning off the faucet with the back of his wrist and snatching a clean hand towel from the counter. "Worth it if they learn their lesson. They don't wash food in there, you don't wash dishes in these," he motioned to the three deep sinks behind him. "Everything here has its place," he gestured around the room. "You'll learn all of it soon enough. Now, we have a pretty good surplus of plates, silverware, glasses, all that customer crap," he waved off, throwing the towel back onto the counter and walking over towards the sauce station. Kenny watched him bending down under a counter and snatching up a large stockpot to bring back over by his supplies and grabbing a bulb of garlic and a large onion along the way. He gulped, wondering if he was ever so good at multitasking when training new cashiers. But considering his tendency to trip over his own foot, he couldn't imagine it looked as natural as Kyle made it seem. Kyle continued, "But, we have a limited number of things for the chefs. So, after sanitizing tables, keeping the kitchen supplies up to speed comes next. Then wiping down counters, especially the meat prep station. Customer dishes come last unless someone tells you otherwise. We have a pretty small dishwasher, so keep it open for the chefs' stuff. Rinse off dining plates and set them aside in sanitizer until you have downtime to work on them."

Kenny nodded, trying to keep up with the plethora of information being catapulted at his face. "How long does the dishwasher take?"

"Two minutes and forty-five seconds," he shrugged, looking up at him as he gripped a cutting board and knife from their holders under the counter. "But just remember: Here, every minute counts. There's gonna be some stuff that you're just going to have to step away from to focus on what matters."

"Right, right," he tucked his hair behind his ear, looking around a bit. "So… sanitize. How do I go about doing that?"

He pointed towards the dish hall, "Go back there, there's a cabinet on the right with all your stuff. Grab the spray bottle I have marked for the kitchen counters and a rag."

"Got it," he nodded, turning on his heel and taking a deep breath as he made way towards his destination. Okay, so a lot to take in at once, but so far, so good. He hadn't pissed him off or gotten a dirty look yet; it was practically a record for Kenny's smart mouth. Given he hadn't exactly had the time for sass with such a barrage of instruction already bearing on top of him. He grimaced. The gas station taught him how the register worked and how to keep the hot dog machine rolling when it jammed up in about five minutes and left him on his own. This one was not going to be so damn simple, it seemed.

'Thirteen-fifty, Ken,' he reminded himself, stepping up in front of a charcoal steel cabinet and ripping open the double doors, eyes flittering and widening at the ridiculous amounts of bottles and materials lying in wait. Nearly identical gallon-sized chemical bottles took the bottom shelf for themselves, Kenny squinting at the prominent 'Sani-512' stamped so proudly in gold along a set of labels and another splash of grey text in the remainder reading 'Bacti-Free'. A quick pass showed a good eight jugs, an apparent favorite brand as far as he could tell.

He glanced up to the sprayers along his eye level, snatching one displayed upfront reading 'Countertops' in immaculately straight writing for such a curved surface. Kenny cringed. God, Kyle was even a perfectionist in his penmanship. The guy would probably have a heart attack if he saw how Kenny and Craig lived with their cigarette butts and beer bottles and unwashed tea mugs lingering about in disarray. He supposed he could only be thankful that a damn home inspection wasn't part of the hiring criteria. He shook his head, reaching and grasping one of the folded white cloths stacked to the side of the row and closed the doors back up with a loud clang.

He winced, wondering if they could hear that on the damn dining floor as loud as it was, continuing to hear it echo as he stepped back out of the hall. He turned and found Kyle crushing garlic pieces with the flat edge of his knife and the heel of his palm, picking off skin and setting the freed cloves in a pile to mince. A part of him was fascinated as he seamlessly began to chop, watching the blade roll smoothly from front to back. Kyle's stare never wavered as he kept the cloves steady with his free hand, carefully moving it along out of the blade's path but a hair away, close enough for Kenny to wonder where the first aid kit was because there was no way people pulling that weren't constantly chopping off fingers. "Loud as shit, ain't it?" Kyle commented casually, scraping the edge along his board to recollect his pile and slice through it again, caught in a repetitive motion that'd become his second nature. "Hate that damn thing, but it was free when I got the place."

"Well, that makes it tolerable," he shrugged.

"Exactly," he nodded sharply, regathering his pieces and carefully slipping off remnants with his finger. "Go ahead and start wiping down all the counters and prep sinks," he gestured around before placing his hand on the back of his blade and quickening his pace over his diminishing foe. He took a long breath, lost in the pungent stench of oils seeping through and sticking in the ridges of his fingers. "Solo un po, bambino cuoco" his maestro had told him time and again as he'd hovered over his chopping station. "Troppo e si rovina il vostro lavoro."

Only a little in each dish. Too much would ruin his work; he needed only enough for enhancement unless it was the selling point of the meal. It was a tricky trade to learn, a half a clove could take a recipe between underwhelmingly dimenticabile or bitterly pungente. His rule of thumb for daily recipes relied on the adhesiveness of his fingers, how long it would take for his skin to pry apart in the dousing of flavorful spill. His chefs hadn't quite fell into his step with that one oddity of his, telling him, "Kyle, seriously. Just how many cloves and we'll accommodate with size, we don't have time to have a stopwatch for our fingers."

He knew this wasn't a science, as had been drilled into his head in his studying years; he knew better than anyone in his building that every dish in fact was an art. But an artist of any worth knew just how much clay one could add to the sculpture before it became top-heavy and collapsed, how much one could chip away at the marble before they were left with nothing but dust.

Kenny turned from observing Kyle's flowing work to attend to his own, stepping to the nearest counter and pausing. "Uh, prefer me to spray the rag or what?"

He smirked, flickering his eyes on him for but a moment, "Wow, you asked." He finished his last go-round and carefully gathered his garlic pieces, lobbing them down into his pot. "Last guy didn't. I was not amused," he chuckled. "But no, you can spray right on. It's food safe. Don't you know… spray the food, but it won't kill anyone is there's a splash or so. We wash anything kept in the open anyway."

"Gotcha," he nodded, moving to begin cleaning as Kyle snatched up a pristine white onion, shaking his head as he chopped off the ends and began prying away the skin. He'd wanted his damn sweet yellow onions, but apparently, vendors couldn't get that right, either and sent him a substitution from their low stock. It was a minor thing, no diner would ever know the difference, but he did. He knew he'd have to add a sprinkle more sugar into his sauce to combat this imposter bulb's flavors. Bradley had told him he was crazy when he'd informed him of the changes to be made with smaller batches throughout the day, that there wasn't nearly enough of a difference for him to be worriedly tapping at his arms as he explained the "terrible" situation.

At least one good glare had that little questioning of his judgment fixed right up. If only he could intimidate the damn vendors in the same way. He'd sent Chad a request to bring him home a bag or four from the grocery store when he'd made a stop the night prior, only coming home to find four bags of goddamn red onions set along the counter.

"They were out of yellow, I thought this would be good enough," he'd claimed, looking too damn apologetic and baffled at his frustrations for Kyle to do anything more than sigh and nod with a quiet thank you, knowing he'd never concoct a decent enough recipe to work all those damn bulbs into before they spoiled. His afternoon routine had had an added stop of going to an alleyway dumpster to toss out the bags so Chad would think he'd taken them to work regardless of his flub and wouldn't feel bad. And so his damn apartment wouldn't reek.

He glanced towards Kenny scrubbing intensely at the counter beside one of the sinks and laughed. "Dude. It's a burn. It's not gonna come off. Not without some trial and error with boiling vinegar."

"I feel like that wouldn't be safe."

"There's a reason it's been there for two years," he snorted, hurriedly dicing the onion and tossing it in with his garlic, moving to discard skins into the waste compartment of his station.

Kenny nodded, "Makes sense," he moved on to the sink and began spraying it down, taking another glance at the scorched streak. "Okay. I gotta ask. How do you do that to a counter?"

"A lack of sleep and fucked up blood sugar," he rolled his eyes, pushing aside his knife and board and reaching down for an oil dispenser.

"So far all I'm gathering is a Xenomorph got a papercut in here if it's about blood."

He snorted, pulling his stockpot down and dousing his vegetables in olive oil before moving towards the sauce stove. "Unfortunately nothing so exciting, and I think a burn would be the least of our problems in that scenario. That and it'd be a little more than scorched."

"Don't mess with my self-insert fanfiction, now, that change is the only way I lived," he joked, Kyle sputtering with laughter as he switched on a burner to low and positioned his pot to hover over the middle of the flame.

"Pretty sad when you can't think to just increase your own abilities. Even Ripley didn't need to cheat," He smirked as Kenny looked at him with a pout. He shook his head, moving back to his station and fumbling through his bag, prying out Tupperware containers prepped from home filled with a good forty peeled and seeded San Marzano tomatoes. "No, I was stupid one day and came in when I shouldn't have…" he trailed off, glancing around his kitchen for the large plastic bowl stained pink on the inside from years of single-purpose use. He caught sight of it resting on top of the produce refrigerator, teeth gritting. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered, moving over towards it and standing on his toes to reach, fingertips barely brushing along the plastic.

Kenny stole a glance and fought to hold down a snort, focusing back on his sink. He'd dealt with Tweek struggling to reach for things enough in his lifetime to know to not say a damn word until he requested the help. He'd never quite gotten how that would smash someone's pride, but then again, inheriting and surpassing his father's 6'2" height never exactly handed him that problem to confront.

"Goddammit, you Russian prick," Kyle growled, hopping a bit before sinking back down onto the soles of his feet and staring up at his dish tiredly, wondering if he should just climb on the fucking counter and have Kenny just really goddamn scrub it down. He glanced towards the working busser, seeing him straining to not look over in amusement at his suffering. "Instead of standing there trying not to piss yourself at my genetic misfortune, can you get this stupid thing, please?"

Kenny couldn't help a small cough of a laugh, nodding and stepping over to him. "Scary grill cook does this often I presume?" he teased, easily snatching the bowl around the sides and passing it to him.

Kyle took it from him with a sigh. "Could've at least pretended to struggle," he said dryly, Kenny shrugging in apology and heading back to his work. Kyle grabbed a pair of plastic gloves from a torn box beside the appliance before following suit. "But yeah, Kashkov thinks it's the funniest fucking thing in the world to put stuff out of my reach. It's all right though, I get him back."

"What, you use a ladder to get out of his reach?" he guessed.

Kyle shook his head with a grin, snapping off Tupperware lids. "No, I made the rule that the pans he uses most are to be put in the lowest cabinets. I call that pretty even."

"Cruel," he laughed. "He only puts things a few inches out of your reach. You put like, a mile between him and his stuff."

"I'm the boss. Go big or go home," he shrugged.

Kenny chuckled, nodding along as he moved on down the line towards Kyle's simmering vegetables, carefully working on the countertop next to the flame. "Anyway. Burn."

"Right right," Kyle nodded, dumping tomatoes into his rescued bowl. "So, we did this dessert special a few years back for Sweetest Day, we made this chocolate raspberry mousse crap because couples love to share cups of that," he rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we made it with meringue as a topping. And with meringue, you brown it with a butane torch. I think you can figure out what happened from there."

He gave him a half-baked sympathetic smile. "Yeahhhh, torches and tired aren't a good combo."

"Lesson was learned," Kyle chuckled, rolling his sleeves further and snapping on his gloves. "Everyone pretty much ganged up on me and threw me out the door to go home. Sent one of the runners with me to make sure I didn't pass out in the street." He shook his head, reaching into his bowl and sighing as he crushed tomatoes between his fingers, letting the fruited juices seep out along his coated palms in bloody trails.

Kenny clucked his tongue, making way to the meat prep station. "Most people would push their boss into traffic, so at least you don't have that issue."

"Yeah no, not here," he shrugged through his squishing. "Or at least, if I do, they're really good at hiding it, even from Bebe. And honestly, it'd be easy to make my death look like an accident in here so apparently they're not too mutinous if at all."

"You realize you just told the new guy that," he teased. "You don't know my side job, I could be a professional murderer on my off days."

"Eh. Just don't track blood in my kitchen and whatever," he smirked, carefully maneuvering through his fruits to press along. "Not my business what you do as a hobby. 'Sides, you'd be the prime suspect."

He nodded, "Unless you had a dick customer the same day everyone knew about. Suspicions would shift."

Kyle paused, considering this. "Damn. Good point. Tell ya what, Man, it's not far off. You give someone polenta instead of riso on accident and they're likely to slam you into a table, temple first."

Kenny cringed, wiping along the edge of the countertop and seeing his wavering reflection in the stainless-steel surface as the streaked moisture faded. At least he didn't have that problem he'd have to handle. "Does it really get that bad?"

He sighed and shrugged half-heartedly. "Not that often, we do pretty good at keeping people happy and keeping orders straight… but there's always gonna be someone just trying to gyp you and eat half their food before saying 'well this isn't what I ordered'," he mocked. "Then why the fuck did you eat so much of it? I think you'd know it wasn't chicken before you took a bite of a filet mignon."

"Ugh," Kenny shook his head. "That's some high-class bullshit. No offense to you or nothin', but you'd think anyone coming in here would know they're gonna have to pay a decent amount."

He nodded, squeezing the last of his tomatoes and carefully moving to peel off his gloves inside-out. "No offense taken. We're not a fucking Olive Garden. You'd be amazed how many people request me out on the floor and ask if I have coupons for 'em or if we do endless pasta nights. Like… No? I'm a goddamn independent owner, I don't have millions of dollars to fall back on if my supply exceeds demand. And most of our stuff goes bad within a week since we don't flash-freeze anything."

"Not lookin' to open a franchise then?" he smirked, looking back at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed his gloves into the trash. "Not in the least. I kind of like having my eye on everything that happens so I can fix anything that comes up. Can't really do that in a location I'm not consistently at."

"Makes sense," he agreed, watching him turn with his bowl to make way for his smoking stockpot. "I mean you said you're almost always packed, though, so you could probably make it work."

He smiled, dumping out his tomato massacre atop his garlic and onion, listening to the rich sizzle of the juice slamming into the bottom of the pot and backing from the billow of steam shooting into the open air. "We're always packed because of quality control. I can't trust other people to be as damn picky as I am with our stuff, and I can't be there to supervise newer cooks when I have my own staff to take care of."

"Not just a recipe-followin' kinda place I take it."

He shook his head, stirring through his concoction with a long wooden spoon, letting the flavors meld before slapping on a flat lid and moving to drop his bowl off into Kenny's sink and rinse the garlic oil from his hands. "Not even close. If restaurants were judged just based on ability to follow recipes, then fuckin' McDonalds would be considered a gourmet meal. You don't get recognition based on that alone, there's always gonna be a little something more involved in a proprietorship. Barely anything goes through this kitchen without my approval."

Kenny chuckled, folding over his sopping rag to try to distribute the mess. "Sounds exhausting."

He shrugged, switching off the faucet and shaking out his hands. "Worth it. You were there for the disaster of someone not checking the delivery thoroughly enough. And I didn't get my damn star by sending someone to Meijer for shoddy produce."

He paused, eyes narrowing as he absorbed his sentence and turning back to him. "Wait. Star? As in… one?"

Kyle stared at him for a moment before clearing his throat. "Yeah, that's part of why I don't advertise it, because people not obsessed with this kind of stuff don't get how big a fuckin' deal that is," he laughed softly, cheeks gaining a bit of color from letting it just slip off his damn tongue. "We got on the recommendation list from Forbes, which is pretty much three stars. And we got one actual star from Michelin which is… fucking rare," he smiled sheepishly, looking down at his hands as he dried them.

Kenny was still fucking baffled by how happy he looked at such a low count. "High standards I take it?"

"Their system is based on three stars, and they have crazy high expectations. They critiqued I think six hundred restaurants in the city that first year they came here," he shrugged. "Thirty of us got stars. About a hundred just got recommended."

He blinked, "Goddamn."

"Fuckin' right?" he snorted, tossing the towel onto the rack beside the sink. "I don't go around throwing it into ads or anything, I just kind of stuck it on the website with their review so they didn't like, think I was ungrateful. Anyone that cares will have the damn guide as is and know we're worth seeing. Instead of plastering it on a damn billboard when I got the news, I just called my ma fucking crying and they flew me home like two days later to celebrate."

He laughed, stuck in a loose state of disbelief at the clash of modesty and pure gratification he could see beaming from him as he moved to start gathering more vegetables to prep to get Butters' station started with the vague hope it'd help him keep up. "That's really cool," he finally said, Kyle looking at him with a quirked brow. He shrugged, "I dunno, just sounds like it's super fuckin' huge. If I were you, I'd probably stand at the damn door like a fuckin' Walmart greeter and yell it at anyone who walked in."

He grinned, pulling open the produce fridge and snatching heads of romaine from the crisper drawer. "Trust me, I was damn close when it happened. Chad was the one who told me to calm my damn roll and keep it subtle."

"What? Why would he do that?" he blinked.

Kyle shrugged, "Because no one likes a show-off? And I asked for his opinion, so it's not like I can be pissed or anything that he gave me it. Besides, he was right, honestly. I would've came to the same conclusion after a while of letting it settle. Week of, though I was jumping around like I was six and just got told I got a goddamn pony…" He let out a wistful sigh as he moved to begin washing off his mounds of lettuce. He still abstractedly wondered throughout the last two years of keeping his rating what could've been had he followed his family and Stan's initial advice, let the goddamn city know just what he could do.

"You worked so hard for this, Dude," Stan had reminded him while out to lunch before Kyle headed for the airport, the first to know only minutes after Kyle had received the word and nearly as excited as Kyle himself had been at the news. "Why wouldn't you boast the hell out of that shit? You went from nothing to this. Fuckin' scream it at people, Man."

"Kyle, it'd be such a great boost for you!" his mother had exclaimed once he'd gotten home. "You'd get people with more money to spend coming in!"

"No one is saying light it up on the skyline, but no one would judge you for putting it in your ads," his dad had chimed in.

His little brother had sat off to the side, shaking his head at him in disapproval for his minor reluctance. "Stop being a fucking retard, you goddamn homo. You fucking won. Let the people who didn't get shit know that."

"And set myself up to be fuckin' murdered out of spite by the guy runnin' the fuckin' falafel joint down the street that couldn't even get a rec?"

"Yes. But then you can have 'I still have my star, motherfuckers' on your headstone, so you still win."

They'd made it sound so damn easy, like he was completely out of his mind for not jumping right onto this opportunity and already ordering the flyers. And he'd found himself agreeing with them the more they talked. He'd spent all his time in Jersey and the flight back to Illinois imagining how he could slap it onto every damn piece of marketing he could, lost in the hyperbolic dreams of flourishing into such booming success he could buy out his neighbors and expand the restaurant. Coming back to a lunch with Chad had finally grounded him, though, brought him back into the realization of just how rare it was that stars were kept throughout a restaurant's reign.

"Dude, sound at least a little impressed for me," he'd pouted at Chad's considering face as he chomped his way through a sandwich, making a twisted face at the sour punch of flavoring. Who the fuck put that much relish into goddamn tuna, anyway?

"I am, I am," he'd promised, shaking his head at Kyle poking at his food like it was a trap and shooting small, suspicious looks at the kitchen. "I think it's amazing, I do. I just also think you should slow down and think about it. You barely put out ads as is and you're doing great. Why increase the number when it may do nothing more than end up with you spending more money?"

He'd paused. "Well… what if it gets me customers willing to spend more?" he'd quoted his mother with a sheepish shrug. "I could increase my profits, make up for the loss and then some."

"But what if it doesn't?" he'd countered. "Kyle, you're already serving people with money to spare, your place isn't exactly cheap. I don't think just adding in that you got a star is going to bring in celebrities or anything like that."

"…The mayor likes us. He's… kinda famous."

"And has he brought in other 'kinda famous' friends? Does he drop thousands of dollars every time he comes in?" he'd winced. "I think it's awesome you got what you did, but I don't want you to put something like that out there and then not see any kinds of changes. It'd kill you. I just don't think that's a risk worth taking when you're already doing so well, that's all."

"Uh, Kyle?" a voice brought him back into the kitchen, snapping his head over to find Kenny staring at him, "Counters are done. What now?"

He blinked, ripping out his romaine from the water to shake off droplets and clearing his throat. "Uh, on the bottom shelf of the cabinet there's big gallon jugs, get one of the ones that say 'Bacti-Free' for a third sink. That's for the dishes to soak in, I'll show you how to dilute it."

"Gotcha," he saluted, turning on his heel and heading back down the mini-corridor.

Kyle sighed, snagging another clean towel from above and placing his lettuce atop the fabric as he turned off the sink, bringing the bundle to his station and putting them down to dry for a bit. He watched a trail of water beading over a wide leaf, trailing over ridges and clinging around the edge, clasping until gravity took its toll and sent it splattering onto the towel to blend in with its smeared comrades.

Maybe he should just be thankful in a way for keeping that on the downlow. Even if such news did bring him in more people, that'd just make times like this more strenuous. Short-staffed meant not everything was meeting his high standards, at least not on the inside. The food remained steady, his wait staff kept themselves looking professional and himself and any chef requested on the floor could put on a friendly, calm face for a diner's benefit. But in here it was a mess. Tensions were high and adding more pressure onto his people might end up with that mutiny becoming a very real possibility. He couldn't imagine how well they'd be holding up with people expecting more and better service and everyone walking in asking him 'Well, I just want to know how you got that star. Who'd you have to blow? You obviously can't handle that kind of recognition and don't deserve it.'

And besides, as Chad was so damn good at reminding him: That star could be ripped out from under him at any moment. Ads would have to be pulled immediately and the entire city would see him suffering a humiliating blow against his craft. Quiet modesty was the best policy here, he'd convinced himself. He wouldn't even have to tell his staff in that case, he'd just silently break apart from the inside-out and let himself wander to that falafel joint owner and irritate him enough to be drowned in tahini.

"This guy, right?" Kenny called, displaying a half-filled jug with an eager smile, earlier worry seeming gone from his face with enough casual chatter to get himself moving.

Kyle grinned back, nodding softly and stepping off from his dripping produce. Recognition meant nothing right now, his pride could definitely be put on hold until he had more to throw out into the world. Right now, this was plenty enough. The stench of marinara beginning to simmer was flooding through the kitchen, tables were fixed and things were for once running smooth in their opening routine without a crisis. And as a bonus, he finally had someone else to clean the damn dishes.

Couldn't get more close to perfect than that.