Susan Spite was what you would call a connoisseur. Some, however, were more partial to calling her an acquired taste. Her restaurant reviews were bold but oftentimes peppered with the oddest words, and it was only after reading five or six of her articles that readers would recognize her incredible talent for critique. She was an adventurer, and food was her terrain, but her reviews were quite peculiar at times, which only added to the mystery of her persona. She'd once written a long article about the benefits of eating seafood, only to conclude that the idea of octopus still made her dizzy, and that she'd much rather listen to the Beatles' Octopus's Garden than eat those unfortunate- looking sea creatures.
Every reader of Cuisine knew of her formidable reputation, and every restaurateur feared her palate. One year ago, her negative review of Bowtie had turned celebrity chef Blaine Anderson into a joke. She'd slammed the wine, mocked the risotto and zucchini lasagna, and advised against ordering the tiramisu or caramel flan. In the business of restauration, her words were more cutting than the French guillotine.
At 26, she was Cuisine's most valuable journalist, and her anonymity was their highest priority. Susan worked hard to be incognito, as she couldn't imagine being able to do her job if people knew who she was the minute she stepped into a restaurant.
Of course, she did sometimes wish people could see right through her. Susan was a lovely persona, but she was still Brittany Pierce through and through, and she very much enjoyed herself as such.
Sitting at her desk and reading over the last review she'd written, Brittany wondered if she'd been too nice with Rhodes, the small restaurant she'd last been at. Their wine was probably the best Brittany had had in a couple of weeks, but their food was nothing special and the service was clumsy. Still she'd loved the cozy ambiance and she'd definitely gotten bang for her buck. It wasn't a pretentious place, and if not for the food, Rhodes definitely deserved attention for its wine cellar.
After staring at her screen for a couple more minutes, she smiled tranquilly and sent the mail of her revised review to her boss, Shelby, and leaned back into her chair. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lord Tubbington, her cat, purring contently on his stomach, spread on the couch like butter on bread. It was a lazy day, as most Thursdays were, but Brittany found herself pouting at the idea of spending it alone in her house. The daily Boston noises were calling to her, and even if she wasn't feeling famished, she could do with grabbing lunch and maybe walking around for an hour or two.
She turned her computer off and slid her glasses off her nose, setting them on a pile of newspapers. She'd circled a couple of new places to try, and Shelby had asked her to check out her daughter's bistro as a favor. Brittany had been confused at first—she'd thought Shelby's daughter was about nine and named Beth, not Rachel—but she hadn't really given it too much thought. She liked doing favors and liked food even more, so really, it was a win-win.
After 30 minutes or so, she was lazily walking around, on the lookout for someplace to eat but not in a rush either. She loved passing by the occasional brownstone residences and the evergreens, especially with the sun warming her back. She was on Tremont Street when she did a double take and her neck cracked just a bit, making her wince for a split second. She hadn't walked in this area for months, which meant she wouldn't usually be so surprised to see a brand new restaurant, but she still let out the most flabbergasted breath.
How had she not known that Santana had finally built her dream? She hadn't seen her in three years, sure, but this was…well, Brittany composed herself, it was pretty damn amazing. She smiled amusedly at the name, too. Santana had never been one to change her mind, stubborn as she was, so it was no surprise she'd named her restaurant Adjacent.
Brittany felt kind of disappointed with herself. Remembering Santana's hopes and dreams and seeing them concretized right before her eyes was bittersweet. It reminded her that time flew faster than she liked to think, and that she'd broken an old promise.
"I'll be your first client," she remembered saying, listening intently to her girlfriend babbling excitedly about her future plans. Santana had grinned bashfully, and Brittany smiled at the memory. She realized then how weird it was to remember their relationship so fondly, especially if she thought back on their countless fights and broken dishes. Santana would always rile her up—in all possible ways—but Brittany knew that she'd had the same effect on her. Unfortunately, there were only so many times you could have sex to cover up fights.
Many things had changed since then. Brittany wasn't the coffee girl for the Culinary Magazine anymore, and she'd climbed the ladder of her profession faster than most. Santana, it seemed, had gone from kitchen hand to chef. Knowing how long she'd hoped for this, Brittany felt completely ecstatic for her.
She quickly crossed the street and pushed the door of the place open, feeling impulsive and entirely bemused. She knew it wasn't likely for the chef to come out of the kitchen, especially since the place was buzzing, but once she remembered Santana's ego, she formulated a plan that made her smile wickedly. She was in a playful mood, and it only served Santana right for not telling her about the restaurant in the first place.