Susan Spite was what you would call a connoisseur. Some, however, would prefer to call 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 remain 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 kind to Rhodes, the small restaurant she'd last visited. Their wine was probably the best Brittany had had in a couple of weeks, but their food was nothing special, and the service had been 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 its food, Rhodes definitely deserved attention at least for its wine cellar.
After staring at her screen for a few more minutes, she shrugged and sent the email with her revised review to her boss, Shelby, and leaned back in 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 shut down her computer 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. For a second, Brittany smiled at the memory, then 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—and Brittany knew that she'd had the same effect on Santana. Unfortunately, there were only so many times you could have sex to try to resolve fights.
Many things had changed since then. Brittany wasn't the coffee girl for Culinary Magazine anymore, and she'd climbed the ladder of her profession more quickly than most. Santana, it seemed, had gone from kitchen hand to restaurateur. 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.
Santana Lopez was no stranger to food. She lived for its savors and colors, and every ingredient had the possibility of being a secret weapon. Her mother's old cookbook had been her bible during childhood. She remembered staying in the kitchen for hours during the weekends, experimenting with food and smelling all the spices and herbs she could get her small hands on. Of course, her mother had always been around to make sure she didn't wreck the whole kitchen, but apart from cookie batches, Santana had never really burnt anything to a crisp.
Years later, when her parents had asked about her plans for the future, they hadn't been surprised to hear she wanted to adorn the white hat and open her own restaurant. Of course, she'd still gone to college, but after getting her diploma in culinary arts, she realized getting hired was much more difficult than she'd anticipated. Not to mention she didn't respond very well to orders, so being a kitchen hand had been the worst pain in the ass.
After years of hopping from restaurant to restaurant—her temper had a knack for getting her fired—she'd finally decided to say fuck it and build her own place with the money she'd saved and some help from her parents. After months of dealing with suppliers, obtaining permits and licenses, equipping the restaurant, finding her staff, writing the menu, and even taking some classes in business and management, Adjacent had become her pride and joy. She'd popped more aspirins than she could count and gone all Boston Heights on more than one license board member, but the result had been worth it.
It'd been four months since they'd had their first clients, and the restaurant was positively thriving. Some of their customers came in more than twice a week, and their variation of Latin-American dishes were a nice change from the typically American, Italian, or French restaurants in the area. It was hard work and a demanding business, but the exhilaration she felt at the end of the day was well worth it.
From her station, Santana smiled at her success.
"We've got two stews and one mofongo," Sunshine yelled, making Santana's heart leap into her throat and her fingers tense around a wooden spoon. The young waitress had a bad habit of being somewhat abrasive, but at least she never got any orders mixed up.
Holly tapped Santana's back and chuckled. "Aren't you happy I recommended her to ya?"
Santana mustered a fake smile and nodded. Holly was truly an amazing sous-chef and friend, and Santana knew she'd hit the jackpot when Terri's had gone bankrupt and been forced to close; just when Holly had thought she was out of a job, Santana had snatched her up and made her an offer she couldn't refuse. Of course, Santana was still the chef, but Holly had admitted she liked the responsibilities of a sous-chef much better anyway. If Santana was being honest, she looked up to Holly more than she would like to admit. The woman was smooth and always oozed peacefulness, whereas Santana was often stressed and had to snap a rubber band around her wrist when she got overly anxious.
However, Holly also had odd recommendations—like Sunshine—that Santana didn't really have the heart to say no to. She'd needed a new server after she'd had to fire that mohawk douche who kept checking out her tits and drooling on his menus, so Holly had immediately suggested her very short, very peculiar friend. In all honesty, Santana had blurted out she looked too much like a midget and that it could weird out the clientele, but when Holly had chided her with a hit to the back of her head, she'd conceded.
After several minutes of arranging a grilled veggie salad, Santana turned to see Kurt, her head waiter, walk through the kitchen door with an embarrassed look on his face. She wiped her hands and arched an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"Um...it seems we have our first culinary complaint."
"What?"
"Is it for my coco flan?" Mercedes asked from her station. She was the best pastry chef in the city, and just like Santana, she had quite the mama bear attitude when it came to her food.
Kurt shook his head. "No, it's um...for the chilaquiles."
"What? Fuck!" Santana growled incredulously.
Kurt fidgeted nervously and swallowed. "You should probably go see her, be apologetic and everything."
"Ugh," Santana groaned. "I guess that's our policy."
"Don't forget to smile," Holly sing-songed.
Santana rolled her eyes as she took her hat off and passed it to Holly. She huffed at their amused looks and walked out of the kitchen with Kurt right behind her.
"So who is it?" she asked, scanning the room with frantic eyes. She was curious to know who had complained about a dish she could prepare with her eyes closed.
"Blonde woman, right behind the coup—"
"No fucking way," Santana breathed out.
There sat Brittany Pierce, chin propped against her left hand as she fiddled with her cell phone with the right one, her plate of food mostly untouched. Santana was flabbergasted, then pissed off, annoyed, and maybe a bit turned on.
