Chapter Text
“Jane. Relax. We’re going to cook, and we’re going to cook well,” Dirk says, for what has to be the tenth time in less than five minutes. It does nothing to alleviate his own tension, but that, he can handle. It’s Jane spiralling that he’s worried about, especially since she brought this upon them in the first place. No offense meant.
“Okay, yes, but-,” she is, in fact, fiddling with the hem of her apron, though Dirk can’t parse what the mix of emotions is on her face. Worry, yes, but there’s something else that goes deeper than regular nerves, too.
“He’s a food critic, not a demon. In fact, he’s barely a food critic, he’s a comedian with bad jokes. He doesn’t do the torturing in hell, he’ll be the one tortured there, doomed to eat Satan’s jalfrezi asshole for all eternity. Not that there’s anything wrong with eating ass,” Dirk adds, contemplative. “But eating Satan’s is probably going to be unplea-,”
“Dirk!” Jane cuts him off, first with his name, and then with a firm and floury hand right to his mouth. He’s not quite childish enough to lick her hand, but that’s because he doesn’t want the taste of flour on it. If it was cake batter, it might’ve been a different story.
Depending on the cake, that is. Jane’s got a hand for rich, decadent desserts, and while she’s very good at pastry and breads, she likes making cakes above all else- and it shows in both their menu ad their reputation for having fucking excellent desserts. Not that the food is anything to slouch at, if Dirk has anything to say about it (which he does, since he makes most of it), but the dessert is where it’s at. Especially the chocolate cake, even if Dirk can’t manage more than a couple of bites. It’s decadent enough to crumble the Roman Empire all over again.
“What?” he mumbles against her hand, and he discreetly wipes the flour off his face with his towel when she moves it.
“Stop talking about rimming!”
“Think about making more reasonable requests of me,” he tells her solemnly. “Anyway, it’s not like John fuckin’ Egbert is the expert on food. You’ve heard his jokes. Half of them center around his debilitating fear of cakes and pies, which is bizarre and somewhat unfounded.”
“He’s such a noob,” Vriska agrees with a cackle. She brandishes her knife with some alarming flair. “And he’ll be eating what we cook for him or else.”
“See? That’s the spirit,” Dirk agrees. “Listen to my favorite Serket.”
“Ooooooooh, Strider,” she purrs. “You shouldn’t. I’m almost tempted to take offense, and none of us want that to happen.”
“True. Your sister does kind of set the bar on the ground. How’s ‘favorite sous chef’ instead?” he offers, spinning his knife with equal flair. Who would he be, if he didn’t show off to match her?
“Juggle those and then call me impressed, cherry boy,” she sneers.
“I’ll meet you out back in the Denny’s and we’ll fucking do it. Eight knives?”
“Like there’s any other number to do.”
“Guys-!” Jane’s frustrated voice breaks through your banter. Adieu, sweet normalcy. “His ticket’s coming in now. Okay, just- focus? Please? This is important.”
“Isn’t he your cousin or something, Crocker? He’s like, obligated to kiss your ass and play nice,” Vriska points out. “This feels low stakes. I want to cook for that tall fucker from Ratatouille and make a grown man cry. Give me a real challenge.”
“To be fair, you have made several grown men cry before, just not because of your food. I want to cook for the DILF from Shokugeki no Soma. I wish my clothes flew off my body when I ate really good food,” Dirk muses.
“Keep it in your pants.”
“He’s not obligated to kiss my ass, he’s- here as a favor! For, you know, free advertising. I think it’s going to attract some new clients and I’m the boss, okay?” Jane admonishes them both with a floury finger. Dirk doesn’t think that’s fully accurate, to be quite honest- Fine Thyme is doing, well. Fine. They’re not fully booked every night, but they’re close to it, and they’ve got their regulars And there’s always lines out the door on Saturdays and holidays, and since Jane decided to offer a delivery option, things have been steady. There’s no real financial impetus to obtain a celebrity opinion.
But Jane’s always been kind of an overachiever. She’s got sense, and she’s determined to be the best at what she does. It’d be terrifying, if Dirk wasn’t exactly the same way. Besides, everything she’s tried has worked- from cooking classes (homemade pasta, nice and easy, run by him; pastry, by her; couples, run by Vriska, which is terrifying), to Sunday roasts and various set menus. So no one has any real reason to complain, either. At least not about her business acumen.
Dirk’s complaint is that he thinks John Egbert is kind of a dick, in the distant way that all celebrities are kind of dicks at the very least (Keanu Reeves and Harrison Ford excepted), especially if they were also comedians who kind of started on SNL. Dirk does not like SNL if Kate McKinnon and Melissa McCarthy aren’t on it, and that’s just because he has taste.
John Egbert, he knows a little bit closer to home, in that he’s friends with his brother in a weird way, and Dirk’s seen him around once or twice, registered he was there and making a dumb joke, and promptly left. He doesn’t really like spending time with Dave’s more obnoxious celebrity friends, and while Egbert’s not that bad, it’s still a lot to ask when Dirk isn’t the biggest fan of his comedy. It really is the SNL thing.
This was, naturally, fucking vetoed. Assumig he ever had any say at all- Jane can be a real dictator about her restaurant sometimes. All that ruthless ambition had to go somewhere, he supposes, and it’s either this or the cakes. Privately, he doesn’t think the cakes are the right vehicle for it, and it’s not like she’s regularly cutting things up and setting them on fire like he is, even if it’s a controlled fire since she’d never forgive him for incinerating her restaurant. But his point remains.
“You’re the boss,” he repeats, and makes sure to inject just enough sarcasm into it that he still comes out of the blatant ass-kissing with a modicum of respect from Vriska.
“For now,” Serket adds, and Dirk gives her a casual high-five for that one. “We’ve gotta keep you on your toes, Crocker.”
“It’s nice to know how loyal my kitchen staff is,” Jane says dryly. As if any of them would leave her to work somewhere else. A coup d’etat is, unfortunately, way more likely. Intensity and ambition attracts the same. “But if you two could potentially express that in, oh, I don’t know. Getting the actual order cooked? That would be absolutely lovely.”
“Karkat hasn’t even called it out yet,” Vriska says. Reasonably, which is surprising.
“Yeah, because it’s only now coming in, calm the fuck down, Serket,” Karkat hisses at her, practically ripping the ticket from the printer and squinting at it through his glasses. Dave thinks this is particularly adorable. Dirk has too many memories associating this expression with Karkat screaming at him to really concur. Vantas starts shouting and Dirk is immediately ready to start cooking as fast as he can while still maintaining standards.
“Al-fucking-right. Table for the obnoxious comedian, coming up. App- sausage and tomatoes, so get that fucking started first, then his scallops are the main, no dessert as of fucking yet.”
Well, he can’t argue against starting, now.
So he does, searing up the sausages and making sure the sauce is as rich as it needs to be and fucking perfect. And okay, this is not, personally, his favorite, but he’ll agree that it’s pretty damn good. It works. They’re going to be fine. He doesn’t say it, but he does try to project it right at Jane.
He doesn’t even really have the time to watch the plate go off, just sees Roxy give him a wink and a wave as they cart the plate off once it’s passed Karkat’s gimlet eye. Dude’s dedicated to keeping them going as the other orders start pouring in, the lull between tables shortening to non-existent as the kitchen promptly gets fifty times busier, the usual chaotic dance that Dirk just happens to enjoy. He thrives under pressure, what can he say?
Although this specific kind of pressure is something else; he’s dealt with critics before and he doesn’t much like it, having one person’s opinion suddenly mean so much, especially when he’s not personally invested in said opinion. Professionally, yes. But at least they knew what they were talking about. A celebrity reviewing food? Dirk still isn’t fully sold on the point of it, but again. Jane will do as she will, and he doesn’t need to show his face.
Roxy swings back in with the empty plate for the appetizer, and Jane suddenly materializes right next to them. Karkat swears, violently, although he doesn’t actually know another way to swear.
“Well?” Jane asks, like she has any right to be nervous despite watching this meal get prepared like she’s a hawk and it’s a poor, unfortunate rabbit running out in the open. “What did he say?”
They don’t all pause to hear this, absolutely not. The frying station is very much active, and Dirk stares at the cook there until he gets the fucking point and pays attention to what he’s doing. But Dirk, thankfully, is just keeping half an eye on his pot simmering away. And that’s going to be fine before he has to stir it again in a minute and a half. Roughly- time isn’t his thing so much as it is his brother’s, but Dirk’s got a decent sense for it now.
“Uhm, nothing?” Roxy shrugs, sets the empty plate down. “He got sauce in the ‘stache, though.”
“Gross,” Dirk says, wrinkling his nose. “Facial hair is the worst.”
“Iunno, he makes it look pretty good.” They wink, before sauntering out of the kitchen with their next plate, neatly dodging Jane’s grabby hands and missing her look of frustration.
“Argh- Roxy is just, they- ooh,” she sighs out, shaking her head.
“Eloquent,” Dirk deadpans. Vriska snorts.
“Yeah, Crocker, I feel the same way. Argh, ooh. My inner cavewoman is going fucking feral.”
“You’re always five seconds away from going feral, Serket, we’re past giving a single flying fuck about all that shit. Get started on his next course already, that’s the coquilles, so get fucking going already, and you’d better not let me so much as lay eyes on a rubbery scallop or fucking else the curb is going to be scraping your asshole raw after my foot is done with it. And-,” a pause, not even for breath, but to examine the tickets; Karkat’s still swearing to himself as he does that, “Where’s the main for Table 5, huh? We’ve got other customers, Serket, and they’re just as important as John goddamn Egbert,” Karkat breaks in, at a near shout as always. Well, he can get louder, but the words still startle them both back to awareness. “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought! Get your useless asses back to your stations- and yes, Crocker, that includes you too, don’t even fucking think about being nosy when you’ve got those parfaits to assemble for Table 16, because fuck knows why but every one of those assholes decided they wanted shitty ice cream and fruit for a fake-ass dessert.”
As per usual, Karkat manages to get everyone back on track- the kitchen is loud, but he’s louder. He doesn’t even let them fixate on the mostly-empty plate that’s brought back from Egbert’s table later, not for more than five seconds. Hell, Dirk’s sure they don’t even get five seconds; the bus boy is the only one who gets any real intimate time with it. Roxy gets their next plate and is promptly shooed out before anyone can get anything out of them, which is both helpful and frustrating.
Dirk loathes waiting to hear what people think. He can deal with cooking, he can deal with snotty customers (which they do get, and he is the fucking epitome of a good sport about it), and he can deal with Jane bouncing off the walls with nerves because she’s also waiting to hear what someone thinks. It’s his own impatience that annoys him. But, grudgingly, he’ll admit that Karkat is doing the right thing, keeping them focused. And more specifically, not letting him fixate. This is what he gets for working with his brother-in-law, he’s got a natural disadvantage on intimidation.
But the night starts to wind down, and soon there’s more dessert orders than mains being put in, as the last tables of the night finish their appetizers and tuck into their mains, and the lingering ones decide to finish up and head home.
“Chocolate cake for Egbert,” Karkat calls out, and for some reason, Jane pauses like that’s a surprise. Dirk isn’t sure it should be- yeah, Egbert has made enough jokes for him to know the man is not a fan of dessert, but people come here only for Jane’s chocolate cake. It’d be a sin to not have it.
Jane passes over the cake, sliced neat with a swirl of whipped cream and a drizzle of her dark chocolate anise sauce over it, still warm, and Roxy carries it out just then.
He doesn’t get to ask her about it, unfortunately, because he very much does still have work to do. And he refuses to send out bad food or start any kind of small fire in the kitchen, so he has to focus. Plates go out, plates come back, feedback is given for all fucking tables except Egbert’s, and, Dirk is pretty pleased to note, not a single thing comes back to be redone, not even the steak. Perfect.
It doesn’t hit him that Egbert is still here until there’s a lull in the orders, and he can catch his breath for a second.
“He’s been here for a while,” Dirk finally says, noting that there’s absolutely no dessert plate, empty or not, coming back from Egbert’s table. This is just an aside to Rox, who simply shrugs.
“He’s uhm, savoring it, I guess? As he should,” they add with a grin. “It’s Janey’s best. I’mma bring him some coffee, though. On the house, you think, boss lady?”
“Mmhm,” Jane agrees, though Dirk is willing to bet she hasn’t paid attention to a single word Roxy has said this entire time. The last couple of hours of service tend to be busier for her than for the rest of them, but she has a somewhat capable assistant, and Dirk knows enough about dessert to know that he shouldn’t be involved in that at all. Especially Jane’s desserts.
“Hey, asshat,” Karkat breaks in, palm slapping against the wall. “We still got two more mains to go, last ones of the night. You gonna talk like some old fucking ladies the whole time or are we going to finish this shit so I can go home?”
“Finish this shit,” Dirk says dutifully. The last two courses of the night need to get the same attention as the first, and Dirk isn’t a fan of sloppiness, least of all for himself.
And if he shoves the last plate over at Karkat a little pointedly, to show that the shit is, in fact, finished, that’s his own business. Tragically, it doesn’t help him any with getting the hot goss, given that Roxy is still in the dining room and Jane is dealing with the very last dessert orders, but it does let him linger near the door, a bit closer to it than he really should, to look at John Egbert contemplating his empty plate before offering Roxy a smile and a wink as they take it.
Gross, flirting.
He darts out of the way as Roxy enters the kitchen, though, giving them a tilt of the head in question, and receiving a thumbs up in return. No time to interrogate, though, because they’re heading right back out to pass the check over and Dirk has to give up his spot by the doors. Not by choice, let it be known; Karkat physically drags him away.
So Dirk only catches the barest glimpse as Egbert makes his way out, startled blue gaze meeting his own for just a moment before it drifts back to his phone, and John Egbert’s out the front door within seconds. He’s got no right to be unreadable. And, more to the point, he has no right to make Dirk feel nervous. He knows he cooks well, he knows that this food is, objectively, pretty good, because everyone else in the restaurant seemed just fine with it, and also because they wouldn’t be doing well if the food was bad.
It’s just- well. Egbert’s a smiling guy. Dirk knows that. He’s a comedian, for fuck’s sake. But he wasn’t exactly smiling when he left, and that niggles at him. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but Dirk has seen (or heard) enough about happy customers to feel reasonably confident that Egbert should be one. Especially since there weren’t any issues with his food.
Or maybe Dirk is just reading too much into seeing the guy’s face for 0.2 seconds through a small window in the kitchen door on his way out. That’s also entirely possible.
There’s quiet for a moment, before Vriska lets out a low whistle, staring at her phone. Dirk’d give her shit for it but the last tables are just finishing up and they’re having a quick breather before they close; Egbert had stayed later than any of them had expected. He’d really stretched out that cake and coffee.
“Wowza,” she says. “He didn’t mince any words here.”
Son of a fuck. Dirk knew his paranoia was justified.
“What?” Dirk asks before Jane can. Even Karkat is crowding closer now, his usual rush to get home at the end of the night gone for the sake of curiosity. “What did he say? Let me see that.”
Vriska holds out her phone.
Dirk is an even-tempered man, normally. But he sees that dumb fucking tweet and he swears his vision goes absolutely red.
“Well,” he says, evenly. Jane is very quiet behind him. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not just going to lay down and take it.”
Vriska downright cackles. “Top the shit outta him in this tweet war. Masculinity so fragile or what-the-fuck-ever. Vantas, you wanna bet which one wins?”
Karkat sighs, deep. “I’m going to have to set up a fucking bail fund for this shitlicking idiot, aren’t I.”
Dirk’s read The Art of War, The Prince, and Wheel of fucking Time, and the My Little Pony novels. He knows how to win this fight, and he’s going to take no prisoners. He has no time to answer a dumb, rhetorical question when he’s busy typing out his response to Egbert’s fucking slander. John Egbert might’ve started the fight, but Dirk’s damn well going to finish it.