Setting the Scene (5)

Bitter.

Disgustingly bitter.

The omelet had notes of bitter melon and grapefruit mixed with kale and broccoli florets – a dreadful combination. There might’ve been some swiss cheese too, but I couldn’t tell over the menagerie that assaulted my tongue. Did they just finely chop a bunch of random ingredients and throw them in a pan? Sure, there were probably some countries back in my world that did so, but at least they had the decency to hide it behind spices.

Basically, this was bad, plain and simple.

“Are you enjoying your meal?” The hostess came over once again, disrupting my thoughts. She had a cherry smile on her face, but not once did she try to meet my gaze.

Silently, I cut another piece and held it out, like a father feeding his child. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“A-ah, no thanks! I already ate some breakfast today. I wouldn’t dare try to steal yours.”

“No, no, no. I insist.” Don’t think you can get out of this! I moved my fork closer to her mouth, not bothering to hide my deadpan expression.

Tears began to pool down her face until… “I-I’m sorry! I should’ve tried to stop you!” she bowed, squirming away to hide behind a chair.

I let out a sigh, resting my cheek in my hand. “So you know it’s bad, right?”

“Well… yes… but–”

“And you know this is why nobody eats here?”

“Um… yes…”

“So, why not hire a different chef? Even an amateur would at least make it tasteless.” I wasn’t planning to be so confrontational, but that omelet continued to linger, souring my mood.

“Well… um… you see… the thing is…” she hemmed and hawed for what felt like minutes. “The chef is… my dad.”

“...and? Why does that stop you from telling him?” I didn’t see her point. This was a hotel restaurant. It might not bring in as much as the hotel itself, but I had to imagine it was still a decent chunk of change. Was she trying to keep it as a money pit? As a streamer, even I knew when to make the difficult choice to let someone go.

“Look, I know he can’t taste anything, but he’s really skilled with his hands. He’s trying so hard, and I don’t want to tell him that it’s terrible, so I–”

“Wait, slow down,” I stopped her. “So, you’re telling me the whole reason is that you didn’t want to make your father feel bad?” What kind of reasoning was that? Sure, moral support was good and all, but this was a flat out lie – one to her father’s detriment.

It seems like I have to be the one to tell him.

“Well, I guess you can put it that way, but it’s much more compli– hey, where are you going?!” I stood up, shuffling past the hostess towards the kitchen entrance. “Stop! You can’t go back there! Are you listening to me?!?”

Wham!

I opened the door with such force that it accidentally slammed into the wall. The kitchen was laid out along a single line – the appliances on one side and the food storage on the other. A middle-aged man, most likely the hostess’s father, stood near the center, leaning his back against one of the refrigerators across from the stovetop. The loud noise made him jump slightly, turning to face me.

“Um, hello sir,” he began in a hoarse, yet clear tone. “I’m sorry but you can’t be in here.”

I have to remember to be cordial right now. He’s not at fault. “My apologies, and I know. I’m just here to–”

“I said wait!!!” the hostess pushed past my side, trying to cover my mouth.

“H-huh? Maeva, what are you…”

“I-It’s nothing, dad! Just a rowdy customer who’s–”

“Hey, stop it! I’m trying to–” I tried to refute, but Maeva, the hostess, spoke over me once again.”

“Yes! I know you want to eat more of his delicious food, so let me–”

“Excuse me, but…”

“Stop putting words in my mouth! I’m trying to–”

“Yes! I know you want to give your compliments to the chef, and now you have! Let me take you back to your–”

“Please, you two…”

“Let me speak–”

“Of course! We can talk more outside the kitchen so–”

“BOTH OF YOU STOP AND SIT DOWN!”

“Yes.” “Yes father.” Maeva’s father yelling was so forceful, I immediately sat on my knees. His anger reminded me of my girlfriend when she was mad, though hers was accompanied by a terrifying smile. On the other hand, Maeva’s father stood there with his arms crossed, rubber spatula in one hand, his finger tapping against the other.

“So… what’s your name, boy?” he said, much calmer than before.

“Puck.”

“So, Puck, why did you come barging into the kitchen?”

“I can explain–”

“I didn’t ask you Maeva.” His voice grew sharp, silencing anything she had to say. “So, why don’t you explain what’s going on?”

In a handful of words, I told him about the omelet and the state of the restaurant.

“...so, my food tastes too bitter, is that it? So, this is why you never let me meet the customers whenever we have any, Maeva.” He let out an annoyed sigh, pinching his temples.

“You have trouble tasting things? Or that’s what your daughter said,” I asked meekly.

“Haven’t thought about it, but now that you mention it, I am adding a lot more things than I used to. Though, Maeva didn’t seem to have a problem with it, right?”

“Y-yes father! Um, I mean dad…” her voice cracked. That was such an obvious lie; her father noticed too.

“Haah… thank you for letting me know. I can’t believe I had to hear it from a guest rather than my own daughter, but it is how it is. I’m guessing you're a chef, Puck?”

“Not at all,” I told him honestly. “I know how to cook a few things and that’s it.”

“That makes you as much of a chef as anyone else in my books.”

“Ha ha…” I gave a strained laugh. I’m pretty sure that’s an insult to chefs.

“Hmm… let’s do this then. How about you cook me an omelette? I’ll record the ingredients and amounts, and then I can adjust if I need to.”

“Dad…” Maeva disapproved. Of course, I did as well… right? My heart raced at the idea, so I was unsure.

“D-don’t you have anyone else you can ask?” I managed to choke out.

“Well, my daughter can’t cook for the life of her, and why would I hire a chef when I got one right here?” He spoke as if it was obvious.

I hesitated, but at the same time, I wanted to do it. But why…?

Oh. A live demonstration that made your mouth water. A show with entertaining tricks and tips. Throw in a flourish for good measure, and you had a cooking stream.

Streaming: my escape from and tether to reality. Somewhere I could hide behind a mask, yet as the years wore on, my real self seeped through. Call it a gateway drug, unhealthy addiction, or whatever, but it made me me, not the boy trapped behind the swaying noose.

So, before I could even formalize my thoughts, my mouth answered for me.