1. Blaine's POV

Reporters always ask excellent, popular chefs what they think of food critics. Now personally, I think all of their responses are a load of shit. They're popular, so they've got a good reputation in the community. If one critic gives them a bad review, they're more likely to be written off as a pretentious douchebag. But what the chefs won't tell you is that when they first got into the business, when they first put on that name-badge and tacked their "OPEN" sign to the wall, critics were their worst enemies.

And I'd like to think I'm a nice guy, you know? I'd like to think that I can try to see the best in everyone, that I can be positive. But the truth is, I'm not any different. I hate food critics. I've come pretty close to stabbing just about every one that walks through my door. They try to be inconspicuous, but their true purpose always shines through in the end. They're mean and entitled, and if you mess up one fucking thing, they'd react as if someone had just wedged bamboo planks under their nails.

My dad was in the business, too. He owned your stereotypical pizza place in central Chicago before we relocated to Ohio, and I still remember the horror stories he used to tell. I probably should have listened to him, but then I was told a little white lie by a small-town real-estate agent that was just trying to make a profit.

He said, and I quote, "It's not as hard to start a business nowadays because of the internet. Everyone's a critic, and no one believes nobody."

Lies. So many lies, just to trick me into buying a little street-corner excuse for a restaurant. And was it worth it? Maybe. I do like cooking, and running Bella Vita has quickly become a passion of mine. But I also make very little money, thanks to the critics that come into my restaurant every week and tear down my recipes and concoctions and post those insults to their fucking "foodie" blogs. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Honestly, I don't know if that's because I lived three-fourths of my life with the policy "food is food, man," or because I kind of fell in love with one of the people I'd come to hate.

///

Beep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. BEEP.

I rolled over with a groan, slammed my fist into the "snooze" button of my alarm clock, and promptly smooshed my face into my pillow. Four o'clock was too early for me, as it always was, but if I wanted to have fresh baked breakfast-foods ready by the time eight rolled around, I'd need to be cooking at five. Small sacrifices, I guess.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed, tapped my toes lightly on the cat when he slinked around my ankles in greeting, and stood up before I could convince myself that lying down for another thirty minutes wouldn't be detrimental to my routine.

It was still dark out, so I didn't have to worry about blinding myself when I twisted open the blinds and looked down at the Columbus, Ohio skyline, and even though it was quite pretty, I felt unimpressed. I yawned a couple of times, rubbed at the sleep in my eyes, and went to fish out a white t-shirt and pair of clean slacks from my dresser.

Showering was honestly the trickiest part of the morning. Nobody ever tells you showers are death traps, because no one wants to have to be around a person with a phobia of bathing that prevents them from having a sense of personal hygiene, but it's true. Showers are death traps. It's why your parents put the little no-stick duckie patterned mat down when you were a kid - they didn't want you to crack your skull open.

Add in a little bit of casual, yet persistent, sleep deprivation, and you've probably got a good idea of what happened when I stepped into the shower, put my foot in a puddle of liquid soap, and then tried to move around.

After that fiasco, I stumbled into my closet of a kitchen (okay. It might not have been that small, but I was spoiled, what with my big restaurant kitchen and all its bells and whistles), to eat something so I wasn't tempted to sample the food I'd be making.

Instead, I realized I was in drastic need of a trip to the grocery store, settled on a poptart (how the hell did those end up in my kitchen?), and ran out of the apartment.

Bella Vita was in the center of the entertainment area of Columbus; the place where all the clubs and the restaurants and the movie theaters were smooshed together in a big melting pot of crazy. I moved through the streets quietly, trying to pretend that I didn't notice a very drunk couple fucking in the dip between a couple buildings, and that all the people who walked past me looked exhausted and smelled like smoke. Yeah, what prime real-estate I invested in.

Sometimes I think that's why my brother Cooper insists on calling me "Moron" more often than he calls me "Blaine".

I entered the restaurant through the back and hung up my coat. It was dark, felt dark even after I flipped the light on and everything was washed in a yellow luminescent glow, but I managed to weave my way around the developing disassembled packing box graveyard to the kitchen. I set down my things, scrubbed my hands thoroughly in the sink, and looked around at the quiet kitchen before deciding I needed background noise and pulling out my iPod. I set it on the dock in the corner and got to work, humming along to whatever happened to come on.

///

My employees began to arrive at seven thirty. I had seven in total, and, in a way, I wasn't actually looking forward to the day when I had to hire new people. The idea of having something that wasn't small and unknown felt impersonal.

The first to arrive was Santana, the bartender, who slunk through the back door with a casual "I'm here, Blanderson, not that you give a fuck," and she stormed into the main dining hall to slide over the bar like she did every day and start cleaning the glasses she'd been too lazy to finish the night before.

I stifled a laugh and returned my hands to my mixing bowl, carefully mixing the excess flour into the dough. I could always count on Santana to be the kind of bitch that was actually pleasant to have around, and I couldn't dream of firing her, even if she refused to do any extensive work until noon hit and she opened the bar for business.

Brittany flitted in behind here. "Hi Mr. Blaine!" she said happily. "How's your morning?"

"Good," I said. "Yours?"

"I caught Lord and Lady Tubbington sniffing glue in the oven again," she said solemnly. "I think they feel neglected." She grabbed her hair and held it behind her head as she leaned over the biscotti dough, and spoke very quietly. "I think they might even be suicidal."

I forced a weak smile and Brittany eventually left to go tidy up the hostess podium.

The rest of the staff arrived in a flurry of panic - two of my waiters, Tina and Puck, roomed together. Puck had allegedly turned off Tina's alarm clock, causing them both to oversleep and have ten minutes to get out of their apartment. The third waitress, Sugar, came in looking like she'd been hanging around a club all night (which she probably had been), and my assistant chef walked through the door ten minutes before opening.

"Sam!" I bellowed when he came into my line of sight, "You can't just come and go as you please! I'm paying you - I expect you to show up every now and again, understood?"

Sam ducked his head, and I felt a little twinge of guilt. He was actually one of my best friends, being co-workers aside, and sometimes it sucked that I had to separate my friendship with him from work. "Yeah," he said quietly, "I know."

"Great!" I said quickly, itching to move on to other topics, "Put on an apron and get to work. Last time I checked, there were already a few people hovering outside."

Sam nodded and hurried over to the sink. I sighed and went back to kneading.

In total, our breakfast "rush" consisted of around six parties, with an average of two people each. All of them were faces I recognized, the nice people who had bothered to give a rat's ass about my dinky little Italian bistro and come in for a try. Days like that were frustrating, because I felt like my work was going unrecognized. I had put all of this money into a damn restaurant, and I got nothing...

I stopped myself before I worked myself up and knocked over another bottle of olive oil. That was never pretty.

Besides. I didn't know it, but my restaurant was well on its way to becoming one of the most popular in the area.

///

The most complicated order I received that afternoon was from table fifteen; a linguini and clam sauce coupled with a slice of cheesecake and raspberry topping. I took special care with it, as those were two things on the menu I didn't often get the chance to make. I didn't think much more of it than that, and Sugar was in and out of the kitchen with the plates before I could even bat an eye. That was when it happened.

I think it's safe to say that in my life, there haven't been a lot of super spectacular moments that leave me breathless and amazed, but this was one of them.

I saw Sugar come back into the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, and I was confused, because I hadn't yet dinged the bell for the meal I had moved on to. "Is something wrong?" I asked offhandedly, though I suspected that it wasn't really anything of the uppermost importance, because there was a smile spread across her face.

"Table fifteen would like to compliment you in person," she beamed. "The sounds he was making when I left? Orgasmic."

I stopped in my tracks. "Really?"

She nodded erratically. "I'm pretty sure he'd sleep with the pasta if he was given the chance."

It took all of ten seconds to process what was being said to me before I called out, "Sam, can you cover for me for five minutes?"

I didn't bother to look over my shoulder, because I knew the answer was yes, and that I didn't have to worry. I followed Sugar out into the dining room.

She pointed to a table that seated a single person, a man, with his face ducked out of view. He was eating at a slow pace, almost like he was savoring each bite completely before swallowing, which was something that I had to appreciate. When I was an appropriate distance away from him, I spoke. "I take it you're enjoying the pasta?"