Chapter Text
Heavy rain plagued the streets of Soho. Mist and fog obscured the buildings as they climbed towards the sky like gouache on a grey wash. The torrential downpour blurred the structural lines of the surrounding architecture into something soft and impressionistic. Those pedestrians who found themselves caught up in it were trying to escape in wisps of undefined black umbrellas and coats flapping in the harsh wind. Charcoal gestures. Central London had become an immersive watercolor.
Despite the weather, most of the stores remained open. The sidewalks were crowded with bodies huddled up underneath the shop overhangs, and people were calling friends or taxis to pick them up. The harsh light of phone screens was a shock against the muddled neutral tones of wet concrete and darkening brick. The low rumble of the storm and occasional slushing of a passing car were enough to drown out the cacophony of irritated conversations.
A black Bentley swerved into an available parking spot on the street, sending up a wave of water as it did. Crowley stepped out of the vehicle and stared up at the sky with a harsh scowl as if he had just now noticed the weather. He brought his coat up over his head and hopped onto the sidewalk. Once under the overhang, an older man admonished him on his reckless driving.
“You should be more careful, young man. You nearly drenched us all!”
He looked him up and down and gave him a quizzical look.
“You’re already wet. Everyone’s wet. Haven’t you noticed?”
The old man was at a visible loss for words at his response. Crowley continued on without further comment or courtesy and into the restaurant just a few feet away.
A bell over the door rang to announce his presence. He pointedly turned his head to stare up at it as if it had personally insulted him. Bad weather usually put him in something of a foul mood, and any small thing could cause him a great bit of irritation when he got like this.
“Welcome. Please, sit anywhere you like.”
A clear and well-enunciated voice ushered him in. He lowered his eyes again to look for the source. There was a gentleman behind the counter in the back reading a newspaper, the latter having been folded and lowered as he rose to his feet. Crowley didn’t get much of a look at him before he sank into a booth near the entrance. He took a moment to peel the wet jacket from his shoulders and toss it onto the cushion beside him. A menu appeared before him and he took it without glancing up.
“Our special today is duck à l’orange with a bigarade sauce on a bed of sauteed greens. The soup-”
He looked up at the waiter with the intention of cutting him off, but was too surprised to properly do so. The man beside him did not look to be wearing any sort of uniform, in fact his camel-colored trousers were slightly mismatched to his worn beige waistcoat and cream tartan bow tie. His hands were clasped calmly in front of him and he still wore his reading spectacles low on his nose. He could have been some ordinary bloke from the antique store next door who had just wandered in to tell him the specials.
He did so with no urgency. His voice had the same smoothness and warmth as two fingers of whiskey.
“What do you recommend?” Crowley asked cooly once he was done, giving the menu a very casual once-over. He’d initially thought this was a French restaurant, but there were some menu items from other regions listed too. Bit of a confusing aesthetic.
“Well, on a day like this,” the waiter said softly, turning to regard the rain with lidded eyes, “I would go for something comforting, wouldn’t you? The coq au vin is quite popular.” The man turned to him and delivered a smile so radiant he briefly forgot it was pouring outside. Crowley surprised himself by twitching a compulsory smile back and handing over the menu.
“That, then. And a double espresso to start.”
The man took back the menu and returned to the kitchen, and Crowley checked his watch. It was just past one, and he didn’t have to be anywhere for another few hours. He swiveled in his seat to throw his arm over the back of it and get a better view of the venue.
Everything was dark wood and mahogany and white crown molding. Burnt sienna brick and exposed beams. The sconces on the walls were iron-wrought candle holders, and overhead there were a few small chandeliers in the same style. Overall, the lighting inside was dim, and the blue tones from the rainy windows seemed bright in comparison.
The furniture was all mismatched; Crowley sat in only one of three uniform booths along the wall. The rest were well-used armchairs and loveseats pushed against tables of different heights, some tucked away in nooks and surrounded by bookshelves. Initially, he'd thought he was alone in the restaurant, but who knew how many students crunching for finals or snoozing old ladies there could be hidden in these secret crannies. There were a series of brick archways that divided the restaurant in half, and past it appeared to be more seating, or perhaps an event space. He couldn’t tell from his current angle.
The whole place had a very comfortable feeling to it. Traditional, but cozy. Cluttered, but organized in its chaos. He’d seen pictures online in his brief search, but nothing compared to seeing the real thing for oneself.
Moments later, the waiter (he assumed must be the maître d') came by with his espresso in a demitasse cup and set it down with a smile. He continued his observation of the space before he grew bored and sipped at his espresso while watching the people outside.
Five minutes turned into ten, and then twenty, and about half an hour passed and he hadn’t seen or heard anything about his food. The waiter hadn’t returned for him to even inquire about it. It was almost two when he finally got his meal.
“Thank you so much for your patience,” the maître d' said to him softly as he placed his plate in front of him. “I hope you enjoy it.” Somehow, that had been the most genuine delivery of these words Crowley had ever heard. It was almost suspicious; in fact he briefly wondered if the food had been poisoned. But he brought a forkful to his lips, and even if it was he couldn’t stop himself from taking a second bite. And a third.
He closed his eyes. The braised chicken nearly melted in his mouth, and the wine cooked down with garlic and onion and mushrooms had such depth. It was transformative. Something else was giving it a bit of unctuousness. A fourth bite, and he determined it must be bacon. More importantly than the taste, it was exactly what the waiter had promised: comforting. He'd tasted dishes like it, but hadn't felt similar to this in a long time. He was transported somewhere, no longer sitting in a small restaurant in Soho, but a little French cottage where a distant but loving relative had just finished slow-roasting a bird for his arrival. This dish was made with care, and with love.
He opened his eyes again and turned to look behind him. The waiter was back at his seat behind the counter and had already picked up his newspaper again. They were surprisingly lax here. He wasn’t even pretending to look busy.
Crowley traced one of his canines with his tongue for a moment in consideration before he grabbed his plate and stood up, walking towards the counter in the back. The gentleman in the waistcoat looked up in mild surprise and lowered his paper.
“Oh! Is there a problem with the food?” he asked in concern. Crowley shook his head casually and pointed to a bar stool.
“Nope. Quite the opposite. May I?”
“Of course,” the man’s whiteblonde curls trembled as he busied himself to put away his paper and wipe down the counter with a towel he procured from behind the bar.
Crowley sat and resumed his meal, staring up at the man across from him.
“How long’ve you been working here…?”
“Aziraphale.”
“Aziraphale.” He finished his question, staring up at the man he intended to make small talk with.
“Oh… since it opened.”
Crowley whistled and stabbed at a carrot. “That long, huh? You and the owner must be close then.”
Aziraphale chuckled and nodded. “As close as can be. I am the owner.”
It was Crowley’s turn to snicker as he finished the carrot in his mouth while pointing his fork at the other. “Y’know, I knew it somehow. You had that look about you. Like no one’s ever told you to wear a uniform in here.”
Aziraphale seemed confused for a moment. He looked down at his clothes and smoothed his hands over his front. “Why would anyone do that? This is perfectly acceptable dress.”
Crowley’s only response was to raise his eyebrows quickly once, and he went back to his food. From this new angle, he could see past the brick archways and into the second space. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with books, and squished in between a few of them was a very worn looking antique couch. There were several tables in the middle of the floor, and towards the window there was a baby grand, which even from his distance he could see didn’t get much attention. There was a layer of dust on it, a few piles of books on the lid and even a couple on the fall board.
“Live music?” He mused curiously, jerking his head towards the piano and returning his eyes to Aziraphale. The man stared at it with an unreadable expression.
“Not so much anymore,” he said with finality. “Can I get you another espresso?”
“Nah, got a long day ahead of me, don’t want to be too wired.”
Still, Crowley could sense the desire to change the subject and he did so smoothly. They chatted about small things here and there while he finished his meal. Aziraphale was not only the owner, he was a certified sommelier. Crowley confessed that he didn’t know much about wine, just that he liked it. Aziraphale very kindly wrote down the names of a few of his favorites for Crowley to try sometime, assuring him that he wouldn’t be disappointed. The redhead answered any questions about himself in a very noncommittal way; the most he’d let slip was that he was an only child and had a degree in Marketing but worked in a somewhat unrelated field.
The restaurant was entirely quiet save for their semi-hushed voices. Even the storm outside was muted from where he sat. It came to a point where he felt it would be nice to have an excuse to linger, so he asked to see a dessert menu. He scanned it and pursed his lips.
“Not a ton to choose from.”
“I’d like to change that someday, dessert is one of my favorite courses,” Aziraphale admitted with a small smile. “But for now, this is what we have.”
Crowley reached into his pocket to take out a cigarette and stick it between his teeth, which earned him a tut from Aziraphale.
"No smoking in here, if you please."
"You're going to make me go out in this horrible rain to enjoy a cigarette?" He replied, a weak attempt to pull a heartstring.
"If I must. I would prefer it if you didn't enjoy it at all. Terribly bad for you, those things."
To his great surprise, Aziraphale reached over and plucked it from between his lips and set it on the napkin beside his hand. No one in his entire life had done that before, and yet this gentleman did so with a courteous smile and the air of doing him a favor. He was awestruck.
After a length of silence, he picked up the menu again and cleared his throat.
“No chocolate anything. That’s surprising.”
“I’m afraid not, but I’m partial to the crepes. The third from the bottom has a hazelnut spread and cognac. It’s my personal favorite.”
“You’ve convinced me.”
The blond nodded and disappeared behind the kitchen doors again. Crowley waited for him to come back out to continue their chat, but he didn’t return. He wondered idly if he had been irritating the owner by wanting to have a conversation. He’d certainly been on the other side of that before too, so he could empathize. Or maybe he'd offended him more than he let on with the cigarette thing. Just as he’d considered sauntering back to his original booth, Aziraphale returned with the crepes and set them down.
“That smells amazing,” he conceded, putting his face down closer to get a whiff.
Aziraphale brightened and set down a fresh fork and napkin for him. “Please enjoy.”
He did, and while he ate the owner asked a few questions of his own. Just some gentle, unintrusive things, such as whether he’d seen any good films lately and if he had seen that new television show based on that book from the forties. By the last bite of his crepe, he really felt like he was catching up with an old friend. He had come in just to check out the restaurant, yet he would be walking away with an experience he would remember.
“Just the check will do me,” he conceded when Aziraphale tried to tempt him with a glass of wine he’d mentioned earlier. Clever man, trying to get a few more line items on that tab. He resisted. “Be sure to give my compliments to the chef. That was delicious.”
Aziraphale took the leather check presenter back and beamed at him. “Oh, thank you, my dear. It is always appreciated.”
Crowley stared at him, then past him at the kitchen doors. There was no sound coming from them, and hadn’t been the entire time they’d conversed. He glanced around the restaurant more fully and realized there weren’t even any other waiters or waitresses. Not even a bus boy.
Realization dawned on him. It took almost an hour to get his food. He turned to stare at Aziraphale in bewilderment.
“You’re the head chef.”
“Yes, I am.”
“And the owner.”
“Correct.”
“And the front of house. And the sommelier.” Crowley could have laughed in his disbelief. “No one else works here?”
“Ah, well, I do have a janitorial service that comes three times a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.”
Aziraphale handed him back his change, which he accepted dumbly. Unbelievable. How could one person run and operate a restaurant by themselves? It wasn’t possible. He recovered soon enough, leaving a decent tip in the leather fold.
“Do you think you’ll ever add something chocolate to your menu?” He asked as he rose from his seat.
“Oh, I don’t have plans to at the moment.”
Crowley nodded and went back to the booth to grab his jacket. “That’s a shame. I might just come back anyway. We’ll see.” He teased the man who followed him to the door to hold it open.
“I’ll look forward to it. Have a wonderful rest of your day.”
In the middle of one of Soho's busiest streets, there were only two restaurants that could call themselves "restaurants" in the capacity that they served food and alcohol. There were coffee shops and snack stands, but only two buildings that could satisfy the itch of craving a full meal. On the east side of the street was a quaint little French bistro (or something of the sort, the aesthetic was a bit confusing) called "The Gate". The rumor was that the head chef was classically trained at Le Cordon Bleu and had at least one Micheline star. No one really knew for certain, given that the chef didn't particularly care for interviews and the restaurant had no website or social media presence. The most they had were some reviews online and a health rating sign in their window (it was an A).
Directly across the street from The Gate was a restaurant called "Ripe". It was entirely counter to The Gate's philosophy in that it lived on social media. The chalkboard out in front of the door had the happy hour specials listed with a hashtag underneath. Their health rating sign had "people love us on Yelp!" stickers, Instagram decals and familiar blue bird silhouettes trying to obscure the B rating. That didn't seem to deter the customers, who lined up every evening around four when Ripe reopened for dinner. Aziraphale always heard loud EDM blaring from their doors as he swept his small patio every night, and always clucked judgingly as the door occasionally opened and someone inevitably screamed. Too noisy over there.
Understandably, the two establishments were not on the best terms with one another. It hadn't always been this way, and it wasn't clear who threw the first stone, but at some point it was obvious that people had a choice to make about where they went to spend their money. Ripe announced "Wine Wednesdays" around the same time The Gate started doing wine tastings. The Gate set up some small speakers on the patio to play gentle classical music and soft lounge jazz in response to the thundering bass on the other side of the street. It had been small, petty things of this nature, until now.
Aziraphale was watering some of the small plants that lined the patio, humming along to Debussy as he did so. It was nice to feel the sun on his face after so many days of rain, and he was sure his hydrangeas felt the same. The sound of tires screeching alerted his attention to the street and he stopped what he was doing to look up. A black Bentley parked quickly but neatly across the street, and out of it clambered a familiar looking redhead. Oh! It had been about a week since he'd seen him. Perhaps he was back for another meal already? With no small amount of delight, Aziraphale raised his hand to wave in the man's direction, but he must have not seen him. Instead, he walked away from his shop in the direction of Ripe's doors, to his incredible remorse.
It got worse. He pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and opened the doors.
Aziraphale lowered his hand in confusion and mild hurt, but the sting grew to be unbearable as the door closed behind him and he saw the picture and large sign underneath:
"TRY OUR NEW CHOCOLATE SIN CAKE"
Aziraphale brought his watering can to his chest slowly. Here he thought he had just been making pleasant small talk with a handsome stranger. He felt like such a fool. The hurt in his chest soon bristled into justified irritation, and he rushed back inside with a curt click of the front door.
This wasn't a small, petty thing like Wine Wednesdays. This was personal. This was a declaration of war.