Chapter Text
No matter how much Enjolras tries to breathe deeply and channel Thomas Keller, he cannot deny that what he’s watching is no less than a total meltdown of his kitchen, the team at the Barricade restaurant that he has worked so hard to build and train. It is seven thirty on a Saturday night and his friends are in the weeds as they try desperately to cook faster than the orders are coming in. Enjolras, expediting on the other side of the line, is doing his best to guide them through the storm of tickets, but by this time everyone is shouting at each other, encouragement and invective and questions mixed together. It is chaos.
Combeferre, his executive sous chef and strong right arm, is supposed to be helping him expedite, but Enjolras sent him back to help Feuilly manage the twenty steaks he’ll have at any given moment on the thousand degree broiler. Courfeyrac, who’s number three and a faster cook, though far less calm and organized, is ricocheting back and forth with a sauté pan, helping put up side dishes and fish and getting in the way of the three people trying to do exactly the same thing: Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet.. Down on the end of the line Eponine and Bahorel are doing fairly well, all things considered, putting up salads and fried appetizers, but none of them are coordinating anything. Enjolras has food for five tables up in the window, but none of them are completely ready to send out
He is ready to tell Combeferre to trade places with him, to throw himself into the line and try to lead from there while the older man manages the irate customers and distraught servers pestering him about how long their tables have been waiting for food. He is about to throw a sauté pan across the kitchen and take off his apron forever. Enjolras does not do any of these things, however, because a large, callused hand falls on his shoulder and a calm, accented voice is speaking in his ear. “Calm down, lad.”
He is opening his mouth to say he doesn’t know what when Monsieur Valjean raises his voice and addresses the line. “Gentlemen, lady-” with a nod to Eponine “-I need you all stop for a moment and look at your tickets.” The kitchen goes nearly silent, with only a yelp from Joly as he drops a pan to peer at his orders. “Please give me tables 56, 42, and 31 first, and then continue as your chef directs you. You’re all doing splendidly.” A few of the cooks actually smile, though Courfeyrac is still swearing a blue streak under his breath.
Enjolras feels some of the tension leave his shoulders as Valjean lowers his voice again. “Cosette and I will pacify them with alcohol, lad, for just as long as you need to make certain the food is perfect.” And with another reassuring squeeze the elderly man is gone, and Enjolras can breathe again.
He is deeply grateful for an understanding owner who not only knows people but food as well, and for his daughter, who is sprightly and pours a strong drink. And for Combeferre, who is calling five minutes on table 56, seven on 42. Enjolras bellows for hands to run the food and three servers appear as though by magic. The tables go out and the kitchen regroups. Bahorel even laughs a little and stops threatening to fry the next person who asks him for pommes frites.
Two hours later the rush is over and Enjolras tells Courfeyrac, who’s been there since morning, that he can go home and calls Combeferre to take his place out on the expo line. As though by magic, Cosette appears with a blinding smile and four shots of Jameson, and they all knock one back. Enjolras doesn’t drink socially, hardly drinks at all, rare in a kitchen, but this night they’ve gotten through hell, and solidarity with his sous chefs- and the best bar manager in the city- is paramount.
Throat burning, he heads back to the office to change before he leaves, stopping to check on Gavroche and Azelma, who are still washing up the mountains of dishes, and Fantine, who’s even busier than usual at the pastry station. Enjolras wonders how many desserts they’re giving away tonight to placate people complaining about how long they waited for dinner. She stops rolling quenelles long enough to kiss him on the cheek and ask if he survived. When he shrugs and rolls his eyes, she pokes a macaroon into his mouth, ignoring his protests entirely.
Once he’s closed the office door firmly behind him, Enjolras sinks into the lone chair and begins unbuttoning his red double-breasted jacket. He is tempted to kick off his clogs as well, since he arrived before Courfeyrac and has been on his feet ever since, but the door opens. When he sees who it is, Enjolras bites back a curse and scrambles out of the chair, reaching for his hoodie, but Valjean waves him down. “Sit down, lad. God knows you deserve it.”
“I’m very sorry about tonight, sir,” Enjolras says, but he does sit back down as the older man closes the door behind him.
“Quite unnecessary.” Valjean gives a small, Gallic shrug and sips his glass of wine. “Five hundred people ate your food tonight, and most of them liked it.”
Enjolras is not quite sure what to say to this. He learned shortly after being hired last year that arguing with Jean Valjean is a bad idea, but Enjolras is also learning slowly that he tolerates pride in no one, least of all himself. “We are not Burger King,” the old man goes on. “People in this country need to learn that food takes time to prepare properly. Patience is a virtue, as you say.”
Enjolras looks up to see a smile crinkling around the edges of Valjean’s eyes, and he tries to smile himself, though weakly. He cannot help the deep-seated failure that he still feels over the chaos of tonight. The hand descends on his shoulder once more as Valjean continues. “You would do well to be more patient with yourself, lad. You’ve come very far very fast.”
Enjolras cannot argue with him, could not argue with Combeferre when he told him the same thing a week ago. “Thank you, sir,” he manages. He knows he is terribly young to be executive chef of anywhere, much less the newest fine dining sensation in the city, but he tries to make up for it by pushing himself even harder than he did in culinary school, as hard as he saw the chefs he staged with in France push their brigades.
“Now, you’re off tomorrow, yes?” Valjean fixes him with a piercing stare, well aware that when Enjolras is off he nearly always manages to find some pressing reason to come in to the restaurant for at least a few hours. “I don’t want to see your face all day.”
Enjolras sighs and nods, but he goes on. “And on Monday I’ve made you an appointment here.” He hands Enjolras a folded bit of paper.
Suddenly on guard, Enjolras reads it hurriedly, then once more, to be certain. “A soup kitchen?”
Valjean sets his empty glass down by the computer. “I imagine they were quite busy tonight, as well, and that none of their patrons complained about having to wait for a meal. It would do you good to see how their operation runs.”
Enjolras nods, unable to hide his dismay. What has he done that he’s being sent to a kitchen for the homeless? Valjean continues but does not really answer his puzzlement. “When I had nothing in my pockets and nowhere to go, I could always count on a hot meal at this establishment, with no questions asked and no judgment.”
This is enough to finish startling Enjolras out of his misery over the night. He knew that Monsieur Valjean has not always been a successful restauranteur, has heard Cosette tell stories about her childhood, has seen the look in Fantine’s eyes when plates of food go into the trash untouched, but he has never heard Valjean himself speak like this. “Yes, sir,” he says again, hastily. “Of course.”
“It will do you good,” Valjean repeats, sounding quite sure of himself. “Now go home so I can see how much money you made me tonight.” He is already bent over the computer, pulling up the night’s figures. Enjolras sneaks a glace at the screen as he stands, and what he sees makes him feel a bit better.
He is still quiet as he goes out, though, walking the short distance to his car and driving the few miles to his apartment without even turning on the radio. After he showers and lies in bed he cannot sleep, so he pads to the kitchen and makes himself an omelet. It is the first time he has cooked for himself alone in he cannot remember how long. He does not own a television, so he pulls Daniel Boulud’s Letters to a Young Chef off one of the bookcases and reads until he falls asleep curled on the couch, the plate forgotten on the coffee table.