Chapter Text
The windchimes above the door tinkle daintily over the noises of the kitchen when Dejun slips past the door, his expression giddy. For the most part, the kitchen staff give him a quick glance and go back to their jobs, but Kun watches as Dejun sticks an order in front of him. It isn’t unusual for Dejun to personally deliver orders rather than use the digital printer, but it’s rare for Dejun to place the order in front of Kun. Which means this is probably another one of Dejun’s matchmaking tricks.
“Before you say anything—don’t look at me like that—I think you should serve this order yourself.” Dejun nods to Kun like this is the most important thing in the world.
Kun stares at him. “In the middle of rush hour?” He deadpans.
“I’m serious!”
Sicheng moves from his spot at the garnishing station and peeks into the dining area through the small window of the kitchen. He squints a little, purses his lips, then nods to himself.
“Table 8?” Sicheng asks. Dejun nods. Sicheng turns to Kun. “You should come see this.”
Dejun scurries out of the kitchen. Kun lowers the fire on the sauce he’s making and goes to peek through the window. A majority of their tables are occupied, but only one person is sitting alone. Kun figures that’s who he’s supposed to be looking at, and as he watches the man play with the straw of his drink, Kun’s eyes light up. The chef takes in the stylishly loose clothing, the maroon-colored hair, the face that is made up of sly, defined slopes, and the notepad next to the man. An old friend had finally decided to pay a visit.
Kun decides to pull at Dejun’s leg. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”
Dejun lets out a sound of distress. He goes up to Kun and whacks his shoulder. “Are you serious? You don’t know who that is?” Kun gives him a clueless smile. Dejun stares at him with contempt. “That’s Ten Lee. He’s a really popular food critic.”
Kun hums with understanding and glances back into the dining area. Dejun peeks over his shoulder, then breaks out into song. “Ohhhhh my god he’s going to rate our restaurant,” Dejun sings, his eyes panicked. “Kun-ge, you have to be on your best behavior. Maybe it’s better that you don’t understand what we’re talking about.”
Kun goes back to his sauce with a frown. “My best behavior? I’m not a kid, I’m always on my best behavior.”
From the grilling station, Taeil laughs. “Except for when you’re tipsy, or drunk, or hungover, or in any phase of alcohol consumption.”
“Okay, well— you ,” Kun sputters and points at Taeil indignantly. “That doesn’t count. I’m not drunk right now.”
“Good,” Sicheng calls over the sizzle of shrimp Taeil freshly sets on the grill, “because you need to serve this dish.”
Kun glances at the order ticket and lets out a low whistle. “Taeil, I need you to prep a catfish. Sicheng, get ready for a Jungle Curry. If Ten Lee is such a hot-shot, it’s going to be one of our best.”
For Kun’s part, he enjoys making the curry. To be fair, he enjoys everything that has to do with Kratai Fù. Kratai Fù is the Thai-Chinese restaurant Kun had finally opened after 2 years of preparation, so what was there not to love? The restaurant was not a tourist attraction, per se, but it was already considered one of the hidden gems of Chicago only a month after opening, which was good enough for Kun. Running the risk of cliches, he poured his heart into everything involving that restaurant. Kratai Fù had become Kun’s baby born of blood, sweat, and tears, and it was a baby raised by many.
Another baby is set in front of Kun when Sicheng finishes plating the curry.
“Beautiful as always, Sicheng,” Kun praises.
“Right, thanks.” Sicheng places the rest of the order onto a jade-colored tray. “Remember: best behavior.”
Kun rolls his eyes but straightens his posture. “Do I look okay?”
“You look like a chef.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You look fine, Kun.” Sicheng pushes the tray towards him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I probably look terrible.” Kun grabs the tray and maneuvers out of the kitchen.
Kun’s shoulders relax as the heat of the kitchen is brushed away by the air conditioning in the dining area. His shoes are quiet against the bloodwood flooring as he passes the bar-style counter, where Chenle charms some customers that Kun hasn’t seen before. Dejun intercepts Kun just past the counter, his eyes sparkling with the reflection of the low-hanging, warm lights.
“Smile, show your dimples, and get us a good rating.” Dejun orders as he points discreetly to the table with Ten Lee.
Kun rolls his eyes and nods. Dejun smiles and leaves to tend to a trio of women in one of the maroon-leather booths. Kun goes to serve the food critic that was long overdue for a visit.
When Kun gets within five feet of the table, Ten snaps out of whatever thoughts kept him occupied, and he gives Kun a close-lipped smile when he sees him. Kun instinctively smiles back.
“Hello, Mr. Lee. Here’s your order of Gaeng Paa Pla Dook . I hope you will find it to your taste.” Kun sets the tray down on the table.
“Stop being so formal, chef. Your Thai still needs some work, but you’re getting better.” Ten hits Kun's arm lightly. He peers down at the contents of the tray, and he turns to Kun with a smile that scrunches his nose. “This looks delicious, though.”
Despite Ten’s insistence to lose the formalities, Kun bows with his gratitude. Ten huffs with annoyance. “Are you busy right now, Chef Qian?”
Kun glances around the restaurant. The patrons all seem happy, and Kun trusts his crew to manage without him. Speaking of the staff, when Kun glances over towards the kitchen, he catches Sicheng and Taeil duck down from the window as if they’re outlaws. Kun shakes his head fondly and turns his attention back to the food critic watching him expectantly. Kun taps his chin and pretends to think. “I’m sure the crew can hold the ship for a while. Do you have any concerns, Mr. Lee?”
Ten scoffs and tugs at the edge of Kun’s apron. “Join me for a meal, Chef.”
Kun laughs and settles into the seat across from Ten. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since we graduated.” Kun still thinks back fondly on the days where Ten begged to sneak into the culinary arts building so Kun could cook for him instead of having the same cheap instant-ramen.
Ten stares at him with faux offense. “Liar. I saw you at your birthday party, which I so-graciously made room for in my schedule.” He picks up his chopsticks.
“That was 5 months ago.”
And Kun would remember. Not just because it was his birthday (obviously), but also because he and Ten had barely talked at the event, anyway. Kun was the host, but Ten was the honored guest, and one of the quirks of having a pseudo-famous friend is that you get pushed from center stage and into the wings. But that was okay. Ten had sent him a gif of a cat hugging the camera as a goodnight, along with a promise to hang out again.
Ten frowns. “It’s not my fault you’re always busy, and our schedules don’t ever match up.”
Kun relents with a smile. That much was true, anyway. Kun was never not at Kratai Fù, especially in the months before opening , and Ten was always traveling. No harm, no foul.
Ten breaks a piece of the catfish with his chopsticks and grins at Kun. “Now for the moment of truth.”
He plops the bite into his mouth, but he doesn’t chew. He lets the piece of catfish sit on his tongue for a second before he slowly starts to chew, his eyebrows set low with focus. Kun holds his breath. Ten lets out a small moan as his shoulders pull together with delight.
“That’s so good. Oh my god.” Ten sets the chopsticks down and scribbles something in his notebook. Kun doesn’t bother to try and read it. It’s upside-down, for one, and he’ll learn what the notes say soon enough.
“I’m glad you like it,” Kun says genuinely. It isn’t the first time that Ten has tried food from the Kratai Fù menu, not by a long shot. Between their college days and the 3 years after their graduation, Ten had tasted quite a few trials of what Kun wanted to show the world. This time, however, is his first time dining at the restaurant with an official menu and recipes. When Ten was first getting popular as a food critic, he had sworn off trying any more of the trials for Kratai Fù, saying he’d wait until “the godfather of my career is ready for the big stage.”
“Of course I’d like it.” Ten sets his pen down. “You’re the one cooking, after all. I did have some doubts about exactly how good it’d be, but I shouldn’t have. Masterful as always, Chef Qian.” Ten takes a sip of his water.
Kun smiles again. He finds he does that a lot when he’s around Ten. Ten continues to eat his meal methodically, and while it's one of the oddest things to Kun—to see someone take apart his food for more than just eating purposes—he keeps his old friend company. Ten finishes the meal with spices and compliments-to-the-chef coating his tongue. He keeps the conversation going as he takes his time gathering his things, the tales about his visit to Thailand spilling like ganache, and he throws a kiss over his shoulder as he leaves.
Kun takes it upon himself to take Ten’s tray and dishes back to the kitchen. When he enters, he sets the tray down next to the sinks, and that’s all the time Dejun gives him before he crowds him.
“What was that? Do you know Ten Lee?” Dejun presses.
“I went to college with him. We were roommates,” Kun says, the same way he would reassure that he turned off all the lights before closing.
The statement itself was a small lie. They had been a bit more than roommates.
“You were what? And you never told me? Kun-ge!” Dejun whines. “I’m always out of the loop with this. I bet Chenle knew.”
Chenle, with his uncanny timing, had just entered the kitchen. “I did know. But only because I saw him at Kun-ge’s birthday party. Weren’t you there?”
Dejun throws his hands up. “No! I got the flu that week. This is terrible.”
While Dejun shakes his fist at Kun, Kun smiles at him. He’s reminded about what he likes about cooking, and running a restaurant, and just being with people he adores. He thinks that everything is pretty okay. Maybe even better than okay.
About a week later, Kun realizes it’s really not okay. Kratai Fù was not a place bursting with business, but there was always a steady flow of customers, and after the first week of opening, Kun didn’t let his worries about the future of his business eat at him. Except for now.
“There was a decline in the predicted profit this week,” Sicheng tells him after closing on a Friday night.
“How much?” Kun leans against the counter in the dining area, scratching at the jade tiles of the countertop.
“Like…” Sicheng pauses. “Compared to the last three weeks? We’ll have to split buying ingredients with paying off the kitchen appliances for at least another week. We should’ve been able to pay those off this week. Paychecks are due next week, too.”
“Oh.” Kun breathes out. His shoulders tense with the implications. “That’s a problem.”
“Yeah.”
Kun turns his head to look at the small fish pond in the corner of the restaurant. Oh, to be a fish in a small fish pond in the corner of a restaurant.
Kun lets his head droop down, ignoring the ache in his neck for the sake of theatrics. How could he let this happen? Kun tries to think back on the past week. Had there been any instance that could tarnish Kratai’s Fù reputation that badly?
Well... there was one instance that Kun had pushed to the back of his mind. Two days after Ten’s visit, there was a series of people who had come to the restaurant and requested to talk to Kun. He had, obviously, complied with their request, but he could tell that they were trying to test him. For what, exactly, he didn’t know, but there was a girl who had come in with a friend, and she had been the most obvious in her distaste. She had asked to talk to Kun, like so many before her, but rather than try to be pleasant, she had insulted not only the food, but the restaurant as a whole. Kun was really about to kick her out, but he could tell she was the type of person who was out for him, and he didn’t need Kratai Fù to suffer for his temper. Restaurants deal with difficult people all of the time. Kun was just lucky to make it this far without having to deal with them himself. He politely, but firmly, asked her to leave the restaurant if she was so displeased. Before she and her friend had left, the girl had muttered “Ten was right.”
In hindsight, it really should’ve been a red flag, but Kun was flustered and trying not to make a bigger scene, so he had ignored it. Now facing a decline in his business, he also had to face the music.
Kun finally lifts his head up. “Did anyone ever watch Ten’s review?” He asks. Ten had texted him the link to the review, but Kun had been too busy tugging at the undetected failing of his restaurant to actually watch it. Figures.
Sicheng glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I didn’t.”
Kun pulls his phone out of his pocket. He opens the text from Ten, his fingertips numb with apprehension. “I guess it’s time to see what Ten Lee has to say.”