Heidi Kim

The morning at Flavium was buzzing with an unexpected energy. Mr. Laurent, usually a picture of calm efficiency, paced the kitchen like a caged tiger. Emily and Damien were whispering conspiratorially, their eyes darting towards the entrance. Even Bea, the usually cheerful waitress, looked nervous.

“What's going on?” I whispered to Vina, who was meticulously plating a dish of buttered shrimp.

She shrugged, her brow furrowed. “No idea. Mr. Laurent's been acting weird all morning.”

Just then, the door swung open, and a tall, imposing figure entered the restaurant. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, his face stern and expressionless. A hush fell over the dining room.

"Mr. Laurent," he said, his voice deep and authoritative. “A table for one, please.”

Mr. Laurent practically bowed. “Certainly, sir. Right this way.”

The man followed Mr. Laurent to a secluded table in the corner, and the kitchen erupted in a flurry of whispered conversations.

“Who was that?” Damien asked, his eyes wide.

“He looked important,” Emily replied. “Like, really important.”

I had a strange feeling about this. Something in the man's aura, the way he carried himself, screamed ‘food critic.’ And not just any food critic. This one felt… different.

“I think we have a food critic customer,” I murmured to Vina.

She looked up, her eyes widening. “A critic?”

“I am certain. Critics never announce when they will come; they want to catch us messing up so they can post it on their blogs.” I replied. “And I have a feeling this one is going to be… discerning. Someone hard to impress.”

“Uhm, d-do you want any drink to start, sir?” Marco suggested, his voice a bit too high-pitched.

The man, after a brief glance at the menu, simply said, “Surprise me.”

Marco’s face paled. “S-surprise you, sir?”

The man, a tall imposing figure with eyes that seemed to bore into Marco's soul, repeated, his voice firm, “Yes. Present me with your chef's best work. And I want it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

Marco, already sweating, stammered, “O-okay, sir, I’ll tell the chef to prepare it right away.”

He rushed to the kitchen, his face a mask of panic. “Chef Heidi! He wants… he wants you to choose his meal!”

I felt a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. “What? But I don't know what his preference is. Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing, he just said to surprise him and make it fast.’

I felt a cold dread creeping into my bones. “Suprise what? Does he like meat, seafood, is he vegetarian? I don't know what to choose!”

Suddenly, Vina placed a calming hand on my shoulder. “Heidi, relax, it's going to be okay.”

Vina, ever the strategist, stepped forward. “How about we do the Shrimp Scampi pasta? It's elegant, light, and showcases our fresh seafood.”

I hesitated. It was a beautiful dish, a symphony of flavors and textures, but...

“What if he's expecting something more… substantial? Something that packs a punch?”

Vina smiled, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. “We can always follow it up with a tasting menu. But for the first course, let's go with this. It's unexpected, and it'll definitely get his attention. Besides,” she added with a wink, “a bit of intrigue never hurt anyone.”

I nodded, feeling a surge of confidence returning. “You're right. Let's do it.”

The kitchen, usually a symphony of organized chaos, fell into a focused silence. I directed the line, my voice firm and confident. “Okay, let's move!”

Vina, a whirlwind of motion, began sautéing garlic and shallots in a pan, the aroma filling the air. I expertly peeled and deveined plump, juicy shrimp, their pink flesh glistening. The scent of lemon zest and fresh parsley filled the air, a tantalizing preview of the dish to come.

Damien, his earlier nervousness forgotten, carefully tossed the pasta in the pan, ensuring each strand was coated in the fragrant sauce. The kitchen staff, sensing the importance of this dish, worked with a newfound efficiency, their movements precise and synchronized.

As the pasta simmered, I added a touch of white wine to the pan, the alcohol evaporating quickly, leaving behind a delicate sweetness. Finally, I tossed in the sautéed shrimp, the flavors melding together in a symphony of taste.

The finished dish was a masterpiece, a vibrant plate of glistening pasta, adorned with plump shrimp, a sprinkle of fresh parsley, and a drizzle of olive oil. It was a dish that not only looked beautiful but also promised an explosion of flavors.

As Marco carefully carried the plate toward the dining room, I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. This was more than just a dish; it was a testament to our passion, our skill, and our dedication to culinary excellence. Now, all we could do was wait, holding our breath, hoping that the critic would appreciate the artistry and passion that had gone into its creation.

The man, a figure of imposing stillness, examined the plate with a disconcertingly long, almost predatory gaze. Then, he took a small, deliberate bite.

He chewed slowly, his expression inscrutable, his eyes narrowed as if trying to decipher the nuances of the dish. The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of cutlery against plates from other tables.

Then, without another word, he put down his fork and simply stood up, his movements as deliberate and controlled as a stalking cat.

A wave of dread washed over the kitchen. Did he hate it? Was he offended?

He nodded curtly at Mr. Laurent, his eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second, a chillingly emotionless gaze that sent shivers down my spine. Then, he turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving behind a trail of bewildered whispers and a suffocating silence.

“Oh no,” Vina whispered, her face pale. “Did he hate it?”

“I don't know,” I said, my voice trembling. “He didn't even finish.”

Mr. Laurent looked like he was about to faint. “Shit. I… I don't know what to do. I-I’m sorry, Heidi.”

The rest of the day was a tense affair. The staff walked on eggshells, the kitchen unusually quiet. Vina kept apologizing, blaming herself for suggesting the scallops.

“Maybe he wanted something more… hearty,” she fretted, her voice laced with anxiety. “Something with meat. Or even a risotto? God, I’m so stupid for suggesting the dish.”

“It's not your fault, Vina,” I reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Your suggestion was good. We did our best. Besides,” I added, trying to inject a note of optimism, “maybe he was just…contemplative.”

But the anxiety lingered. What if the critic wrote a scathing review? What if he savaged our reputation, reducing it to dust and ashes? What if this one meal, this one enigmatic customer, could shatter all our dreams?

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache. I checked my phone, expecting to see a barrage of negative reviews online. But to my surprise, there was nothing.

I decided to check the restaurant's social media pages. And that's when I saw it.

A post from the critic, a renowned food blogger with a massive following.

“Flavium: A Hidden Gem. The Shrimp Scampi pasta was a revelation – a symphony of flavors that danced on my palate. The shrimp were perfectly cooked, the pasta al dente, and the sauce was simply divine. It was a dish that I would be dreaming about for weeks to come. The whispers around town about the ‘Flavium Power Couple’ are true. The passion and creativity in every dish are undeniable. A must-visit for any discerning palate.”

I stared at the screen, disbelief slowly giving way to elation.

“Vina!” I shouted, jumping out of bed. “You have to see this!”

Vina rushed into my room, her eyes wide with worry. “What is it? Wait… is this?”

I handed her my phone. “Read it.”

Vina read the review, her face slowly breaking into a wide grin. “He… he liked it?”

“He loved it,” I said, grinning. “And he even mentioned us!”

Vina squealed, pulling me into a tight hug. “I'm so happy for us!” She spun me around, laughter bubbling up.

"Uhm Vina, maybe a little easier on the spinning?" I giggled, trying to catch my breath.

“Oops, sorry!” she said, setting me down gently. “Let's go tell the others!”

The news spread through the kitchen like wildfire. The staff erupted in cheers, champagne corks popping like celebratory gunfire. Mr. Laurent, beaming, ordered a round for everyone.

“To a successful review!” he boomed, raising his glass.

Cheers erupted, glasses clinking. As I toasted with Vina, I felt her hand, warm and surprisingly firm, on my waist.

“See?” she said, grinning. “I told you it would be a success.”

“Remind me again who was the one who kept apologizing yesterday because she thought the dish she suggested was a failure?” I said, jokingly.

“Tch, please, like you weren’t panicking as well.” She retorted back. I rolled my eyes in response.

Vina clinked her glass against mine. “Well, we did it,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “We impressed the critic.”

“We certainly did,” I agreed, still buzzing from the adrenaline.

That night, as we sat in the kitchen, cleaning up after the dinner rush, the weight of the past few days finally lifted. We talked about the critic, about the dish, about the unexpected turn of events.

“I still can't believe he mentioned us,” Vina said, shaking her head. “The ‘Flavium Power Couple.’”

I chuckled. “I know, right? It's kind of… embarrassing.”

Vina leaned closer, her eyes twinkling. “But also, kind of… exciting.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat. She was looking at me with a mixture of admiration and something else… something deeper.

“Exciting?” I echoed, my voice barely a whisper.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, exciting. Don't you think?”

I couldn't find the words to answer, lost in the intensity of her gaze. The kitchen, usually filled with the sounds of clattering dishes and lively banter, was eerily quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic beat of my own heart.

Vina leaned closer still, her breath fanning my face. “You know,” she whispered, her voice husky, “that 'shipping' thing? Maybe it's not so bad if we could...”

“Could what?”

“Heidi…”

“Vina…”

My heart skipped a beat. She was so close, I could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. I wanted to lean in, to close the distance between us, to taste the sweetness of her lips.

But before I could, the door swung open, and Mr. Laurent walked in, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Enjoying the after-hours romance, you two?” he asked, his voice teasing.

Vina and I jumped apart, our faces burning.

“Mr. Laurent!” I exclaimed, flustered. “W-what are you doing here?”

He chuckled. “Just making sure you two aren't doing anything inappropriate in the kitchen, we wouldn’t want this place to be unsanitary. Besides,” he added, winking, “I wouldn't want to miss the next episode of ‘The Flavium Power Couple.’”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Mr. Laurent!”

Vina couldn't help but laugh. It seemed like there was no escaping the ‘shipping’ now. But as I looked at Vina, her face flushed with embarrassment, I realized that maybe it wasn't so bad. In fact, it might even be kind of fun.