Disclaimer: The plot is shamelessly stolen from a movie called "No Reservations", and the characters obviously belong to the creators of Supernatural. I take no credit for anything you recognize.

Happy reading, and please leave a review if you like it =)

Chapter One

Castiel often wished that there was a recipe for life with step by step instructions telling you exactly what to do to achieve the desired results. In the kitchen he was master, his every move confident and assured. Out in the real world it was a different story.

"Castiel, the McLeods are here. They want to tell you how brilliant you are in person."

He grimaced and did not look up from the creme brulee he was finishing. If even one spot got burnt instead of lightly caramelized, he would have to toss it and start over, and if the customer complained about slow service, Naomi would reprimand the entire kitchen staff regardless of the fact that it was her fault for distracting him. "Tell them thank you but brilliant chefs belong in the kitchen."

"Oh, just say hello. It won't kill you. You know they're my best customers." Naomi's tone was still perfectly pleasant but Castiel recognized an order when he heard one.

"All right. In a minute," he grudgingly conceded.

But no sooner was the creme brulee finished and delivered, then Alfie the dishwasher bumped into one of the waiters, and a lobster destined for table two ended up on the kitchen floor. The boy apologized so profusely and frantically that Castiel didn't have the heart to get mad and just told him to clean up the mess and be more careful in the future, but a fresh lobster had to be prepared of course which held up several other orders, and then table nine ordered the quail. Apart from himself, Anna his sous chef was the only member of his staff Castiel trusted to cook the delicate bird without ruining it, and she was currently in the bathroom for what seemed like the twentieth time that night. He couldn't really be annoyed with her either. Only a complete asshole would resent an eight months pregnant woman for needing to pee, and Castiel was really a very nice person if a bit of a perfectionist.

Finally Anna returned and, with an apologetic smile, took over the quail while he hurried (but not too much) to catch the McLeods before they left. They might be Naomi's best customers, but they were Castiel's least favorite. Fergus McLeod owned a very exclusive investment firm, and his wife Rowena was a retired prima ballerina who gave dance lessons to the rich and famous. They came to Paradis at least once a week, and they both flirted with Castiel, often at the same time like some kind of pervy competition.

"Fergus sings your praises constantly," Mrs. McLeod said, laying her perfectly manicured hand on Castiel's arm and gazing coyly up at him through spiky, mascara coated lashes. "Honestly it's difficult not to get jealous. I think he'd rather eat your food than make love to me."

"Darling, don't make the man blush," her husband said while his eyes raked over Castiel from head to toe, his smile predatory. "If you ever get tired of the hustle and bustle of the restaurant business, Castiel, we'd love you to come work for us. It's so hard to find a good live in chef these days. Unless you don't mind eating Mexican every night."

"I'm very happy in my current employment," Castiel said, doing his best to keep his tone light even as he inwardly cringed. "But it's always a pleasure to cook for you both. I'll see you next week." Hoping that politeness and Naomi had been satisfied, he extricated himself and headed back to the safety of the kitchen as quickly as the crowded dining room allowed.

Unfortunately, before he was halfway there, he heard the magic words that never failed to get his back up. "… not properly cooked."

He stopped beside the table. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Castiel, let me handle this," Naomi said warningly, but it was too late.

The man who had been complaining looked at Castiel, took in his white coat, and in a feat of brilliant deduction said, "Ah. You must be the chef."

"I am."

"My wife's foie gras is underdone."

His wife looked humiliated. Castiel suspected she was the kind of person who, left to herself, wouldn't complain even if the foie gras was raw.

Ever on the side of customer satisfaction, Naomi said, "Let me get you a new appetizer, sir. On the house."

But Castiel was already in a bad mood after dealing with the McLeods. And the guy was being a jerk, embarrassing his wife over a silly matter of principle. And on top of all that, there was nothing wrong with the damn foie gras. It was supposed to have a touch of pink. Everyone who knew anything about French cuisine knew that.

"Excuse me," Castiel said, snatching the plate from Naomi and inspecting it critically. "There's nothing wrong with this. It's precisely comme il faut."

The man turned red. Obviously he did not speak French and was either too angry or too embarrassed (likely both) to ask for a translation. He threw down his napkin like it was a gauntlet and said, "That's it. We'll take our business elsewhere."

"May I suggest the hot dog stand on the corner," Castiel said dryly.

Naomi gave him a glare that would have incinerated a lesser man, but she didn't want to cause any more of a scene than they already had, so she followed him back to the kitchen before starting in on him. "How many times, Castiel? You cannot throw a tantrum every time someone doesn't like your food. He's the customer, so if he says the foie gras isn't done, it's not done. End of story."

"Oh, please," Castiel scoffed. "The man wouldn't know properly cooked foie gras if I shoved it down his throat, which you may have noticed I did not do. I think I deserve some credit for that. And the only reason I was there in the first place was that you insisted I talk to Mr. and Mrs. Stalker. Just let me stick to the food, you deal with the people, and everyone will get along just fine."

Naomi opened her mouth, presumably to continue arguing. In eight years she had never let him have the last word, but she was interrupted by Gabe the head waiter calling across the kitchen, "Phone for you, chef."

Normally Castiel would have told him to take a message. He never took calls, personal or otherwise, while he was working. But his focus was already thoroughly broken, and he wanted to get away from Naomi (he had an uncomfortable suspicion that she wasn't entirely in the wrong here), so he called back, "I'm coming."

Very few people even had his work number, but the voice on the other end of the call was a stranger's. "Is this Castiel Novak?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Deputy Connelly of the Pontiac Sheriff's Department. I'm sorry to bother you at work, Mr. Novak, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your brother James was in a car accident earlier this evening. He … He didn't survive. I'm very sorry."

The bottom dropped out of Castiel's stomach. A buzzing like angry bees filled his ears, drowning out the familiar racket of the kitchen. The deputy was still talking, but the words made no sense until one thing registered.

"… daughter was in the car too, but she was lucky. Only scrapes and bruises. The hospital wants to keep her overnight just to be sure."

"And after that?" His own voice sounded strange to him.

"Well, she'll probably be placed in a temporary foster home until you can make arrangements."

"No." Intellectually he knew there were such things as good foster homes where children were safe and even loved, but … "No. I'll fly out there tonight. Please tell the hospital that I'll be there in the morning, and they are not to discharge her into anyone's custody but mine." He had the right to demand that. He was her legal guardian now. Jimmy had given him the papers to sign a week after Claire was born, assuring that she would never be at risk of the kind of childhood they'd had.

The deputy agreed and sounded glad that Castiel was taking such an immediate interest in his niece's wellbeing. Castiel thanked him by rote and hung up the phone. Then he just stood there, staring at his blurred reflection in a gleaming copper stockpot.

A gentle hand touched his arm, and he turned to look at Anna. She was a little blurry too, and he quickly wiped his eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He opened his mouth but found himself unable to actually say the words, My brother is dead. Instead he said, "I'm going to need a few days off. F-family emergency. Will you …" He hated to ask her to fight his battles. He already demanded too much of her.

"I'll deal with Naomi," she said without waiting for him to ask.

"Thank you." He smiled weakly. "Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?"

"No, but I know." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, her enormous belly bumping his hip. "Go home, chef. I'll keep things running until you get back."

Comme il faut is French for "as it should be". In French cuisine the phrase is used to indicate that a dish has been prepared in the traditional manner with no variations.

Paradis (no I did not forget the e) is French for "heaven". It seemed an appropriate name for a French restaurant staffed by angels.

And yes, Crowley and Rowena are a couple in this story. You can't pretend they don't have a bit of a Hamlet thing going on in the show, and since this is an AU where they're not related in any way, it's not weird. I stand by that.

So what do you think so far?