Deep in the heart of the bright, blazing city , buzzing with palpable warmth and vibrancy, was a restaurant. It was a tall, sleek, building, nestled snugly between a designer clothes

shop and a posh vintage store on Allion street. But beside the Baratie, all the stores were drab and lifeless, thriving purely on the clients that wafted in from next door, after a long,

pleasurable evening. With it's warm light, soothing jazz music that just oozed class, handsome waiters and beautiful waitresses - and best of all, its first class chefs, the Baratie was

a hub of excitement, etiquette, and decorum every evening, always seeming calm and effortless...

"Where the hell is that seafood platter?! The customer ordered it 20 minutes ago, and I'm not seeing anything being given to the damn waiter that even resembles food! Did I

waste my golden years teaching you brats how to cook, so you could chat your asses off to the clouds?! NOW WHERE'S THE DAMN SEAFOOD PLATTER?"

A chorus of groans, shouts, and curses erupted from the kitchen of cooks, all glaring at the stocky, blond chef barking orders with a knitted brow and red cheeks. He wore a tall white

chefs hat, and was brandishing a glimmering knife threateningly in his fist.

"Oi gramps, don't get your knickers in a twist ; Order 546 just went out." barked a tanned, oddly dressed cook with big lips. He wore a pink neckerchief around his neck, and gold

hoops in his ears.

"Shut your mouth, Patty, Zeff ain't in a good mood this evening...don't rile the old man up..." muttered another crossly, cutting a carrot nervously.

"HA!" shouted Patty, "That bastard ain't ever in a good mood!"

CLANG!

Patty felt the unmistakable sting of a frying pan hitting the back of his skull and he whirled around, lunging at the chef beside him again. All hell broke loose once again in the

Baratie's not-so-refined kitchen - while the customers dined, blissfully unaware.

As he bent down at he waist and kissed the pale, white hand outstretched to him, the man smiled sweetly up.

"Thank you very much for coming, my lady ~ you're presence lit up my evening like the beautiful jewel you are! Have a safe trip home!"

With a light, becoming smile, and another slight bow, Sanji saw his last customer into her car, and watched as it sped away up the avenue. As soon as the vehicle disappeared, he l

et out a deep breath, and headed back through the doors of the Baratie. Inside, he slumped down on the nearest table, lit a cigarette from his pocket, and surveyed the empty

restaurant. He was completely drained, and these long working hours, heightened ever since the restaurant had got insanely popular a few months back, were taking a toll on him.

He glanced at the ticking clock above the bar.

"12.35..."

He sighed and placed his head on the table, letting his eyes close. "Better make my way home I guess..."

When Zeff emerged from the kitchen to look for the teenager an hour later, he found the boy fast asleep at one of the tables, cigarette lying by his face on the cold, glossy surface.

"Stupid little eggplant..." the old man murmured fondly, as he silently took the seat opposite his adopted son. "Who told you to work yourself

to the bone like this?"

There was a soft silence.

"If I didn't, you and those other shitty bastards would be lost." Came a muffled, tired reply from deep within swathes of suit material.

Zeff started at first, then growled. He stood up, raised a thick, wooden leg, and brought it down HARD on Sanji's head.

"OW! You BASTARD, what was that for?!" yelled Sanji, still in a half asleep state, "I only just woke up, you shitty geezer!"

The old man scoffed.

"If you're awake enough to give me that shit about 'needing' you, you're awake enough to take the rap, "he barked, as Sanji picked himself up off the floor sleepily. "Now, listen to

me, you little brat - I came here to talk with you about something." He sat back down at his seat.

"Urgh..." grumbled Sanji groggily, taking his old seat as well. "What is it?"

Zeff cleared his throat.

"I'll be brief. So listen closely - I don't feel like repeating myself." He paused for a moment, then went on. " The restaurant's thriving - you've spent half of tonight as my sous-chef,

a quarter of it waiting on tables, and the rest flirting like the shitty eggplant you are with my female clients."

Sanji raised an eyebrow, ignoring Zeff's insult, and waited for him to continue.

"Uh..and?"

"And that's not good enough. Naive as you are, you're my sous-chef, not a waiter-come-entertainer. There are more clients ordering your special dishes than there are orders

coming into the rest of the kitchen. I want you at the stove 90% of the time. So - " Zeff paused dramatically, and lent forward. "You're gonna get your own, personal waiter."

Sanji's eyes widened.

"My...own...what-now?" He asked, his face creasing up in confusion. "Why? We already have enough waiters for-"

"Not when you insist on taking your dishes out yourself, idiot. You make a dish, take it out, entertain the guests for another half hour, and by the time your back in the kitchen you

have another five orders built up." Zeff growled, crossing his arms.

The blond looked away, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

"I just...last time I let the waiter take it, he dropped the whole damn dish on the floor...they don't value the food I fucking slave over AT ALL!"

"Exactly. "Zeff said simply. "So, I'm getting you your own personal waiter, for you and your menu only."

Sanji was a little bit stunned. It was unlike his -adoptive- father to be so...openly generous. He looked at Zeff, arching his eyebrow slightly.

"Wait...what's the catch?"

Zeff's laughter boomed out through the empty room.

"Bwhahahahaa! You never change, shitty eggplant!" He coughed a few times, then started speaking again. "All you have to do is train the person I find for you. Make them an

employee that does it the way you want it, so you can focus on your cooking. I'll give you one week off."

"...to do what?"

"Weren't you listening!? To bloody train them, you idiot! Get them acquainted with everything, and don't let them fuck it up."

Sanji grimaced. Training? That sounded more than tiresome...

"Eh, I don't fancy spending my time training someone I didn't even choose..." he said petulantly, hoping Zeff would take the hint.

The old man just glared at him.

"Ungrateful bastard...either you take the one I get you, or use the regular waiters." he threatened. Then he grinned slightly. "Tell you

what - give me one criteria for 'em that you want, and I'll make sure it fits. Happy?"

Slowly, Sanji smiled. Then he started grinning brightly.

"You mean I'm gonna get my own personal waitress?!" He jumped up from his chair, eyes popping out of his head in the shape of pink, throbbing hearts. "Thanks,shitty geezer!"

"So? What's the fuckin' criteria, eggplant? Spit it out."

Sanji thought for a second, then smiled.

"As long as their GORGEOUS~ , they'll be perfect ~..." he sang, dancing around in a woman-induced haze.

He smiled again at the old man, whose face looked rather pleased; then he turned on his heel, and ran out of the restaurant, all tiredness long forgotten.