Chapter Text
Salt. Fat. Acid. Heat. These four simple elements were the building blocks to every culinary masterpiece. You lived and breathed by them, working tirelessly until you had perfected each individual component. Thousands of hours spent in the kitchen using every kind of stove, range, and grill; finally, all that hard work had paid off when you opened your own restaurant. The critics raved about your cuisine, you had a full house nearly every single night, and the headlines were calling you the next celebrity chef. Everything had been an absolute dream, until it became your worst nightmare.
You try not to think about the fire, although it was nearly impossible not to. You weren't sure how it started, just that is spread within seconds and engulfed everything in its path. You didn't even have time to run before you the flames completely surrounded you; you can still feel how excruciating the smoke felt in your lungs...and how you burned.
*BEEP BEEP BEEP*
The kitchen timer pulls you from your trance with a gasp. Your eyes quickly dart around as you momentarily struggle to gain your bearings. Right, you were in Charlie's kitchen at the Hazbin Hotel...and your pork chops were burning.
"Shit!", you exclaim as you scramble for your oven mitts. Luckily, you got to the meat just in time and started simmering your green beans and mashing your potatoes as the pork rested. The kitchen was your safe space, something familiar that brought you comfort as you struggled to process your death, how ironic it was that it was the same room you died in. It was more than just the familiarity of the space though, it was also that the kitchen was the only room that did not have any mirrors.
Accepting your demonic body proved a greater struggle than accepting your untimely death. You still looked very human, much more so than most other residents of the hotel, but your skin was littered with angry, red splotches- permanent burn marks. They were not raised and did not hurt, but were certainly unsightly(to you). Your hair was the same color it was when you died, but was singed on the ends and your eyes were now a fiery orange, the amber color far from a natural shade for a human. Most say you were lucky to get such a tame demonic appearance, but it only served as a reminder of how your skin crackled under the flame.
You were just stirring the sour cream and cheddar cheese into your mashed potatoes when the hotel guests started filing into the kitchen for dinner.
"Mmm smells great Y/N!", Charlie smiled at you before taking her seat.
"Yea Toots, I'm starving!", Angel called out as you were chopping the chives to garnish the meal with.
Everyone loved your cooking, immediately digging in as soon as you handed them their plate. Well...almost everyone anyways, there was a certain scarlet cervid demon that you could never get a read on whenever he ate what you prepared. Most of the time he just ate in silence with that spine-chilling smile on his face, not giving you a single clue as to what he was thinking.
Alastor and you were not exactly friends. The kitchen was his sanctuary as well, this particular kitchen in the hotel was his domain long before you ever showed up. But you refused to let him frighten you from the one place you felt at peace; so you struck an agreement that you would rotate meal duties and stay out of each other's way. You two really brought the old "too many cooks in the kitchen" phrase back to life.
The worst part of the whole ordeal for you was that you desperately wanted his approval. Alastor himself was a masterful chef, having a century of experience blending flavors together creating symphonies for the pallet. His creole meals-cooked entirely from just his memory- were absolutely to double-die for and you knew you would never come close to replicating them even with the best ingredients Hell had to offer. You had tried every kind of cuisine you could think of to impress him, from steak to lasagna and enchiladas to scotch eggs. He still gave you nothing- just a quiet meal, but at least he always cleaned his plate so that had to count for something.
But tonight you were hoping for a true reaction. This meal was the house specialty at your restaurant; you were hesitant to make it, there was so much emotional baggage attached so this once beloved dish. You took your time picking out the right pork chops- they had to be of even thickness and trim, as the star of the dish they could not be any less than perfect. You then made sure to get the freshest spices and produce you could find and pulled out every trick you knew from searing the meat in garlic butter to your added secret ingredients to the spuds This meal put you on the map in the living world, you were hoping it would at least put you in Alastor's orbit.
You carefully watched The Radio Demon's reactions as you ate, you were pleased with how it turned out- the pork was juicy and tender with just the right amount of crust seared into the flesh, the green beans had a crispy garlic taste, and there was not a single lump to be found in your potatoes. Everything was perfect, magazine-worthy just like you relentlessly crafted it to be. So why did the crimson asshole look so fucking unimpressed?!
"How's the food Alastor?", you couldn't take this anymore, you needed to know what he thought. His blank and bored expression snapped your very last nerve; you were tired of being patient and waiting for some inkling of sentimentalization to form on his ever-stoic face. If he wasn't going to volunteer it himself, then you would pry it out of him forcefully. You turned toward him expectantly, effectively putting a pause on all dining table chatter.
The demon stilled momentarily, not expecting your abrupt outburst. He eyed you for a second before speaking "It's fine", and resuming his meal, that unimpressed mask back over his face.
You flinched back as if he had slapped you, your jaw nearly dropping to the table and eyes wide in bewilderment. "Fine? That's it?! This very dish was going to win me a Michelin Star and you say it is just FINE?!!", your voice grew louder as you spoke. This was outrageous, the ultimate insult to you as a chef, the AUDACITY of this cherry-colored prick to sum up what you slaved your entire life away on in just a seven-letter synopsis.
Everyone else was staring at the two of you with wide eyes as you bristled, turning your entire body toward Alastor with a white-knuckled grip on your fork like you were preparing to stab him with it.
Alastor's response to your sudden rage was to calmly place his own fork down and fold his fingers together in front of his chin with his elbows on the edge of the table. He closed his eyes for a second before fixing them on you intently, however, his voice was calm when he finally spoke again.
"That is your problem Dear. Yes, the food is fine- it is very good actually- but you cook for praise, for critics, for awards. In doing so your cooking has fallen flat, it lacks originality, heart, dare I even say soul; in all the meals you have made for us I have yet to taste YOU in your own cooking. You have mastered every physical component of the process, but until you learn how to put yourself on a plate I'm afraid each dish will only ever be good- never transcending into great. I suggest you stop cooking for others and begin cooking for yourself Darling."
You gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you fumbled over your own thoughts before saying the only thing that came clearly to mind, "Fuck you!!", you stood abruptly, desperate for any sort of upper-hand no matter how delusional that upper-hand really was. To his credit Alastor remained calm, looking like a patient parent waiting for their toddler to cease an illogical tantrum, which only served to piss you off more. "Well if you deem my cooking to be so unworthy of the The Radio Demon's stomach," you spit his self-proclaimed name out like it was a dirty word, "then how about you prove why that is? Face off with me in a blind taste test", you gestured to your audience of hotel guests. "If you are so much better than me then prove it- without magic! Compete with me on completely equal standing, just our own skills in this very kitchen", you cross your arms in front of you and glare down at the deer.
Alastor chuckled at you, "Very well Darling. Pray tell, what does the winner of this little competition receive?"
"Whatever they want."
"Hmm...are you sure that is a wager you want to make with me my dear?", his aura turned slightly green and symbols of his magic began to swirl around him as his eyes flashed to radio dials for a brief moment, the static in his voice getting thicker. But you were not going to let him scare you...you had something to prove.
You raised your chin defiantly at him, "Absolutely certain- who knows?- maybe I will own your soul after I win." You let that idea simmer in the air between you two as you grab your plate to wash it, noting with satisfaction how his smile tightened and posture stiffened slightly.
"Well, as the one challenged it is only fair for me to choose our main dish. I will procure two identical venison steaks for us to prepare in whatever way we best know how in the same exact amount of time. The rest of your dish I will leave up to you. Sound fair enough for you?", he extended his hand toward you to solidify your agreement to the terms.
"Fine", you deadpan back to him as you take his hand in your own briefly before wiping it off on your pants- a show of dominance The Radio Demon often used himself.
His eyes narrowed at you, "Lovely!"
You were the first to leave the kitchen, followed closely by Alastor; leaving the stupefied and unwitting judges of your cook-off to gawk at one another.
"The fuck just happen?!", Angel was the first to break the silence, looking between each of the other residents in confusion.
"We just caught in the middle of a ridiculous, egotistical contest between our two cooks!", Vaggie huffed irritably.
"I wish they could just work together on meals instead of against one another", Charlie sighed. Vaggie gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze in agreement.
"Sooo...this mean we get two dinners tomorrow?"
You looked over your work station, recounting each and every ingredient at least 3 times. You and Alastor agreed 4 hours was enough time to make your very best venison dish. You were pulling out all the stops, deciding to make one of the most difficult dishes to execute correctly- a venison wellington made with homemade puff pastry. Making puff pastry itself was a long and tedious process and your timing had to be perfect or else the venison would be either underdone or overcooked. You knew that if you cooked this dish flawlessly you were sure to win.
Alastor created two identical workplaces, you agreed that he was allowed to use his magic so that you could cook at the exact same time but that is it. He sat at his own station with nothing but the meat set out and a coffee in hand. He looked up at you, "Are you ready to begin?"
Oh, you couldn't wait to wipe that stupid grin off his face, "Ready!"
With that Alastor started a countdown on the wall and nodded at you before opening his newspaper, not moving to prepare any ingredients at all.
You, however, were a flurry of activity; setting your flour in a small pile to meticulously wet bit by bit until you formed your dough which you then folded over a dozen times and flattened out. Once that was in the fridge you set out to beat your butter until you formed a neat 4x4 cube. Before you knew it an hour had passed and Alastor had yet to prepare anything. You narrowed your eyes at him, what the hell was he doing?
You had no time to fret over the deer demon, once your butter was cooled into a solid mass again you diligently folded your dough and butter together forming dozens of butter-pastry layers. Once that was finally finished nearly two hours had ticked off the clock. Alastor was finally chopping potatoes, carrots, and onions- taking his sweet time like he wasn't on a time crunch.
You couldn't help but smile to yourself, you were starting to feel a bit cocky considering your dish seemed to be far more complicated. Next, you worked on cutting up your own produce- onion, garlic, and mushrooms. As you mixed your spices together you melted butter in a cast iron skillet, watching as Alastor cubed his own venison. You seared your whole backstrap steak on all sides until a nice crust formed before wrapping the meat in a blend of your spices and minced produce before finishing it by wrapping it all in bacon. Finally, you wrapped the whole thing in your puff pastry before setting it in the oven to cook.
You peeked up at the clock- 30 minutes left. Glancing over at Alastor, you saw him standing over a large pot, stirring it slowly and humming a jazzy tune to himself. Was he making a soup? Did he really think that would be complicated enough to win a cook-off?
When your venison wellington was done cooking the crust was a gorgeous golden color. You cut into it and let out a breath of relief that the meat was a perfect medium rare. Everything was textbook perfection, you were about to hand The Radio Demon his ass, you bit your bottom lip to keep from giggling at your apparent victory.
As you were setting out the plates of food for the other residents- who were strictly forbidden from entering the dining room until you and Alastor had left so they would have no idea who cooked what- Alastor came in with his own dish.
"What kind of soup did you make?", you asked a bit snobbishly.
"This, My Dear, is my favorite venison stew", he replied merrily, obviously pleased with his dish and showing not an ounce of trepidation for his impending defeat.
"Interesting that you think a stew is worthy of a cook-off victory."
He stopped to fully turn towards you, eyeing you up and down with a look of disapproval, "Darling, the complexity of a dish is not the most important aspect. Sometimes the simplest dishes give us the most satisfaction."
His gaze was intense, he was boring right into your very soul as if he was trying to convey a secret message with just the look in his eyes. You look down "Er...yea okay", you feel your face go beet red, you could almost get lost in those eyes if he weren't such a dick.
The two of you go back to the kitchen to clean up your stations after letting the other residents into the dining room to eat and cast their votes for their favorite dish. You didn't speak, just let the sweet melodious notes of Jazz fill the silence. Just as you were drying your last bowl Charlie walked in with a piece of paper in hand.
"It...was unanimous. Just so you know we all really enjoyed both meals and it was REALLY hard to choose between them! And we by NO means prefer one of your cooking over the other! We all hope you both will continue cooking and not let this competition stop you from doing what you love!", she spoke in a rush. She carefully placed the folded paper down on the counter before taking her leave.
You snatched it up before Alastor could make a move for it; you took a look at the verdict and your heart plummeted into your stomach. There was absolutely no way, this had to be a mistake. You looked up at Alastor and it was clear he already knew the outcome based on the small but smug grin on his face. Grabbing a spoon you rushed over to Alastor's pot and took a bite of his stew permission be damned.
FUCK!
It was good, more than good it was downright sinful. The venison melted in your mouth like butter, the spices in the gravy transported you back to Grandma's house- visions of dinners together as a family came to mind as the nostalgic taste danced on your taste buds. The whole dish filled you with a sense of comfort and tranquility, like being wrapped in your favorite blanket by a fireplace with a book in hand on a cold winter's night. He made a dish that evoked literal emotions in the consumer...how were you ever going to compete with someone who could do that with a simple stew? He was right...your cooking was flat by comparison, like biting into basic sirloin compared to a beautiful wagyu porterhouse.
Tears filled your eyes but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry in defeat. You rushed out of the kitchen as fast as you could not having any particular destination in mind, you just had to get out of the kitchen. You doubted you would ever return to it again.
Your tears steadily streamed down your face as you looked over Pentagram City from the hotel balcony. Questions about your identity plagued for mind- what were you supposed to do now? where did you belong? were you a fraud- an imposter- your whole life? should you just leave the hotel? what will Alastor want for his prize?
The sound of static alerted you to his presence behind you, but like a petulant child you kept staring straight ahead refusing to acknowledge him.
"It was my mother's recipe", he leaned over the railing beside you.
You finally looked over at him,"Huh?"
The deer demon chuckled softly, "The stew, it was my mother's recipe. She taught me everything I know about cooking, most of my happiest childhood memories involve my mother teaching me different techniques and dishes. Perhaps that is why I tend to get a bit possessive of the kitchen and meal prep." He smiled brightly down at you, your face flushed again at this unexpected and rare bit of honesty and vulnerability from The Radio Demon.
"Well you can have it back, I'm done cooking", you respond bitterly, your face hardening in disdain as you stare back out at the pentagram again.
"Well now Darling there is no need to be so dramatic! Why I bet all you need is to go back to your roots, remember why you started cooking in the first place! Now, tell me, what was your inspiration?", he leaned his chin in one hand as he waited for your answer.
You scoffed,"Well, I never knew my father and my mother was a drug addict who left my siblings and I to fend for ourselves most of the time. We went to live with my grandmother when I was eight. She did great raising us at first but then she developed dementia; sometimes she would forget to feed herself, let alone the rest of us. So I guess my inspiration to learn how to cook was the need to not let my family starve."you laugh humorlessly. "Grandma would remember bits and pieces here and there, teaching me certain recipes she enjoyed. Turned out I was pretty good at cooking so I checked out every book in the library on the subject, learning everything I could. I entered a tuition giveaway when I was 18 and earned a free ride to culinary school. It changed my life, I was determined not to let the opportunity go to waste. I swore that I would be the best, always taking my recipes to the next level to prove that I earned the positive turn my life took." You viciously wiped the tears from your eyes as they started up again.
Alastor remained silent during your rant, watching you with a contemplative expression. He understood your demand for approval now, the constant need to show your cooking prowess through complex dishes. You had something to prove, but you didn't realize you were trying to impress yourself more than anyone else.
"What do you want from me"?, you angrily whispered at him, glaring over in his direction. You figured he would ask for your soul, you'd be as unpleasant as you could be to him until you were under his ownership.
The deer hummed, "Join me for dinner."
You bellowed out an incredulous laugh, "We do that quite often Alastor. I told you that you could have your kitchen back, I have no intent on encroaching on your domain anymore."
"No, not at the hotel, there's a restaurant I would like to take you to. I hope you don't mind but I have already taken the liberty of purchasing you something to wear- it is a coat and tie establishment after all!", he twirled his cane in his hand, looking at you expectantly.
"Your kidding me right?", you were stunned.
"Nope! I do not believe I am!"
"You...you want to go on a date?"
"Yes, I suppose that is technically what you could call it. Now, how does tomorrow evening sound? I shall inform Charlie that we will be out, there's plenty of leftovers to keep our residents well-fed in our absence. Meet me in the lobby at 6 PM sharp and not a moment later My Dear!" With that he disappeared into the shadows, leaving you to stare at the spot he just vacated in shock.
You have a date with The Radio Demon...boy does the undead life come at you fast.