It's Friday night in Ponyville and Anonymous is standing where he always is: behind the counter shouting out orders to his staff. It's the beginning of Restaurant Week and he's hating every minute. If he had his way, he wouldn't deal with this gimmick, but, being that he's the Head Chef and not the owner, that isn't really his call to make. Waiters trot in and out of the kitchen area carrying platters of food and rattling off orders to him over the service counter.
“Table Six: Two salads, one hay-fritte, one portabella, two soup!” Anon yells out to the cooks, who respond as one.
“Yes, Chef!” He bring his attention back to plating dishes as the cooks bring them up to him. The evening is going smoothly, luckily. This week is generally stressful enough without having any screw-ups in the kitchen to make things worse. As he plates a set of entrees, Anon's eye twitches, catching a missing item.
“Where's Table Four's risotto? What's the hold up?” He barks, turning around to stare down the offending cook. He looks up at the Chef apologetically.
“Sorry, Chef. Two minutes.”
“Makes it one minute. What do I always say about timing?”
“It's everything, Chef.”
“Exactly. Make it work.”
“Yes, Chef.”
The waiter for Table Four is looking antsy when Anon turns back around to him.
“I need Table Four's plates now, Chef.” He says, a little nervous.
“Coming up. Send them my apologies for the wait.” The risotto finally comes to the counter and he quickly plates it with the rest of the entrees. The waiter whisks it away into the sea of tables and chairs.
Anon looks out over the counter at the dining room. It's taken him years of straightforward determination, blood, and sweat to get to where he stands right now: Head Chef at one of Ponyville’s premiere establishments. Anon's pride is shaken two minutes later when the waiter clears his throat to get the Chef's attention. He looks at Anon with a tired expression and holds up a plate.
“Table Four would like a new plate of risotto. Seems this one is overdone.”
“Can't have one service go off without a hitch, eh?” Anon remarks jokingly.
“Seems that way, Chef.” Anon takes the plate and taste the risotto. It's creamy and smooth. The rice has a little less firmness that he would like, but it's certainly not noticeably overdone. Whoever sent this back must have discerning tastes. Anon decides to make the new risotto himself and turns to the waiter.
“Tell our guest that their risotto will be out shortly. Five minutes.” The waiter nods and trots off. Anon turns to the line and starts preparing the new plate. Oil falls into a deep pan as he turns on the flames and lays out his ingredients. He crushes some rosemary and sage, throwing them into the oil just as it begins to swirl. After that comes the rice. He pours it into the pan after the herbs have let their flavors into the oil. The rice lets out a satisfying hiss as it heats up and becomes transparent. Anon closes his eyes and thinks about how this is exactly what he's in Equestria to do. No matter how much Restaurant Week irks him, with its uninspired menus and demand for quick prep at the cost of any semblance of soul to the food, the chance to do what he does best is always welcome. He looks down. The rice is ready. Time to add the broth. A plume of steam billows up from the pan, carrying the smell of the herbs and oil with it. The rice greedily soaks up the liquid and he adds the onion and mushrooms before pouring in more broth. After several minutes and a few more pours, the risotto is done. The rice is perfect; he's made sure of it. Years of experience have taught Anon how to make risotto the right way. Granted, it also gave him a nigh-pathological need to see to any dish that gets sent back to the kitchen, but that's an acceptable tradeoff given that he's managed to make a reputation here and in the cities as a great Chef. Another set of orders comes in and he calls out to the kitchen yet again. “Table Eleven: Two hay-frittes, one salad, one risotto, one soup!”
“Yes, Chef!” comes the response from the kitchen. Anon places a few plates on the counter and calls to the waiters.
“Table Six: Up!” A glance at the clock lets Anon know that he's halfway through the dinner rush. Things are looking good-
“Chef?” Anon turns to see Table Four's waiter standing uneasily across the counter.
“What's the problem now?”
“She wouldn't say. She just asked to speak with you, Chef.” Anon sighs and calls over to his Sous.
“Take over plating for a couple minutes. I've got to talk to a table.”
“Yes, Chef,” he says and walks over to the counter. Anon follows the waiter through the sea of tables out to Table Four. The place is packed. Restaurant Weeks always attracts a bigger crowd than the average night and it being Friday only compounds things. He passes by ponies he knows from town as he goes, greeting them in passing as he makes his way after the waiter. Rarity and her family sit at one of the booths and he sees the white mare wave happily when she sees him walking by. Anon decides to stop by her table once he's finished with Table Four.
The waiter stops in front of a party of five. Anon straightens his coat and looks around the table at the guests. Eventually his eyes stop on the plate of risotto and the discerning customer. A tan pony wearing a ruffled tie and spectacles looks up at him from her seat. Anon swallows nervously as the waiter makes introductions.
“Madam Mayor, Councilors, I present our Head Chef d'Cuisine, Anonymous.” The waiter motions to Anon before walking off to take care of the other customers. The Chef gives a slight bow and addresses the grey-maned mare.
“Good evening, Madam Mayor. What seems to be the trouble?” There's an uncomfortable pause in which her gaze flits between the Chef and the risotto.
“Yes, Mr...Anonymous, was it?”
“You can just call me Anon, ma'am”
“Anon, them. I felt it was necessary to speak to you face to face instead of just sending plates back to you in the hopes that you would somehow know what I wanted.”
“That's very thoughtful of you, ma'am. What can I do for you?” He does his best to keep a cool tone, the Mayor's remarks having set him on edge.
“Well, the risotto is fine, I suppose, but it seems to be...missing something... I thought it was that it was simply overcooked at first, but the second dish had it too...” She looks at the plate pensively. “Tell me: do you use fresh or dry rosemary in your oil?” The specificness of the question causes Anon to raise an eyebrow.
“Uh, we use dried rosemary. About a sprig of it, crushed and heated with some sage in the oil. Why do you ask?” The mare thinks for a minute before responding.
“That must be it. Would it be possible to use fresh thyme instead? The rosemary overpowers the finish from the onions and upsets the overall balance of the dish.” Anon takes a moment to realize that his jaw is hanging open in shock.
“O-of course, Madam Mayor... Mushroom risotto substituting thyme for rosemary. I'll have it out for you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Anon.” Anon walks back to the kitchen, stunned by the exchange.
The shock wears off after about ten feet and by the time Anon comes around to Rarity's table he's more annoyed at the Mayor's presumption to tell him how to do his job. The good Madam Mayor can wait a little while for her very special request, he thinks. Rarity cheerfully speaks up as the Chef approaches the table.
“Anon! How delightful to see you. I was just in the middle of telling my parents what a positively wonderful establishment this place is. It's like a little piece of Canterlot right here in Ponyville!” Anon realizes that he's clenching a fist and, before Rarity can see, releases it and puts on a smile for the mare.
“Thank you, Rarity. I love the Ponyville fare, but there's always a place in my heart for the good old classic Canterlot school.” He turns to the rest of the ponies seated beside Rarity “And how are all of you enjoying the evening?”
“Everything's been perfect, Anon,” Rarity's mother chimes in. After the Mayor’s jarringly specific critique, Anon is glad to have some positive feedback, no matter how minor.
“Good, good. I'm happy to hear it. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a special order I have to go fill.” He turns to Rarity and smiles. “But Rarity? We'll need to get together sometime soon. It's been busy here, but I'm sure we could swing lunch tomorrow to catch up?”
“Oh, of course, Anon! I'd love to! Around noon at the cafe, yes?”
“Sounds good. I'll see you then. Enjoy the rest of the evening.” Rarity has been one of Anon's closer friends since he moved to Ponyville, despite the age-gap between them. Her parents had let the Chef rent out a room at the boutique for a short time while his house was being prepared to move into. The lunch set up, Anon heads to the kitchen to make the Mayor's risotto.
“How'd it go, Chef?” The Sous asks as Anon comes back to the counter.
“Seems like Madam Mayor is quite the connoisseur. Get one of the cooks to grab some thyme for me, will you?”
“Yes, Chef.” He walks off to the back of the kitchen and Anon turns to the burners. Taking a fresh pan from the rack, he brings the oil up to temperature. The thyme comes soon enough and he deftly crushes it up with the sage. Steam again billows up from the pan when he adds the broth to the rice, bearing a totally different scent than before. As he add the mushrooms and onion, he's struck by how well the smell of the herbs and other ingredients balances. Anon knots his brow and finishes the preparation. Before he plates the dish, he tastes the risotto to make sure it's been done right. The Chef's frustration mounts as the light, sweet finish of the onions comes out, complimented by the thyme and sage.
“How in Tartarus did I miss something that simple?” He mutters to himself. The waiter comes up to take the plate, but Anon raises a hand and stop him, saying “I'll take this one.”
“Alright, Chef.” Anon wipes the edge of the plate and carries it into the sea of tables towards his destination. By now it's been almost 45 minutes since Table Four placed their original orders. He's getting nervous. Service shouldn't be so slow in his kitchen. Once he arrives at the table he sets the plate down in front of the Mayor. Now that he's given it to her, indignation and annoyance have given way to anxiety. A bad review from somepony with so much pull in the community could kill his reputation here.
She chews slowly, agonizingly so. Anon feels a drop of sweat roll down his forehead. The other ponies at the table, having finished their own plates, watch nervously as the Mayor sets her fork back down. She dabs her lips with a napkin before slowly turning to address the Chef.
“Anon, I must say I'm impressed. It's not often we get a chef with talent like yours here, let alone one with such a vested interest in his clientele.”
“It's not often I serve customers with such well-developed tastes, ma'am.” He does his best to hid his bruised ego. The customer comes first here, after all.
“This risotto is superb. You've done exactly what you needed to. Bravo, Chef.” She says this with a charismatic smile and a clap of her hooves. It might be her tone, or maybe just his ego, but Anon can't help feeling talked down to.
“Thank you very much, Madam Mayor. I'll have the risotto taken off the bill for the long wait.”
“I appreciate it, Anon. Thank you for a wonderful meal.”
“Have a pleasant evening, everypony.” Anon walks back to the line not sure if he's scored a victory here or not and takes his place at the counter once more. The Sous goes back to his duties and before long Anon is back in the swing of things. The flurry of activity in the kitchen forces any thoughts of the Mayor's comments from his mind. “Table Two: Three crème brulee, two tiramisu!”
“Yes, Chef!”
The restaurant closes at 11 that night. Anon wipes his counters down and turn the gas at his stove off before writing up the shift notes for the night's service. Out of 243 covers, only two returned plates. Service speed was good, if a little slow, but nothing to go on about. Restaurant Week, for all the grief it brings him, is off to a good start. On top of that, he isn't needed until five tomorrow afternoon, which means he's free to have lunch with Rarity. Anon jots down the shift notes and pins them to the cork board outside his office before leaving the dishwashers to their work and heading out into the night. The air is cool; a soft breeze blows through the streets as he makes his way home. It's nothing like Canterlot here, and worlds away from the hustle-bustle of Manehattan. Such a small town like this, he was surprised when he was asked to come here to run the kitchen of a fine-dining establishment. It's been a success so far, though, and the pay is nothing to complain about. Ponies have been coming from all over Equestria to eat here. Anon has had parties from Cloudsdale, Baltimare, and even a few all the way from Manehattan. He concedes that having a human Head Chef adds a little bit of novelty draw, but he likes to think it's his reputation as a Chef that brings them in. Despite how much Anon misses the lively scenes in Canterlot and Manehattan, Ponyville has grown on him in the last year. The quiet nights in Ponyville are a reprieve from the noise and crazed activity in the kitchen. He still recalls nights in Manehattan where he would leave work hoping for some relaxation only to walk right into the middle of a street-party.
Anon reaches his house after about ten minutes of walking. Exhausted, he flops into the chair in his living room with a glass of scotch to unwind over. Now that he's made it to somewhere quiet, the Mayor's comments come back into his head. Anon isn't sure why they're sticking with him, though. He's dealt with critics, and ponies who thought themselves critics, before. He's had worse reviews. For Celestia's sake, he's had ponies walk right out in a huff when he was just starting out. The world of high-cuisine is an unforgiving place and he ran that gauntlet for years before coming here, so why is he bristling so much at one discerning mayor's comments? He takes a sip of scotch as he mulls it over. “Probably just surprise,” the Chef thinks to himself. After all, it's not like he was exactly expecting such specific criticism off the cuff like that. It was good criticism too. He's not sure he would have thought of it had she not brought the subject up. She's an interesting one, to be sure, that Mayor. Anon finds himself wondering where she could have gotten such a keen palette. The only other pony he knows who knows food anywhere near that level is Rarity, and she got it from him. Rarity's mother still chides him jokingly, saying it's his fault Rarity spends so much on food nowadays. Anon chuckles to himself as he finishes his scotch and puts the glass in the sink. The clock reads midnight. Time for bed. He's going to need his sleep if he's going to take Rarity out to lunch and THEN work service. All things considered, it's a tough call saying which is more stressful.
Anon’s alarm clock pulled him from sleep at 8:00 the next morning. He got out of bed quickly, never being one to waste time half-awake. After going about his morning routine, he went to the kitchen to make breakfast. He put on a pot of coffee before looking through the refrigerator for eggs. As he took the carton off the shelf, Anon recalled that, were he still living in Canterlot or Manehattan, he would be paying top-bit for eggs like these. With Fluttershy and her chickens just a short walk away, he seldom found himself short.
“I guess country life has its perks,” he said to himself as the last vestiges of last night’s frustration quickly faded away and he got to working. He deftly cracked a few eggs into a bowl and beat them before tossing in some dill. A pan went onto one of the burners and he flicked the gas on to heat it. While the pan came up to temperature, Anon set about chopping onion and mushrooms and taking out a chunk of feta cheese. The eggs fell into the pan with a hiss and Anon flicked the quickly setting fluid around to form the light layers and folds that make his perfect omelette. The smell of cooking eggs and dill quickly filled the kitchen and mixed with the dark aroma of the coffee. As the eggs finished cooking, Anon added the omelette's filling and slid it out of the pan, folding it in half as it came to rest on a plate. He made sure to put the cutting board in the sink and wash his knives before eating while he waits for the coffee to brew.
After finishing his breakfast, Anon put his dishes in the sink and downed his coffee in preparation for the long day ahead. With a few hours to himself before his lunch with Rarity, he decided to take the opportunity to buy food for the week. After all, the produce always best bought in the morning.
“Let's see, what do I need?” Anon muttered to himself as he looked through the fridge. “Lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, carrots, eggs, onion...” He jotted the list quickly on a scrap of paper, scanning the rest of the kitchen. “Might as well pick up some apples, maybe another bottle of olive oil?” Anon stuffed the list into his pocket with a bag of coins and headed out the door into the crisp fall air. Seated in the heart of Ponyville, the market was alive with ponies walking between produce stalls, shouting prices and carrying bushels of every vegetable and fruit under the sun. The sound of bits clattering on counters and the noise of the crowd quickly overtook the chirping of the morning birds as Anon made his way into the thick of it. The scene was reminiscent of the markets in Manehattan, though far less chaotic than that vision of urban sprawl on the coast.
“Mornin' Anon. What kin ah git fer ya?” Applejack's bright voice came up over the racket as Anon approached her stall.
“Good morning, Applejack. The usual?”
“Figgered as much. Here y'are. Six bits.” She spoke with an accommodating smile on her face. Anon dropped the coins onto the counter and the orange mare swept them off with her hoof, biting one of them with mock scrutiny. “Enjoy yer apples, Mr. Fancy.”
“I'll let that go because you've got the best in Equestria.” He snapped back, returning Applejack's laugh. “Take care Applejack, and tell Granny Smith to let me know next time the Zap-Apples come in. I missed out last season and I've got a couple recipes I want to try with those things.”
“Will do. Take care, Anon.” Sack of apples in-hand, Anon made his way to a vegetable cart. He stood staring at the laid-out produce for a minute. Cloves of garlic hung just overhead, casting shadows on neat rows of carrots, lettuce, cabbage, and a host of other vegetables arranged perfectly and ripe for the taking. It was a vision of plenty, of possibility. He started picking out what he needed, enough to make his meals for the week.
The groceries out of the way, Anon hauled the bags and baskets home to put away. With another hour until lunch with Rarity, Anon took out his set of knives to sharpen and maintain the tools of his trade. He drew the first out of its pocket: a paring knife. Not being as heavily used as the others in his collection, the paring knife merely needed a wipe down after he made sure its edge was keen. Next came the cleaver, then the twelve-inch utility, then the carving knife. He sharpened and cleaned each one in succession until he came to the final one: the ten-inch kitchen knife. It was a work of art. A gift from his teacher in Canterlot, it was specially made for you.
Pony knives were fine, his mentor had said, but Anon needed something to fit his hands. With Griffon-forged steel and a deep ebony handle, it truly was perfect. Along the flat of the blade was etched, “A true chef's heart, his very being, is held in his knives.” Anon read the inscription intently, reflecting on his knife's journey with him from Canterlot back to Manehattan, and then to Ponyville. He drew the blade across the sharpening stone, listening to the gritty metallic ring that sounded with each motion. As he'd done for years, he kept the edge honed to a razor. The clock struck noon. Anon rose and put his knives away before walking out the door to meet Rarity.
Carousel Boutique was a short walk from Anon's home. He spent the time thinking about where to actually go to lunch. As he came to the door, the small cafe on Mane Street sprang to mind. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, eliciting a call from Rarity.
“Come in, come in! It's open!” she yelled. Anon walked inside and the mare trotted out into the foyer, preoccupied with her work. “Oh! Anon! I didn't even realize it was you! I'll be right out, and then we can go, alright?”
“Are you sure? You look busy and I can wait until--”
“No, no, let's go. Work can wait!” she responded, cutting him off. She seemed more animated than usual.
“Alright, then Let's go. How does the cafe downtown sound?”
“That sounds lovely.” Rarity ducked into the back room, returning a minute later sporting a trendy-looking autumn hat. “Let's be off then.”
“After you.”
“Ever the gentleman.” She walked happily out the door with you in tow.
At the cafe, the pair took their seats outside. It was a small place, and quaint. Right on the corner of Mane Street and one of the many cross-streets, the cafe got a good amount of business and seemed to always be at least half-full of ponies enjoying their meals. Rarity started off conversation once the waiter had left them alone.
“So how was your evening, Anon? You were working rather hard yesterday, as I recall,” she asked, leaning forward.
“It went well enough, I suppose. Only one table returned anything, so that's a success.” Rarity looked scandalized.
“Somepony sent something of yours back?” she balked..
“Only one table, and they sent something one of the cooks made first. They only sent back one that I made myself.”
“Somepony had the nerve to send back something that you made personally? Why, I've never--”
“Rarity, it isn't a big deal. It was a very good learning experience,” Anon interjected. “I'm glad you have such a high opinion of my cooking, though.” The white mare went slightly pink at the comment.
“Well, I do pride myself on knowing the high-class when I encounter it.” She looked proud until Anon continued.
“But do you know what was surprising about the whole thing? It was the mayor who sent the risotto back.” Anon leaned back in his chair and looked at the sky absentmindedly. “She has some seriously refined taste, you know.” The blush on Rarity's cheeks disappeared almost instantly.
“The mayor sent back your food? What was wrong with it? Not enough hay?” she said judgmentally.
“Er, no. Actually, she gave me some very good feedback on my recipe. I might put her suggestion into the menu,” the chef answered.
Anon had never seen a pony do a spit take before. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or not when Rarity began to sputter in confusion.
“You're serious? But she isn't even a cook! She's never even been outside of Ponyville, for all I know! What could she possibly--”
“Rarity, calm down. You're making a big deal out of something small.” The mare seemed to collect herself after a few deep breaths.
“You're right, Anon. It's unladylike anyway, getting so worked up like that.” She shifted her posture and sat more rigidly in her chair as she looked over the menu.
“So how have things been with the others? I see Applejack and Fluttershy whenever I'm getting food, but I how are Pinkie, Rainbow, and Twilight?” Anon changed the subject, hoping to divert Rarity's attention from his work. The mare might have acted mature and refined most of the time, but underneath it all, she was still young. Rarity spoke at length of what was going on in the lives of her friends. She and Anon spent the next half hour catching up and enjoying the light lunches they had ordered. During breaks in the conversation, however, Anon's thoughts flew back to the previous evening, the restaurant, and the mayor's comments.
“Maybe I will use that suggestion on the menu,” he thought to himself, deciding to recreate the risotto once he got to work. He'd only been half serious when he mentioned it to Rarity, but thinking on it, it wasn't a bad idea. The check came shortly after, and the two left the cafe. On the way back, Anon felt Rarity brush against his hand. He unconsciously edged away, chalking it up to his walking too closely to the mare and not noticing the blush, which had returned to her cheeks.
That afternoon, Anon came to a kitchen already alive with activity. As he passed through the door, we watched cooks and dishwashers moving to and fro as they completed evening prep.
“Afternoon, Chef!” they said, greeting him in waves. Anon tracked the sous chef down as he donned his hat and jacket.
“Whooves! Hey, I'm making a change on the risotto. Make sure you're free in an hour so we can workshop it,” he said, once he'd found the stallion.
“Yes, Chef,” came the reply.
An hour later, Anon came to the seating area with the completed risotto. Whooves eyed the plate as it was set down.
“Is this it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Give it a try. I made some changes to the recipe.” The stallion took a bite and mulled it over.
“Huh,” he said, putting the fork down. “That's different. You can really taste the onion and mushroom now. What did you do?” he asked, looking confused.
“Switched the rosemary for thyme.”
“How'd you think of that?”
“Would you believe me if I said the mayor suggested it?” Whooves' eyes went wide.
“No way. Seriously?” Anon smirked at his reaction.
“Remember she sent that plate back last night?”
“Yeah. You looked pissed.”
“I was, but it turns out she had some valuable input. We're doing the risotto this way from now on. Got it?”
“Yes, Chef.” Whooves got up and trotted off to inform the staff of the change. Anon surveyed the kitchen to make sure everything was in working order. The walk-on was stocked, the stations were all clean and clear, and the prep was nearing completion just in time for doors to open. Anon breathed a sigh of relief. The restaurant would need to be prepared for the coming dinner service. It was Saturday night during Restaurant Week, after all, and there was no greater Hell.
At six forty five, Anon called the kitchen staff together for a pep talk. He ran a kitchen of twelve. One pastry cook, two on salads, one pasta, one garnish, one fry, one saucier, one pony on grill, three dishwashers, and of course, his sous. He cleared his throat once they were all gathered.
“Alright,” he began, “we open in fifteen. This is the biggest night of Restaurant Week, and we're going to get hit hard from the start. I want each and every one of you at the top of your game tonight. Quick, clean, quality service will keep us from getting swamped. I want as good a service tonight as we had last night and I know you ponies can pull it off, because you're the best in town. Now are we going to get in there and blow these ponies away?” The collective shout in response reminded Anon of how much he loved his line of work.
“Yes, Chef!”
By seven thirty, the restaurant was full and the first orders were flying in. Anon yelled them back to the kitchen like a general giving orders to his men in the trenches.
“Table Eleven: Two portabella, two soup!”
“Yes, Chef!”
“Table Six: Three hay-fritte, one soup, one salad!”
“Yes, Chef!”
“Table One: One portabella, one salad, one risotto!”
“Yes, Chef!” The food was coming out as fast as Anon could shout orders to the kitchen.
“Table Ten: Up!” The waiters came and whisked the plates away like a great conveyor belt. “Table Twenty: Two hay-fritte, one portabella, one soup!”
“Yes, Chef!”
By eight, the restaurant had a line leading to the doors. Anon looked at the scene between shouting orders and plating food. A waiter trotted up to the counter around nine thirty.
“Chef?” he asked over the din.
“What is it?” Anon answered hastily, not looking up from his work. “Table Sixteen: Up!”
“I've got an order for the risotto, Chef.”
“Alright, what table?”
“Four. The mare there introduced herself as Rose? She says she's a friend of the Mayor's.” Anon stopped abruptly and looked out at the tables in the dining room.
“Coming right up.” He called to Whooves. “Hey, take over plating for a little while. I've got something I'm going to make myself.”
“Yes, Chef,” Whooves answered. As Anon prepared his ingredients, he found himself wondering why he was bothering to make the risotto himself.
“Not like Table Four's any different, so why not leave it to the cooks?” he thought as he skillfully sped through the process. He offered silent thanks to his prep team for getting everything ready for fast service. The plate went out and Anon went back to plating after wiping the sweat from his palm.
“Table Ten: Three tiramisu!” he yelled after receiving another order from a waiter.
“Yes, Chef!” came the response. Desserts were going out alongside entrees in equal number, reflecting the late hour. The smell from the kitchen was an intoxicating combination of sweet desserts and savory dinners. Anon's stomach growled and he threw a glance at the clock.
“One hour left,” he mumbled. Table Four's waiter came to the counter once more.
“Chef?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“The mare at Table Four would like a word.” Anon turned and looked to the sous.
“Whooves, take over plating again. I've got a table to talk to.”
“On it, Chef.” He took his place at the counter as Anon went after the waiter into the sea of tables. Eventually he arrived at Table Four, where there was seated a mare with a rose red mane.
“Ms. Rose, I give you Head Chef Anonymous,” the waiter said, bowing slightly before walking off to attend to his other tables.
“Charmed,” the mare said, extending her hoof to shake.
“How are you this evening, ma'am?” Anon asked.
“I'm very well, thank you. I wanted to extend my compliments to the chef. Em told me about your risotto during our visit this afternoon and I just had to come by and try it myself.”
“Thank you. Madam Mayor's suggestion has been very well received in the kitchen.” Rose smiled at him silently for a moment before answering.
“You made quite the impression, Anon. I haven't seen Em rave about food since she came back from that trip to Hoofington.”
“That's very flattering, ma'am. I'll have to send her my thanks.”
“You won't have to. She's coming for lunch tomorrow. You'll be able to thank her in person then.” The mare's smile widened as she spoke. “Well, that's it. My compliments again to the Chef.”
“Thank you, ma'am. Enjoy your evening.” Anon walked back to the kitchen briskly. Whooves was waiting at the counter, looking curious.
“What did they want?” he asked, plating a dish of pasta.
“Just a customer complimenting the risotto.”
“That thyme was a great idea. Everypony in the kitchen's loved it so far.”
“Out there, too, it looks like. You guys did a good job tonight, too. Kudos.”
“Thanks, Chef.” Anon took his place at the plating counter again, his spirits raised.
After the last guests finally left, Anon went to his office to write up the shift notes. Three hundred and twelve covers in one evening, no returns. A spectacular service all around. After pinning the notes to the cork board outside the office, he took his hat and jacket off and headed into the night air. The walk home was peaceful. Anon's mind wandered to the Mayor's planned lunch the next day and he felt himself getting slightly nervous.
“Cut that out, Anon,” he said to himself. “You've had tougher customers. You've done harder parties; you catered the Gala, for chrissake!” Getting home, he took a seat in the living room and ruminated. “I should ask her about where she learned about food when I thank her tomorrow,” he thought to himself. “Curious.
