[the deli] even doubt can be delicious [frank]

Not that anyone was counting, but Roderick had managed to stay employed for 21 days. 22 if he made it to the end of this shift. Which seemed less and less likely with every passing moment, but hey, a man could dream.

The problem, of course, was that Roderick hated being nice to people. Even in this deli, with much lower standards for customer service than Honeydukes had, he was struggling to keep up the pretence of caring at the front of house. Really it was more that he was pissing off his fellow servers than anything else. He was pretty sure Blevins had been spreading rumours about what happened in January to the other staff, too. It wasn’t like he had been in her classes - Blevins was just being a pain in his ass.

Frank had moved him to the back, just to try it out. Kitchen work should have been easier. Should have.

But here he was, armed with his wand against the panini machine, which had decided to catch fire. “Aguamenti!” he yelled in vain, because water makes grease and grease-associate fires worse. Roderick knew this, but also, the bread was on fire and so was the rest of his station.

The grease fire suddenly extinguished, the panini machine making a little burping noise. “Piece of shit machine,” Rod muttered, turning around and coming face to face with his boss. Oh, great. Fantastic. Frank must have put it out. “Hi, Frank,” the red-head managed, wiping his ash covered hands on his apron. “What’s up?”

@Frank Adams

Frank was always somewhere near the Deli these days. Quite frankly, the restaurant was still in its infancy and he was too neurotic to not be. It wasn't that he was some kind of micromanager— he was above that, of course— but then again, there were expectations. When transporting an American joint to the UK (his joint, no less), there was a need to preserve authenticity, keep the thing as much in tune with its roots as possible.

As such, the majority of the staff were from Pittsburgh, and New York where he had been a chef at one too many nauseating fucking bullshit restaurants that made him appreciate the simple, unnoticeable details of what made food actually good.

For the most part, that just meant it wasn't pretty to look at.

The smell of burning met his senses immediately as he stepped in through the back door from the alley. He couldn't even relish in the fact that place was filled to the brim with patrons, a line at the register for takeaways, visible only through the little window of the door to the back, back kitchen. Everything else was cooked upfront for everyone to see. Unfortunately in this instance.

God damn Roderick. He knew it without a second of hesitation. There was only one person who managed to burn every single thing he touched.

The kid had something in his interview, he gave off the sort of laissez-faire, no bullshit attitude, the kind of dickheadedness that Francis respected. He saw a bit of himself in there, somewhere, and maybe that's why Rod was currently in his kitchen, starting another fire. 

"What's up?" His American accent didn't sound quite as delicate his wand expelled the flame. "What the fuck is up?" He gestured to the steaming sandwich press, running his hands through his hair before casting a dark glance to the room. Not the place. But, fuck. "C'mon, kid, to the back," The rest of the employees knew to steer clear as he pushed his way through the door, gangly limbs following.

"Listen, I know Honeydukes didn't combat you with a whole lot of skills, but—" Frank turned on his heels as Rod entered after him. "— it's not that hard, just watch the grill," He was rambling now. "Is there something that is—" His words came out quickly, frantically. "— is there something you're not getting?" He really had a way with this whole mentorship thing. The rest of his staff knew it wasn't his strong suit, but it had to be jarring for someone new.

As soon as he said it Roderick realized that “What’s up” was probably the worst way to open that conversation. What’s up? Really? It was clear that his boss felt the same way about that milquetoast reaction that he did. The sandwich press burbled behind him, and Roderick winced as Frank pointed it out. Yeah, this was not great. Not great at all. Roderick pulled his cap off his head as he followed Frank to the back office, glaring at the other employees as they glanced his way. How bloody embarrassing. Roderick ran a hand through the front of his hair as the door shut behind him, covering his forehead with ash and grease. Twenty-one and a half days. Christ.

Frank sounded not exactly upset, more like exasperated. A small comfort - Roderick almost wished that the American would lash out and yell instead. He knew how to deal with yelling and threats and broken glass. But this was not like home. Frank was almost pleading for some opening, any way to help Roderick be useful and not a disaster.

“Right,” Roderick mumbled, just to the grill thing. He had been watching the grill, mostly, just hadn’t noticed when the parchment paper had been cut too long (his fault) and caught onto the oil (his fault) and the whole thing had gone up in flames (also his fault). Was there something he wasn’t getting? Roderick bit the inside of his cheek. “Not sure, boss.” It was about as honest as he was gonna get. “Didn’t cook much at home.” Of course that was no answer to the question - what was so difficult about customer service? About fucking retail? About line cook? If he couldn’t make it here, was he going to be able to make it anywhere?

Frank was strangely (problematic, because he was the "boss") disappointed with Roderick's lack of a reaction. Some part of him wanted the kid to get mad, throw something, yell a little bit, at least that meant he fucking cared, that he was even moderately passionate about this. If it were Frank, and it had been before, he would have caused a scene, relishing in the theatrics of quitting before he could get fired— throwing apron off, giving the finger to the guests, and taking a pizza with him for good measure— but not Rod.

His heart sank a fraction underneath his ribs. Either this little shit was manipulating him into feeling guilty for his own lack of fuse... or he was being sincere. Damnit. The ever-present cynic in Frank wanted to believe the former, but his godforsaken secret bleeding heart had other things in mind. Hid demeanor softened, only slightly. "It happens," He sighed, running both hands through his hair again as he leaned back against the uninhabited prep table, his head almost touching the utensils hanging overhead.

"I know you're new, " Francis folded his arms over his chest. A lot of employers wouldn't be so involved in the day to day but he liked to be, his own neuroticism aside. "Do you like cooking?" Fucks sake, now he was coming across like some kind of evangelical preacher. He meant to ask it in a way that led the conversation toward Rod finding himself, or some shit, but it came across like he was trying to mentor him. It was a summer job, not everyone would be so invested, as invested as he was, he tried to remind himself.

But he worked only in extremes.

Roderick wasn’t really sure what to expect from Frank if he wasn’t going to get yelled at, cursed out. The soft, exasperated ”It happens,” was not something that computed with the rest of Frank’s … well, Frank-ness. It would make sense coming from Professor Ajay or someone like that. Roderick didn’t want pity. This stunk of pity. But also, he needed the job.

There was a chair in the corner - one from the tables in the dining room that needed re-upholstering. Roderick sat down, spinning the chair around so he was straddling the back of the chair, resting his head on the wireframe back. Did he like cooking? It seemed like the wrong answer to say “no”, but…

“Not really.” There, it was said, at least. “Don’t have much of a head for it. Or a hand for it.” He furrowed his brow. “Baking’s a little better, I think? I was braw at Potions, Arithmancy, things wit’ numbers. Cooking’s like -“ Roderick made a face, “all like, you’ve got recipes, but then it’s like, what the fuck is golden brown mean?” There could five different colours that fit that and Roderick didn’t know the difference. 

There it was.

The unapologetic dickheadedness that Frank admired about Roderick when he interviewed him was finally turning up. He nearly grinned, but stopped himself, arms folded across his chest like the man of authority that he was meant to be. Of course, the whole passion for cooking thing was ideal, but the best chefs had the kind of a tenacity that couldn't be taught, that kind that he caught glimpses of in Rod. The cooking was the easy part.

Frank hated to admit that this was the worst part of his pseudo-dreamer making itself known, so he instead brushed that aside and stood up off the side of the counter. "You don't need a recipe, that's the best part," The wizard was clearly speaking for himself here— Rod had literally just admitted that he worked strictly with the finite. In cooking, that was not a thing. But he was nothing if obsessively determined.

He could feel the familiar surge of his thoughts before the little ticking noise in his head, the one he'd learned in therapy to use when he felt like his thoughts might just explode— one, two, three— Frank settled again. "Look, I know this is just a fucking Summer job for you," He collected his thoughts into something more cohesive. "And I don't expect you to find your calling, or whatever the fuck—" He gestured broadly. "—but I do want you to learn something," Merlin's sake, he was hating himself more by the minute. "One more fire, though, and you're out," And, he was back.

"You tried making pizza yet?" The idea struck him. The precision that came with it was something he imagined would suit Rod's black and white. There was a particular science with the dough, the fire, how long it sat. You had to time it just right.

"You don't need a recipe, that's the best part." Roderick sighed with frustration - hadn't he just said that that was the bloody problem? Frank was some sort of 'anyone can cook' motivational thinker, now? Roderick would rather be fired than inspired.

Frank cursed a lot. Roderick felt one side of his mouth jerk upward into a mean grin. He could respect that, that was the environment of men he had grown up with - Warner, Walden, their buddies from the bar and from the fucking Death Eaters too. Roderick tried not to curse so much in front of Archie, didn't want that shit rubbing off on him, but a man who peppered every other sentence with creative use of the f-bomb was a man who was speaking Roderick's language. Curses and threats. "Sure thing, boss." And with that, he dodged unemployment for another day. It came as a relief, which was strange because he hadn't realized he cared about this job at all. Well, he did care about saving. Get Archie a wand, get out of Warner's house, all of those goals needed funding.

Pizza? "Not yet," he said. Roderick thought about it - it was a little closer to baking, albeit with pasta sauce on it. "Don't love pizza, but don't have to love it to learn it." He was warming up to the idea, actually. No customers, precision, manual work but he didn't mind that.

Introducing pizza, which usually required a flame, immediately after telling Rod he would put the kibosh on the whole job thing if he started another fire in his restaurant was a bold move. But Frank had said it. And now he had to go with it. He figured maybe if Rod was making something that he cared more about, something that in some ways was like baking, maybe he would pay more attention.

Then he said he didn't love pizza.

Francis paused, stopping before grabbing a container with dough. He was going to let that one slide. No matter how much he didn't want to. The magical timer on the top said the dough had been there resting for just over an hour. Perfect. "Well, you're wrong... but...anyway," He strode back to the counter in the middle of the kitchen. "Alright get the flour and put some here," Frank gestured vaguely somewhere on the counter. Exactly where it didn't matter.

"You're gonna make this pizza," He explained as if that wasn't already obvious.

It was like suddenly Frank had forgotten all about firing him. The about-face threw Roderick for a bit of a loop. That, and the speed with which Frank had moved from the office back to the center of the kitchen. He wasn't separating, but Frank was moving with a determination Roderick couldn't relate to.

Ah well. As long as he could keep the job.

Roderick stood up and followed Frank to the center of the kitchen, trying not to make eye-contact with any of the other cooks while also not making it obvious he was avoiding eye contact. A dishwasher looked his way- Roderick shot the kid a glare so evil that she dropped the plate she was scrubbing back into the sink. "Flour, right," Roderick muttered, grabbing an open bag of the stuff. Frank didn't seem pressed about where on the counter, so Roderick spread some out on a spot that looked clean, trying to remember how his mother had done it the few times she tried to bake when he was young.

"Right," Roderick said, a little nonplussed. Was that the extent of instruction he was going to get? He took the container of dough from Frank and turned it out onto the counter, eyeing his boss skeptically. "So do I roll it out with a pin, or press it out, then?"

Without hesitation, Frank reached over to the bowl of flour and added more after Rod had sprinkled some on the counter. Usually, with cooking it was the opposite, but when it came to pizza, less was not more. "Never a pin," He said, less unkindly than the way that it sounded milliseconds before when it popped into his brain. By no means did he fancy himself some kind of teacher, but he thought he might be getting the hang of it. At least, enough so that it wasn't a visible discomfort.

"Never a pin," He repeated more quietly, pulling the large bowl between them. "Alright, we need this covered in flour," He got the feeling that barking orders at the kid wasn't going to be the most efficient approach; besides, he was really just looking out for himself, one more eye roll and he figured he would follow up on his threat to fire Rod.

Frank took the dough from the counter and placed it into the flour, pushing it down before flipping it over and doing the same. A bit more flour of the counter for good measure, and it was back with a soft thud. "So we start with the crust," He pushed down around the edges to start building up the sides. "Keep doing that, but start from the middle and push out," He took a step back, rubbing the powder on his black jeans without a second thought.

"Soft, though," He folded his arms over his chest, studying. "Just use your fingertips," Frank held his own hands out like an idiot to mimic the motion. If it weren't a place of business (and certainly if he wasn't the owner), there was a joke to be made about how that particular skill might come in handy for him down the line.

"Nice, that's it," Even Frank didn't recognize Frank— some kind of fucking cheerleader, he thought. He busied himself with adding more flour to avoid any sticking, changing the subject to something even more nauseating. "So who was the chick here last week?" Frank again dusted off the flour and watched Roderick, trying not to be too critical of his technique (the first pizza he made was a disaster). "Chewey mentioned you had a little date," He quirked an eyebrow, voice even. He wasn't around all of the time but he knew what was going on.

Frank seemed to be entering some sort of pizza-making trance. Roderick shrugged, watching Frank add a liberal amount of flour to the countertop. "No pins. Got it." Might as well repeat it. Prove he was listening and that he did care (for a given value of care) about this job. He peered over Frank's shoulder.

Frank stepped back and Roderick took his place, frowning at the lump of dough. Middle and push out. His technique was clumsier than Frank's, but it wasn't like it was hard to press and push. Frank offered commentary - Roderick resisted the urge to scowl. Just the fingertips. Gentler, like he was pressing sap from a twig in Herbology or Potions, fingertips covered in flour and feeling sticky.

Frank approved of this slight adjustment. Roderick wasn't flattered at all, but there was something satisfying about the process. Okay, maybe pizza wasn't an idiot idea from his boss.

So who was the chick?

Roderick pressed his whole weight into the dough, surprise interrupting his rhythm. Who the -- oh. Roderick shrugged, pressing around the dents in the dough in an effort to correct his mistake. "Girl from school," he said, non-committally. A date? Merlin. "We are. Not friends. Or anything. She was just plastered."

He watched carefully from where he was leaned back against the counter to assess the way that Roderick was making way around the dough— the kid followed instructions better than his mouth gave him credit for. Frank quietly patted himself on back, as if his teaching had something to do with it. Briefly, fleetingly, he understood why his sister enjoyed the art of it so much. Because truly there was an art to it, teaching things.

Then Rod proceeded to smash his weight into the dough.

Frank visibly reacted, an all too dramatic huff followed. "Fingers, Jesus, c'mon," He groaned, extending his own and wiggling them around to mimic the action he had quite literally just explained in what he thought was a very prescribed manner. But, on second thought—

"Not friends, right" He repeated, hiding the knowing smirk from his face as he inspected the work closer. There was a morbid curiosity he felt in learning about the ever ill-fated future of youths and their romantic peers. Nostalgia, even. "Okay," He added with a non-committed shrug of his broad shoulders. "Don't let your shithead 'not-friends' in here when they're plastered, then," It was as close as he was going to get to giving advice on the matter and he didn't plan on repeating himself.

With a flick of his wrist, the pizza oven fired up and he summoned a stone for the dough. "What do you like on it?" Frank asked distractedly as he pulled out the sauce. He was entirely prepared to judge either way.

Roderick fell into the dough with surprise; Frank reacted like Roderick had just murdered a cat. "Sorry, he mumbled, easing off the dough. His fingertips were covered in flour, his pasty skin seeming even whiter in the harsh light of the kitchen. "Merlin an' Mordred," he swore under his breath, pushing the dough out with his finger tips again. The motion was satisfying, in a way, when Frank wasn't hissing like someone had stepped on his tail.

Well, the hissing was preferable to that tone, like Frank was a gossipy little girl, or Trutch trying to needle him for some story or another. Juvenile, sounding worse in Frank's American accent. Don't let your shithead 'not-friends' in here when they're plastered, then, Frank said. Roderick felt heat rising in his cheeks, was sure the colour was matching his hair. "Alright, alright," he said, only a touch sheepish, as the dough was pressed out.

Frank flicked the oven on, the roar of the fire crackling to life and heat suddenly at Roderick's back. "Uh. Sausage?" Wow, how fey of him. "I don't know. Cheese." A pause, looking at the toppings rack. "Green things," he admitted after a moment. "Spinach, sort of thing. Vegetables." Ugh, he sounded like a girl, describing a salad.

Rod apologized, half-heartedly, and Francis almost felt bad for coming on too strong with his reprimand. God damn conscious he thought to himself as he attempted to push down whatever sentimentality the whole faux-mentor thing had brought upon him. As he did with most of those feelings that he didn't want to deal with.

"That's better," He said more quietly than he had been before.

The mention of his little friend seemed to have struck something in Roderick, remorse? Not quite. Frank recognized that same anger kind of embarrassment well. At once he could feel the painful sting of being that age all over again. He winced at the thought.

The sausage was a good start. "Cheese and green things...Jesus Christ," And he was doing so well. Frank's eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. "All the green things are over there," He nodded to where the fresh vegetables were stored under a light mist that came and went every so often. He preferred the natural way to anything magic.

fin

Jesus Christ, said Frank and Roderick bit his lip. On the outside, it might look like a nervous tic, but Roderick was trying to bite back some sort of taunt (What, are you a big fan or scurvy?) threatening to launch itself out of his throat. "Right, alright," he muttered instead, stuffing his hand in his pockets as he moved to the vegetables.

He wondered if Frank had ever struggled in summers to eat, had ever gone without a meal so others could have one. He wondered if Frank took vegetables for granted, took as given that there would be money for green things and fresh things year-round. He wondered if Frank had ever needed to hide his wages from his own family. He wondered if Frank knew how the variety in this one little section was more kinds of vegetables than Roderick had ever had in his own home in his life.

He wondered many things, and asked none, just wrapped his fist around handfuls of spinach and mushrooms before walking back to the pizza. There was more lesson to learn.

[out]