Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had made a career out of being unwelcome.
He paused just outside Solnste, sliding his phone into his back pocket and staring up at the entrance like it might blink first.
The restaurant was sleek and placed between some of the most prominent restaurants in New York. It was built out of glass and metal, no advertisements along the floor to ceiling windows. There was just the engraved name above the door and a silent understanding: if you had to ask the price, congrats!! You probably couldn't eat here.
Usually, Shane examined restaurants in his safe zone. Brooklyn and Queens was where he thrived– he had grown up in the area, raised by the men smoking outside his apartment complex. Even though he didn’t look like it, Shane always knew a guy who knew a guy.
This switch was a one-time occurrence. His boss– Arthur Tarnowski– had pulled Shane into his office, cigar clenched between his teeth. Apparently, two of the best inspectors in the New York City Health Department were so charmed by the executive chef that they not only gave him a biased inspection, but also slept with the guy.
And so, because Arthur was convinced Shane got 'no bitches', he ended up in Midtown on his day off– Friday, of course– because every spot in Solnste was reserved back to back to back. Rumor said that they barely had five minutes in between a party.
With a resigned sigh and a dread that came with his job, Shane pushed the heavy door open.
Inside, the dining room was spotless. Bustling with movement. Beautiful women in beautiful gowns ate weirdly beautiful food. Men bit at unlit cigs, threatening to smoke but not daring to take out a lighter. Every server was groomed and moved at the speed of light. They were the living embodiment of how you can rest when you’re dead.
The host, a similarly put-together man in his early twenties, glanced up. His smile was polite and polished. “Good afternoon.” He said, and Shane swore he heard a sharp cha-ching.
Shane gave him a practiced, media-ready smile that never really reached his eyes. “Afternoon.”
The host's gaze flicked down, towards Shane’s boots. He hadn't had time to grab his dress shoes when rushing out of the ice rink this morning– It was a hobby that he spent too much time indulging in– so he threw on what he had. It itched in the back of his mind, even now.
“.. Do you have a reservation with us today?”
“No.” Shane said awkwardly, reaching a hand to his back pocket. Usually, when Shane inspected a restaurant, he ate a meal first. It gave him a feel for how a restaurant ran without pressure. But, Arthur insisted that his identity should be established at the door, and Shane could not afford to get fired.
The host didn’t miss a beat. “I’m afraid we are fully booked this evening.”
“I know,” Shane replied. Instead of grabbing his badge, his fingers slid over his phone. He slipped it out of his pocket. Not to show anything, but more to have something in his hands. “I won’t take long.”
That was enough for the host to give him another up-down. “Sir—”
In a swift movement, Shane’s other hand slid back into his other pocket and unclipped his badge, discreetly showing the identification to the host. “Shane Hollander. I’m with the New York City Health Department.”
His name landed heavier than he thought it would. Outside of the glamour of high-end, A-graded buildings in New York, Shane Hollander was the top of the food chain. He was well respected, cunning, and was known to be one of the hardest health inspectors to please. If you owned an establishment in New York City, you dreaded the day he came to your doorstep.
The host’s smile faltered, then slipped off entirely.
He glanced past Shane, towards the ever-moving dining room, where a man in a black suit stood as security. A brief exchange followed.
By the time the host turned around, his expression had changed again. It was polite, but still cautious.
“If you’ll follow me.” The two moved across the dining room, past tables who were mid-course. He categorized the food, what each dish looked like, and how new plates were presented. Conversations dipped as they passed, drunken eyes flicking onto Shane and then felting back to their groups, like he wasn’t worth the time.
The host stopped infront of a two top tucked near the edge of a window, so close to the chefs that the smell of the kitchen moved through the air. “Will this be acceptable?” He asked.
Shane glanced at the arrangement. The linen was pressed sharp enough that it could cut. The silverware was flawless. His eyes dusted over the single chair, slightly pulled out, waiting for his arrival. “Yes, thank you.”
The host nodded and walked away.
Shane took his seat, the chair silent beneath him. He rested his phone and his badge on the table beside the folded napkin. He exhaled slowly, letting out pushed back anxiety and letting the room settle around him.
Unwelcome or not, he was here.
And now, the chefs were on the clock.
Shane didn’t even finish clocking the room when he heard the kitchen quiet.
It was a tell that they knew he was here. The lack of voices turned into violent whispers mixed into the sizzling of food. At one point, Shane swore he heard his name.
The kitchen doors swung open, and heat swarmed the air around him. Then came the man of the hour. Ilya Rozanov didn’t look like someone who had just been caught fucking– literally and figuratively– with the New York City Health Department. He was tall and broad, with light curls that definitely escaped regulation. His eyes locked onto Shane immediately. Of course they did.
“Inspector Hollander,” Rozanov said, accent thick and controlled, the syllables carrying through the dining room. “I was told about you. This is.. surprise.”
Shane sat posture-perfect in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. He lifted his water glass, unfazed. “Health Department inspections are usually unannounced.”
“Yes,” Rozanov agreed, eyes tracking him closely. “But Friday is.. busy day. And you come when you are not scheduled.”
That caught Shane’s attention. High-end kitchens such as these track inspectors obsessively. Someone in management definitely knows Shane's usual schedule. By now, the whole brigade de cuisine probably knows. “Word travels fast.” Shane said, eyes finally clicking with Rozanovs.
“In good kitchen, everything moves fast.”
Shane picked up his badge and held it steady. “I’ll need access to the kitchen, the walk-in, and the dry storage. Do you have your temperature logs on stand-by?”
Rozanov’s eyes dropped to the badge, then back up. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his face bloomed into a wolfish grin. “Of course. You see all,” Rozanov waved a hand in the air, gesturing towards the kitchen doors. “We do work correct here.”
“That’s what I'm here to verify.” Shane said, sliding off his chair.
Rozanov turned, pushing the doors wide open with his shoulder. Heated rolled out in waves. “I tell you now,” Ilya said over his shoulder, sounding cocky. “My kitchen very clean. You maybe find nothing.”
The kitchen swallowed Shane whole.
It wasn’t the rusty machinery he was all too familiar with. He had grown up around barely functioning furnaces and walk-ins that changed temperature depending on the weather. This.. this was real. The noises hit him first. There was metal on metal, the hiss of pans, the clipped calls moving down the line in practiced cadence. The air was heavy with fat. Every surface gleamed.
It was so clean to the point of being sterile.
Shane stopped just inside the doors. No one stared for more than ten seconds. The cooks kept moving with sure hands and steady eyes. There was no one scrambling to hide towels and no one frantically wiping at a counter top. They had been warned, Shane thought, and they had been warned well.
Rozanov turned to face Shane, expression composed and smug. “You start where?” He asked.
“Walk-in,” Shane said. “Then dry storage. We’ll work forward.”
Rozanov nodded once. He barked something sharp in Russian over his shoulder. The line answered without missing a beat.
As the two moved, Shane clicked his pen and scribbled down some notes.
- No hair nets.
- Proper usage of gloves.
- All is sanitary and new grade.
The walk-in sat at the far end of the kitchen. Rozanov pulled it open and stepped aside without ceremony. Cold rushed out.
Shane entered first. He checked the thermometer on the wall. He opened crates, inspected seals, ran a finger along the shelving. There was no pooled liquid, no unlabeled containers. The proteins and vegetables were separate and organized via type and date. The labels were clearly updated regularly and the handwriting was neat. He almost hated how solid it really was.
Behind him, Rozanov stood quietly with his arms folded.
“You run a tight ship,” Shane said at last, writing a note. Up-to-standard walk-in.
“Yes,” Rozanov replied. “We cannot be… sloppy. Michelin is not sloppy.”
“The Health Department isn’t either.”
A pause.
“You're boring,” Ilya sighed. Shane turned to look at him quickly, a look of surprise and frustration settling on his face. Rozanov had balls, he'll give him that.
“Other inspectors, they look fast. Make talk. Eat food..” A devilish grin flashed on Rozanov’s face. “.. Then we have a good time.”
Shane shook his head and looked back down. “.. I take my job very seriously, Mr. Rozanov.”
The Russian thought about that for a few beats. “I hear you are not.. Biased. Very serious. Very boring,” He drawls. Shane turned on Rozanov with a glare again, but it caught halfway when he saw the stress in between the lines of his annoying smile.
Shane’s reply came out before he’d thought better of it. “I believe that, in this field, I should always give a restaurant the score they deserve. And even though your wrongs are still wrongs, Mr. Rozanov, I will not give you an unjust rating because of your.. scandals with the Health Department.”
Shane caught the moment Rozanov relaxed, just a notch. The relief didn’t last– interest slid in after it, dark and deliberate, and suddenly Shane had the dreadful feeling that he’d been properly noticed.
The silence stretched. The compressor hummed. Finally, Rozanov gave a short nod. “Good.”
They moved on.
The dry storage was immaculate, of course. Clean floors, Elevated shelves, no pests, no weird marks. Shane hunched over and checked corners, shining his flashlight into places most people forgot existed. Nothing. Literally nothing.
Back on the line, service surged around them. A cook slid past Shane with a pan, murmuring a quick behind and an apology. Shane stepped aside automatically, bumping Rozanov’s shoulder.
“You work in restaurant before?” Rozanov asked quickly.
“.. yes.”
“Where?”
Shane capped his pen. “I don’t believe that's important.”
After another thirty minutes of pacing and failing to find something truly troubling, the two stood near the pass while Shane added his final notes onto his clipboard.
Rozanov was visibly tense again, his easy smile starting to look strained.
From the vague file he glanced over on the train to Midtown, this was Ilya Rozanov's first year as executive chef. His first health inspection as the guy in charge.
Shane exhaled through his nose slowly and reached into his pocket to pull out the carbon-copy pad. He tore the slip cleanly and wrote the rating without ceremony.
A.
He handed it over. “For the record,” Shane said, voice level, professional, “you’ll need hair nets in prep at all times. No exceptions. And every container gets labeled immediately, not retroactively.”
Rozanov took the paper like it might dissolve. He scanned it once. Then again. An A.
The tension left him in a visible wave. And when he looked back up, something else had slipped into his expression again. Something that looked akin to sharp curiosity. As if Shane had just done something unexpected and earned himself closer inspection. Which, by the way, was not true. Most of the small errors he found were things he let others fix on the spot, so the singular point he did take off was half petty, half protocol.
To emphasize his point, a shiver ran down his spine, uncomfortable under this weird mans eyes. All light eyed people are so scary.
“It is… fair,” Rozanov said with a hint of hesitation. “.. you could take more points.”
“I could,” Shane agreed. “I didn’t need to.”
Rozanov folded the slip. “You will come back?”
“That is how inspections work, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane hummed as he clipped his pen to the clipboard. Though, he didn’t know if he would be assigned to Solnste ever again.
Then Shane turned toward the exit without a glance behind him, the heat of the kitchen still warming his clothes.
Service continued as he walked out of the restaurant door.
Rozanov, he thought. Where have I seen him before?
Shane left Midtown on foot.
Not because it was faster, and not because he needed the exercise, but because he needed to get out of his own head.
The houses outside Solnste were beautiful. Valets lingered along the curb. Even the air felt curated compared to what he was used too.
Eventually, he hopped on the train that carried him north, shaking and rattling over the tracks. Times Square and 42nd Street blurred into one wall of light and motion.
The crowds thinned as he moved uptown. Regular commuters replaced the tourists; students with backpacks, older men murmuring into cell phones, a woman gently rocking a baby to sleep against the window. The city was alive and a lot less performative.
Harlem appeared gradually. The street sounds changed. Less honking, more voices, followed by a slam of a bodega door.
Shane caught his reflection in the window, layered over the buildings speeding past.
He looked like Christian Bale in The Machinist, minus the skin-and-bones part. Shane ran a hand down his face and looked forward once more.
East Harlem finally appeared. When he exited, the smells always hit him first. Bread, greasy food, coffee. If only he wasn't on a microfiber diet. Kids kicked soccer balls between pillars, old men leaned on stoops with Styrofoam cups, calling to each other in a mix of Spanish and English.
Shane recognized the rhythm here. It was truly the only messy thing he has ever enjoyed.
He climbed out of the station, walking the familiar streets. He slid past the deli with the flickering neon sign and the park where he used to skate, turned the corner twice towards the stoops where his old neighbors argued about basketball scores.
Everything here had its own sound, its own smell, and its own weight.
His building came into view. It was old but well kept by the landlord, and also the only thing he could afford that was close(ish) to his parents.
As he trekked up the stairwell that smelled faintly of bleach and old takeout— the elevator had been broken since December— he counted the cracks in the bricks.
Inside, he kicked off his boots and let the door close behind him. The quiet hit differently here than in Midtown. He leaned against the door for a moment, letting his shoulders relax.
Midtown had felt like another city entirely. Rozanov seemed like he was from a whole new world. But, no matter what, East Harlem always felt familiar and lived-in. Shane liked it.
Still, he couldn’t stop seeing Ilya’s sharp eyes, the precision of the kitchen, the way his veiny hands had slid over counters. That man had left a mark in his head, but not for any of the right reasons.
Shane groaned into a pillow for fifteen minutes, wringing his brain, trying to find the source of this strange familiarity he felt around that damn chef. Eventually, he flipped over, wrist falling onto his forehead. His exhale was slow.
He’d write the report tomorrow.
Shane Hollander fell asleep with his mind racing, and a gut feeling that this was definitely the beginning of something he didn't want to start.