It was the last straw. Visiting his family, saving Braeburn from himself, promising to visit total strangers in the Broncs—nothing had gotten under Cheese’s hide like the defilement of his favorite pizza place, and he said so at length.
Five minutes later, they were settled at a big circular booth, noticeably invisible to anypony standing in line for a table. One of the hosts standing at the front desk had kept them chatting with a bright, cheery smile, barely hiding his worry, while the other bolted for the manager. They’d decided that it was easier just to let Cheese in and give him a table. If he wasn’t precisely a celebrity, his brilliant yellow shirt made him at least recognizable, and it was better to have him inside than outside on the sidewalk looking irritated.
Cheese was still fuming. “This used to be a nice place. You came in, got a slice or two, paid your bits, and that was it. Nopony bothered you. It was all about the pizza. And they used good cheese,” he lamented. “I liked it the way it was. Where are the wobbly tables with the grease slicks? Where are the troughs around the sides? What happened to atmosphere?”
Braeburn looked around at the brick ovens and their open flames, the white tablecloths, and the waiters in black bowties and white aprons moving quickly and quietly through the crowds of casually chic ponies. “I dunno?”
A waiter trotted up to them, nosed the menus closer, and dropped his knees down so that his head was almost even with the tabletop. “Good evening, welcome to the Slice of Life, my name is Arugula, and I’ll be your server this evening. Now! Have either of you been here before?”
“Yes,” said Cheese sourly.
“Are you aware of how our menu works?”
“Am I— what? How the menu works? I read about food on it, I tell you what I want, and you bring it to me. That’s how a menu works.”
Arugula ignored this, picking up a pencil in his mouth and pointing several columns out to Braeburn, talking around the pencil. “We have our crust options here—everything is made fresh in-house, and it’s all locally sourced—“
“Locally sourced?” asked Braeburn, pushing his hat back and scratching his mane. This was going over his head.
“Locally sourced, Braeburn. You know how in Appleloosa, you pick an apple off a tree and eat it? That’s locally sourced. Look,” Cheese said, turning to the waiter, “what happened to good old Median Strip?”
“I’m sorry,” Arugula said, shifting from hoof to hoof and laughing nervously. “We’ve only been renovated for a few months, and I don’t know what the staffing was like before then. Now, we have several different options for garnishing—a lot of ponies like the white truffle oil. It’s very good.”
“There are five things you put on a pizza, and only five,” Cheese said between gritted teeth. “Red pepper flakes, garlic powder, pepper, salt, and your mouth. You do not use cutlery, and you do not put white truffle oil on top of perfectly good cheese. Good pizza cheese makes its own oil. Truffle oil. I ask you.” He coughed, and then glanced down at his tongue, which still had some damp confetti clinging to it. “Uch. I think I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Um, we’ll just have whatever’s nice,” said Braeburn. “Something simple for my friend over here. And two Appleloosa Golden Harvest Late Autumns, if you’ve got ‘em.”
“Make it three,” said Cheese.
“All righty, then,” said Arugula. “I’ll just put those in for you. Oh, my goodness, gentlemen, do excuse me. I forgot to bring you the amusement!”
“I’m not amused!” Cheese called after him. “Trenderized,” he muttered. “Completely Trenderized.” He caught a glimpse of a puff of spiky blond mane carelessly arranged around a unicorn horn, just visible over everypony’s head, and then a skinny flank with a patch of green argyle as a cutie mark. “Look at him, the stallion of the hour,” he went on, jerking his head to indicate the pony he’d spotted to Braeburn. “It’s not enough to kill the place. Oh no, he had to return to the scene of the crime.”
“Who’s that again?”
“Trenderhoof,” spat Cheese.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
Cheese rolled his eyes to the ceiling and mouthed, Thank Luna. “Trenderhoof,” he said, “is Equestria’s biggest party pooper. He can ruin a party just by being at it. Well, ok,” he admitted, seeing Braeburn’s confusion, “technically, he’s a journalist, but the second he’s at a party, it’s not a party anymore, it’s an Event. Everything about it is going in Stallion’s Journal or The Neighlantic.” The waiter brought three cider bottles and three mugs, smiled nervously again when he saw the expression on Cheese’s face, and moved hastily away.
“I see,” said Braeburn, nodding sympathetically. “It’s gotta be bad for a party pony, a bad review.”
“No,” said Cheese in exasperation, “the worst thing that can happen is a good review!” He waved his front leg around at the other diners. “Do you think these ponies are actually enjoying themselves? They’re not eating here because they like the food. They’re eating here because it’s trendy. This used to be a hole in the wall with great pizza, until Trenderhoof came in and,” Cheese made air quotes with his hooves, “ ‘appreciated’ it. The next thing you know, it’s all ‘locally sourced’ this and ‘authentic’ that. Then he loses interest, and whatever it was is done for. Don’t get me started,” he finished darkly, “on what he did to cupcakes.”
They nursed their ciders in silence for a moment.
“Ok,” Cheese burst out, “if you’re going to twist my tail about it. Cupcakes have always been cupcakes. They’re sweet, and little, and a lot of them have pink frosting—anyway, they’re perfect the way they are. But then Trenderhoof had to go and notice them and write about how fabulously retro they were, and suddenly there were cupcakes everywhere. Every party I threw, everypony wanted cupcakes: birthdays with cupcakes, weddings with cupcakes, even funerals with cupcakes. Trenderhoof got tired of them, wrote an article in Gallop and Prance about how yesterday cupcakes were, and now you can’t give them away. Only little places like Ponyville have the good sense to love them anymore. Poor old cupcakes,” added Cheese sadly, deliberately spilling some cider onto the floor. “You had a good run.”
Suddenly, he noticed that Trenderhoof wasn’t just standing and talking somewhere across the room. He was table-hopping, and getting closer. “Oh, Stilton,” he moaned, “there he is, and he’s coming this way. You keep an eye on him, because I am not going to be here.” He began frantically searching through his inventory for a hat that was both concealing and inconspicuous. He was up to the full widow’s weeds with matching veil before he remembered, too late, that Boneless 2 was sitting on the table, enjoying his own drink in his quiet way.
Trenderhoof didn’t seem to feel awkward about this meeting, whatever Cheese thought about it. He lifted his head, sighted Cheese, and rapidly made his way to the table. He leaned on the surface with both front hooves, so that the leather patches showed to full advantage. Waiters tried to get past, and had to detour around him. “Cheese!” he exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure. And you’ve got that amusing little prop with you, too, whatever it is.”
Cheese narrowed his eyes, his curly mane bristling. “Boneless 2 isn’t an it. Boneless 2 is a he.”
“You see?” Trenderhoof said, beaming. “Priceless! And where have you been? Out somewhere rustic, no doubt, bringing simple happiness to simple ponies. How I envy you sometimes. I flatter myself I found a little undiscovered gem here. I’m glad you decided to give it a try. And who is this?” he added, noticing Braeburn for the first time.
“Braeburn,” said the rancher, tipping his hat, and clinking horseshoes with Trenderhoof. “I’m from Appleloosa. Finest place in Equestria, if I do say so.”
“Appleloosa,” said Trenderhoof, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”
“Well!” boasted Braeburn, “it’s just the biggest apple ranch in all of Equestria, that’s all!”
Trenderhoof slid his glasses down his nose and peered over them at Braeburn. “Reeeeallly,” he purred.
Cheese glanced over at Trenderhoof and noticed that he was taking it all in: the loose, long blond mane, the leather vest, the deep chest, and a whole lot of other things Cheese had never noticed about Braeburn because they weren’t that interesting to him. He smacked his forehead with one hoof.
“I think I’ll join you," said Trenderhoof, and dropped down on the seat next to Braeburn, forcing Cheese to slide over. “Do go on, Mr. Braeburn,” he said, leaning his chin against his hoof. “I’m particularly interested in apples.”
“You are? Well, that’s awful nice of you. Nopony else in this whole city seems interested in apples, Mr. Trenderhoof.”
“Please,” said the journalist, flashing his teeth, “call me Trend.”
The evening, which was already terrible, had just become exponentially worse. Not only had Trenderhoof come to their table, they would never be able to get rid of him. There was one possible solution that came to mind. It was simple, it was drastic, it was effective, and above all, he thought with an evil grin, it would be funny. He motioned to the waiter and asked in a murmur if there were any drinks on the menu that were more or less the kind of thing he had in mind. Of course, there were lots of them. It was that sort of place. Meanwhile, this hat wouldn’t do at all, and he sorted through them quickly, drawing the stares of curious diners, until he settled on a beret. Then he leaned casually around Braeburn, caught Trenderhoof’s eye, and smiled an intentionally insincere smile.
“Like apples, do ya?” said Braeburn. “I don’t want to go tootin’ our horn, but we grow the best cider apples in all of Equestria. Even Sweet Apple Acres can’t match ‘em, though I say it as shouldn’t. But I guess a big time city slicker restaurant critic like yourself wouldn’t be bothered tellin’ the difference.”
“Au contraire. It is my business to ‘tell the difference,’ and vive it, may I say.”
“Oh, really, now. Betcha couldn’t tell where these apples are from,” said Braeburn, sliding his mug over to Trenderhoof. “No fair lookin’,” he added, and swept the bottles off the table with a crash. Everypony’s eyes swiveled in the direction of the sound, and then they went on with their conversations as though nothing had happened, while six members of the waitstaff darted in and silently removed the mess. It was that sort of place.
Trenderhoof blew a bit of blond mane off his horn, levitated the mug to his mouth, and took a small sip. He glanced to the side and up, running through different possibilities at lightning speed, then responded, “Golden Harvest Late Autumn. ’08,” he added. “Appleloosa! Of course. I had simply assumed it was part of the name. It hadn’t occurred to me that it was a place. Silly me.” He pushed the mug back towards Braeburn and began tracing little figures in the spilled cider on the table with his hoof.
“Lucky guess,” scoffed Braeburn. “Betcha couldn’t do it with any other cider.”
“I assure you I could. I have a very sensitive palate, and considerable experience, and I am willing to try nearly anything once.”
Cheese, trying to get control of the conversation, shot in, “He really is. Like that Tatzelwurm entrail casserole he wrote about in the same issue of Gallop and Prance where he gave up cupcakes. He’ll eat anything. Not because it’s good; he’ll eat it because he can.”
“Well!” exclaimed Braeburn, slapping his hat down on the table. “We’ll just have to test that out. We’ll try every cider in the place!” He lifted one leg in the air and began gesturing for a waiter.
“No!” Cheese exclaimed in horror. “Um, Braeburn,” he winced, and forced himself, “honey, we don’t want you to overdo it, do we? You know how you get when you overdo it.”
“Now, don’t you fret none, Cheese. I’ve been drinking cider since I was a foal. It’s like mother’s own milk to me.” He threw one palomino leg around the nearest waiter’s shoulders. “Three bottles of everything!”
“Two,” muttered Cheese in defeat, and banged his head on the table, knocking Boneless Two over. “Oops, sorry,” he said, and carefully leaned the rubber chicken back against his almost full glass.
“Your Cotton Candy, sir,” murmured Arugula, the waiter, and placed a cocktail glass in front of him.
The glass had a little puff of real cotton candy in it, and pink sugar crystals around the rim. He knew he should have tried harder to act like a jealous boyfriend, but looking at it took all the resolve straight out of him, and he just didn’t have the heart. It didn’t really matter anyway, since Arugula and another waiter were lining up bottle after bottle in front of Braeburn and Trenderhoof. He gave up, put the beret away, and scrubbed both hooves through his mane.
Arugula brought their pizza. It wasn’t bad, Cheese acknowledged. It just wasn’t pizza. Meanwhile, he seemed to be the only one who was still interested in eating anything. Braeburn and Trenderhoof were too busy tossing down yet another round.
The rancher slapped his hooves over Trenderhoof’s eyes. “Now, you stop peekin,’ compadre! You’re too good at this!”
“Hollow Shades October Special, ’09. Really. You’re going to have to try much harder than this.”
“Oh, really, now. Is that so?” said Braeburn, slapping his hoof down on the table. “Well, then, now we move on to the hard stuff!”