The Glitch became an overnight sensation, though "overnight" was a relative term when dealing with a restaurant that existed partially outside normal space-time and had been visited by literal devils, celebrity chefs, and flaming skeleton vigilantes.
The New York Times food section ran a piece titled "The Restaurant That Shouldn't Exist (But You Should Definitely Visit)." The review had been written by a critic who'd spent three paragraphs trying to describe Cartoon Cat and eventually given up, settling for "the proprietor is... unique" before spending eight paragraphs rhapsodizing about the carbonara.
Eater NY published "We Tried to Find The Glitch Using Google Maps and Ended Up in Three Different Dimensions."
Buzzfeed did a listicle: "17 Reasons Why A Cartoon Cat Makes Better Pasta Than Your Italian Grandmother (Number 12 Will SHOCK You!)."
The Instagram posts were insane. Influencers flocked to Hell's Kitchen trying to find the dimensional door, posting selfies with the restaurant's exterior (which looked different in every photo—sometimes red brick, sometimes blue, once appearing to be made entirely of crystallized light). The hashtag #TheGlitchNYC had over 200,000 posts.
Reservations were impossible. Partly because Cartoon Cat didn't technically take reservations—he operated on a first-come-first-served basis that somehow always accommodated exactly the right number of people—and partly because time worked strangely in the dimensional pocket. People who'd eaten there reported wildly different wait times. One couple swore they'd waited ten minutes. The people behind them insisted it had been two hours. Both were probably right.
The menu had expanded through sheer necessity and cartoon logic. Cartoon Cat discovered that if he thought about a dish, he could make it. Didn't matter if he'd never cooked it before. Didn't matter if it was from a cuisine he'd never studied. Toon force plus his growing culinary knowledge plus hammerspace ingredients equaled the ability to make literally anything.
Want authentic Neapolitan pizza? Done. The oven in his kitchen could reach the exact temperature of a traditional wood-fired pizza oven, and the dough had that perfect chew.
Craving legitimate Sichuan ma la? He'd pull peppers from hammerspace that had never grown on Earth and create numbness-inducing heat that was somehow perfectly balanced.
Need a dessert that tasted exactly like your grandmother's recipe from childhood? Cartoon Cat would pull out a sign asking what grandmother made, and then produce it with such accuracy that grown adults cried into their tiramisu.
The Glitch could seat fifty people comfortably, but Cartoon Cat had discovered that the space could expand when needed. The dimensional pocket was flexible. On busy nights, the restaurant somehow accommodated eighty, ninety, even a hundred diners without feeling cramped. The physics didn't make sense, but physics had given up trying to make sense around Cartoon Cat weeks ago.
He'd also hired staff.
Not because he couldn't handle it alone—toon force made him capable of being in multiple places at once through speed and cartoon duplication—but because Gordon Ramsay had been right. Running a restaurant was better with a team.
His waitstaff consisted of three people:
Jessica, a college student studying hospitality who'd walked in looking for a job and hadn't run screaming when her potential employer turned out to be a ten-foot cartoon cat. She had nerves of steel and perfect memory for orders.
Marcus (no relation to Cartoon Cat's previous human name, just a coincidence), an older gentleman who'd worked in fine dining for thirty years and found the dimensional restaurant "refreshingly weird." He handled the more discerning customers with practiced grace.
And Kenji, a young chef who'd graduated from culinary school and wanted to learn from "the cat who impressed Gordon Ramsay." He worked as a prep cook and occasional sous chef, though he still couldn't figure out how Cartoon Cat pulled ingredients from nowhere.
The three of them had adapted surprisingly well to working in a dimensional pocket for an employer who communicated through signs and could combine Mortal Kombat techniques with Street Fighter moves if ninjas attacked during dinner service.
It had been three weeks since the Gordon Ramsay visit. Three weeks of sold-out services, rave reviews, and increasingly bizarre customers. Cartoon Cat had served the Punisher (who'd ordered a burger and left a generous tip in ammunition, which was weird but appreciated). He'd made ramen for Doctor Strange (who'd complimented the dimensional stability of the restaurant and offered some protective wards). He'd even fed Rocket Raccoon when the Guardian had visited Earth on business and remembered the cartoon cat who'd stolen a Nova Corps helmet.
Life was good.
Life was chaotic.
Life was about to get significantly more chaotic.
The call came on a Tuesday morning while Cartoon Cat was doing prep work for evening service.
His phone—the cartoon phone that shouldn't work but did—rang with a number he recognized.
Gordon Ramsay.
Cartoon Cat answered by holding up a sign to the phone: "HELLO?"
"CC, it's Gordon. I have a proposition for you."
"I'M LISTENING."
"You know Hell's Kitchen? The show?"
"YES. I'VE WATCHED IT. VERY ENTERTAINING."
"Right. Well, we're filming nearby, and I've had an idea. A challenge for my contestants. They've been underperforming lately—sloppy service, inconsistent dishes, the usual problems. They need a wake-up call."
Cartoon Cat had a feeling he knew where this was going.
"WHAT KIND OF WAKE-UP CALL?"
"I want to send them to your restaurant. For a dinner service. They'll work under you, learn your kitchen, see what real excellence looks like. And maybe get humbled by the fact that a cartoon cat who's been cooking for a month is better than them."
"THAT'S... ACTUALLY KIND OF MEAN?"
"It's called incentive. So what do you say? Thursday night, I'll send my red team and blue team to The Glitch. They'll handle service under your supervision. I'll film it for the show. You'll get publicity, they'll get educated, everyone wins."
Cartoon Cat considered this.
On one hand, having a dozen amateur chefs in his kitchen sounded like chaos.
On the other hand, it sounded like fun chaos.
"DEAL. BUT I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE IF THEY CRY."
Gordon laughed. "If they cry, they needed to cry. See you Thursday, CC."
Click.
Cartoon Cat stood in his kitchen, sign still raised to the now-silent phone, processing what he'd just agreed to.
Jessica walked in for her shift, saw his expression—or whatever passed for expression on a permanent grin—and immediately knew something was up.
"What happened?" she asked, tying on her apron.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a new sign: "GORDON RAMSAY IS SENDING HIS HELL'S KITCHEN CONTESTANTS HERE FOR DINNER SERVICE."
"The TV show people?"
"YES."
"The ones who always mess up Wellington and can't cook scallops?"
"THOSE EXACT ONES."
Jessica was quiet for a moment. Then: "This is going to be a disaster."
"YES."
"I'm calling in Marcus and Kenji early. We're going to need all hands on deck."
"GOOD IDEA."
Thursday night arrived with the inevitability of a cosmic joke coming to its punchline.
The Hell's Kitchen contestants showed up at 5 PM—twelve of them, six in red chef's jackets, six in blue. They were led by Gordon himself and followed by a camera crew that immediately began filming everything.
They stepped through the dimensional door into The Glitch and collectively stopped, staring.
The restaurant looked normal. Perfectly normal. Tables set with precision, lighting warm and inviting, kitchen visible through a window in the back.
Except the proportions were slightly off in ways that made the brain itch. And the air had a quality like animation cels. And there was a faint hum of reality being gently bent into new shapes.
And behind the kitchen window stood a ten-foot-tall cartoon cat in a chef's hat.
"What the actual fuck," one contestant whispered.
"Language," Gordon said mildly. "That's CC, your head chef for tonight. He's a cartoon character who exists in physical reality through means we don't entirely understand, and he makes better risotto than any of you. Show respect."
Cartoon Cat waved—a big, exaggerated cartoon wave—and pulled out a sign: "WELCOME TO THE GLITCH! READY TO COOK?"
The contestants looked at each other. Then at Gordon. Then back at Cartoon Cat.
A woman from the blue team—her name tag said "Christina"—raised her hand. "Chef, is this real? Are we actually going to work for a cartoon cat?"
"Very real," Gordon confirmed. "And yes. CC is a legitimate chef with legitimate talent. You're here to learn. Or to fail spectacularly. Preferably learn."
Cartoon Cat pulled out another sign: "EVERYONE IN THE KITCHEN. LET'S REVIEW THE MENU."
The kitchen at The Glitch was larger than it appeared from outside—dimensional pocket benefits—and could comfortably fit the dozen contestants plus Cartoon Cat, Kenji, and the camera crew.
Cartoon Cat had prepared a simplified menu for the night. Nothing too complex, but enough to challenge the contestants:
Appetizer: Seared scallops with cauliflower puréeMain: Pan-seared salmon with risottoDessert: Chocolate lava cake
Classic dishes. The kind that appeared on Hell's Kitchen regularly. The kind these contestants should know how to cook.
Should being the operative word.
"THESE ARE YOUR STATIONS," Cartoon Cat's sign indicated different areas of the kitchen. "RED TEAM TAKES APPETIZERS AND DESSERTS. BLUE TEAM HANDLES MAINS. I'LL BE EXPEDITING AND HELPING WHERE NEEDED."
A tall man from the red team—name tag "Robert"—spoke up. "Uh, Chef? How do you... I mean, can you actually talk? Or is it just signs?"
"JUST SIGNS. I COMMUNICATE PERFECTLY WELL THIS WAY."
"But how do you... multitask? Pull out signs while cooking?"
Cartoon Cat reached behind his back with one hand and pulled out a whisk. With his other hand, he pulled out a sign that said "LIKE THIS." Both hands moved independently with perfect coordination.
Then he pulled out three more signs with three more hands that appeared from nowhere and immediately disappeared after delivering their message.
"TOON FORCE. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT TOO HARD."
Robert looked like he was thinking about it very hard and regretting it.
"Right. Cartoon logic. Sure. Why not."
Gordon stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding attention. "Listen up. This is a real service. CC has actual reservations—"
"I DON'T DO RESERVATIONS."
"—fine, actual customers who will be arriving at 7 PM. You will cook for them with the same standards you'd use in my restaurant. CC is your head chef tonight. What he says goes. Understood?"
"Yes, Chef!" the contestants chorused.
"Good. CC, they're all yours."
Gordon stepped back to observe, camera crew positioning themselves to capture everything.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "ALRIGHT. LET'S DO PREP. I WANT TO SEE YOUR KNIFE SKILLS."
What followed was a masterclass in controlled chaos.
The contestants started prepping ingredients, and Cartoon Cat quickly identified problems.
Christina was cutting vegetables too large. Robert was moving too slowly. A woman named Michelle was using the wrong knife for fish prep. Half the blue team was arguing about who should handle the risotto.
Cartoon Cat moved through the kitchen with that distinctive cartoon glide, appearing next to contestants who needed help, pulling out signs with corrections:
"BRUNOISE MEANS SMALL DICE. THAT'S A CHOP."
"SPEED UP. DINNER SERVICE WAITS FOR NO ONE."
"THAT'S A CLEAVER. FOR FISH, USE THE FLEXIBLE BLADE."
"STOP ARGUING. SARAH MAKES THE RISOTTO. SHE HAS THE BEST WRIST MOVEMENT."
His feedback was direct but not cruel. Firm but encouraging. He'd learned from watching Gordon—high standards delivered with purpose, not just anger.
Kenji was helping too, his culinary school training making him a good liaison between Cartoon Cat's cartoon logic and the contestants' normal human limitations.
"He's right about the knife," Kenji told Christina. "You want uniform pieces for even cooking."
"But he's a cartoon cat," Christina hissed back. "How does he know knife techniques?"
"He just does. Stop questioning it and start cooking better."
By 6:30 PM, prep was mostly complete. The kitchen was organized. Ingredients were ready. The contestants looked nervous but focused.
The dining room was filling up. Jessica and Marcus were seating customers—a mix of regular New Yorkers, food bloggers who'd somehow found the place, and a few faces Cartoon Cat recognized from his superhero interactions.
Peter Parker was there with Aunt May, having finally convinced her to try the mysterious restaurant. They were seated near the window.
Matt Murdock had returned, this time without bleeding, accompanied by Foggy Nelson and Karen Page.
Even Deadpool had shown up, wearing a suit (over his costume) and bringing a date (who looked terrified but committed).
At 7 PM exactly, Cartoon Cat rang the kitchen bell—a sound that echoed with more authority than a simple bell should possess.
He pulled out a sign: "SERVICE STARTS NOW. FIRST TICKET COMING IN."
And the chaos began.
The first few tables went smoothly. The red team produced decent scallops—not perfect, but acceptable. The blue team's salmon was slightly overcooked but edible. The desserts were solid.
Cartoon Cat was everywhere at once, checking dishes, pulling ingredients from hammerspace when supplies ran low, correcting mistakes before they reached customers.
"THIS SCALLOP IS RAW IN THE MIDDLE. REFIRE."
"THE RISOTTO IS TOO THICK. ADD MORE STOCK."
"GOOD SEAR ON THAT SALMON. WELL DONE, JENNIFER."
But as the dinner rush intensified, problems emerged.
Robert forgot to season his scallops. An entire table's worth.
Michelle overcooked the salmon to the point it was basically jerky.
The blue team's risotto ran out because no one had made enough.
And then, at the absolute peak of dinner service, when the kitchen was running at maximum capacity and stress levels were approaching critical...
The air pressure changed.
It was subtle at first. Just a feeling. A sense that the atmosphere had gotten heavier, denser.
The dimensional door—which had been operating normally all evening—began to shimmer with energy.
Cartoon Cat's oversized ears perked up. His cartoon senses, which operated on narrative logic, were screaming that something significant was about to happen.
The door opened.
And through it stepped a figure that made everyone in the restaurant stop and stare.
He was enormous. Not just tall—enormous. He had to duck to fit through the doorway, and even then, his helmet scraped the frame. He wore armor that looked like it contained galaxies, purple and blue and shimmering with cosmic power. His presence radiated energy that made reality uncomfortable.
Galactus.
The Devourer of Worlds.
One of the most powerful entities in the Marvel Universe.
Had just walked into The Glitch.
For dinner.
The restaurant fell absolutely silent.
Gordon Ramsay, standing in the kitchen doorway, went pale. "Is that..."
"GALACTUS," Cartoon Cat's sign confirmed. "DEVOURER OF WORLDS. COSMIC ENTITY. VERY POWERFUL. VERY HUNGRY."
"We're all going to die," Robert whispered.
"PROBABLY NOT. MEPHISTO SAID THIS PLACE IS NEUTRAL GROUND."
Galactus looked around the restaurant with eyes that had witnessed the birth and death of stars. His gaze landed on Cartoon Cat, visible through the kitchen window.
"I HAVE HEARD TALES OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT," Galactus said, his voice resonating in frequencies that mortal ears shouldn't be able to process. "A RESTAURANT THAT EXISTS BETWEEN DIMENSIONS. WHERE THE FOOD IS SAID TO BE... EXCEPTIONAL."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "WELCOME! PARTY OF ONE?"
"YES."
"RIGHT THIS WAY."
Jessica, to her eternal credit, didn't run screaming. She grabbed a menu—the one they kept for special occasions, with the full range of options—and approached the literal world-eater.
"Right this way, sir," she said, her voice only trembling slightly. "We have a table by the window."
"THAT WILL SUFFICE."
Galactus followed her to the largest table—which immediately expanded to accommodate his size, the dimensional pocket adjusting on the fly—and sat down with surprising grace for someone of his scale.
In the kitchen, the contestants were frozen in panic.
"We can't cook for Galactus!" Christina was hyperventilating. "He eats planets! PLANETS!"
"HE'S ALSO A CUSTOMER," Cartoon Cat's sign said firmly. "AND IN THIS RESTAURANT, EVERYONE GETS FED. NO MATTER WHO THEY ARE."
"But—"
"NO BUTS. BACK TO YOUR STATIONS. OTHER TABLES STILL NEED FOOD."
Gordon stepped forward, his expression cycling between terror and professional curiosity. "CC, you can't be serious. That's Galactus. He could destroy the planet with a thought."
"HE COULD. BUT HE CAME HERE FOR DINNER. SO WE'RE GOING TO GIVE HIM THE BEST DINNER HE'S EVER HAD."
"How are you so calm about this?"
"I'M A CARTOON CHARACTER. PANIC ISN'T IN MY PROGRAMMING."
Jessica returned to the kitchen with Galactus's order, her hands shaking as she handed the ticket to Cartoon Cat.
He read it and pulled out a sign: "INTERESTING."
"What did he order?" Gordon asked.
"EVERYTHING."
"Everything?"
"ONE OF EVERYTHING ON THE MENU. EVERY APPETIZER. EVERY MAIN. EVERY DESSERT. ALL AT ONCE."
The kitchen stared at the ticket.
"That's... that's at least thirty dishes," Kenji said weakly.
"YES."
"How are we supposed to—"
Cartoon Cat reached behind his back and pulled out a dozen chef's hats. Distributed them to everyone in the kitchen with rapid-fire precision.
"WE WORK TOGETHER. THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT SERVICE OF YOUR LIVES. EVERYONE COOKS. NO MISTAKES. GALACTUS GETS PERFECT FOOD."
Something about the way the sign was delivered—maybe the intensity, maybe the certainty—cut through the panic.
The contestants looked at each other. Then at Gordon, who nodded. Then at Cartoon Cat.
"Yes, Chef!" they chorused, this time with actual conviction.
What followed was the most intense cooking service any of them had ever experienced.
Cartoon Cat coordinated everything like a conductor leading an orchestra. He was everywhere, his toon force allowing him to move between stations in blurs of motion, checking dishes, adjusting seasoning, pulling ingredients from hammerspace when they ran low.
The contestants cooked like their lives depended on it—which, given the customer, might have been literally true.
Robert produced perfect scallops, each one seared golden with a translucent center.
Christina made risotto that achieved the exact creamy consistency, each grain perfectly al dente.
Michelle's salmon was flawless—crispy skin, tender flesh, precisely medium-rare.
The desserts were works of art. Chocolate lava cakes with centers that flowed like magma. Crème brûlée with sugar crusted so perfectly it shattered like glass.
Cartoon Cat plated everything himself, each dish arranged with artistic precision. He used techniques he didn't know he knew, garnishes that appeared from hammerspace, presentations that would make Michelin-star chefs weep with envy.
Thirty dishes. All perfect. All ready simultaneously through cartoon physics and pure coordination.
Jessica, Marcus, and a very nervous food runner delivered them to Galactus's table in waves. The cosmic entity regarded each plate with an analytical gaze that had evaluated the cuisines of a thousand worlds.
The restaurant watched in silence as Galactus began to eat.
He tried the scallops first. Consumed them in one bite that should have been too large for the delicate food but somehow worked.
He paused.
"INTERESTING," his cosmic voice rumbled.
Was that good? Bad? Impossible to tell.
He tried the salmon. The risotto. The Wellington they'd added to the order. Each dish received the same methodical evaluation.
The tension in the restaurant was palpable. Even Deadpool had stopped making jokes.
Galactus finished the main courses and moved to desserts. The chocolate lava cake disappeared. The crème brûlée. The tiramisu that Cartoon Cat had made using a recipe pulled from cartoon memory and hammerspace ingredients.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably twenty minutes, Galactus set down his utensils.
The restaurant held its breath.
"I HAVE CONSUMED THE BOUNTY OF COUNTLESS WORLDS," Galactus said, his voice carrying that cosmic resonance. "I HAVE TASTED DISHES PREPARED BY CIVILIZATIONS LONG EXTINCT. I HAVE EXPERIENCED CUISINE BEYOND MORTAL COMPREHENSION."
Oh no, Cartoon Cat thought. He hated it.
"THIS MEAL," Galactus continued, "WAS EXCEPTIONAL."
The restaurant collectively exhaled.
"THE SCALLOPS WERE PERFECTLY SEARED. THE RISOTTO ACHIEVED IDEAL TEXTURE. THE SALMON WAS COOKED WITH PRECISION. AND THE DESSERTS..." He paused, which was dramatic when you were a cosmic entity. "THE DESSERTS WERE A REVELATION. I HAVE NOT EXPERIENCED SUCH BALANCE OF FLAVORS IN MILLENNIA."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "THANK YOU. THAT'S VERY KIND."
"THIS RESTAURANT EXISTS OUTSIDE NORMAL REALITY. THE FOOD IS ENHANCED BY DIMENSIONAL PROPERTIES I DO NOT FULLY UNDERSTAND. BUT THE SKILL..." Galactus looked toward the kitchen, his gaze somehow penetrating walls. "THE SKILL IS GENUINE. WHOEVER PREPARED THIS MEAL HAS MASTERY."
In the kitchen, the contestants were crying. Actual tears. They'd just received praise from Galactus, Devourer of Worlds.
Gordon looked like he was having an out-of-body experience.
Galactus stood, his massive form rising with gravitas. He pulled out a payment method that appeared to be a crystalline card made of solidified cosmic energy.
"I WILL PAY," he announced.
Jessica approached with the check, her hands steady now. She'd served Galactus. She could handle anything.
The cosmic entity looked at the bill—which was substantial, given he'd ordered everything on the menu—and placed his cosmic credit card on the tray.
"KEEP THE CHANGE," he said.
The tip was approximately ten times the bill.
"THANK YOU, SIR," Jessica managed. "Please come again."
"I SHALL."
Galactus moved toward the door, then paused. Turned back to address the entire restaurant.
"THIS ESTABLISHMENT HAS MY FAVOR. IT WILL NOT BE HARMED BY COSMIC FORCES. ANY WHO THREATEN IT WILL ANSWER TO ME."
And then he left, ducking through the dimensional door and disappearing into whatever cosmic business occupied world-devourers.
The moment the door closed, the restaurant exploded with noise.
Customers were talking excitedly, taking photos, posting on social media about how they'd been in the same restaurant as Galactus.
Peter Parker was trying to explain to Aunt May that yes, that was really Galactus, and no, it wasn't a promotional stunt.
Matt Murdock was sitting very still, his enhanced senses still recovering from being in proximity to that much cosmic energy.
Deadpool was already writing a social media post titled "I HAD DINNER NEXT TO THE GUY WHO EATS PLANETS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY EXISTENTIAL CRISIS."
In the kitchen, the contestants had collapsed into chairs, exhausted and elated.
"We cooked for Galactus," Christina said to no one in particular. "We cooked for the Devourer of Worlds and he liked it."
"We cooked for Galactus under the supervision of a cartoon cat," Robert corrected. "This is the weirdest day of my life."
Gordon approached Cartoon Cat, his expression unreadable.
"That was..." he started, then stopped. Started again. "I've been cooking for thirty years. I've served royalty, celebrities, world leaders. I've never, NEVER, seen anything like that."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "NEITHER HAVE I. THAT WAS TERRIFYING AND AMAZING."
"You handled it perfectly. The coordination, the quality control, the sheer nerve to cook for a cosmic entity..." Gordon shook his head. "You're the real deal, CC. Not just the cartoon physics. The actual skill."
"I HAD HELP. YOUR CONTESTANTS DID WELL."
"They did, didn't they?" Gordon looked at his team, who were still processing what had happened. "They rose to the occasion. Finally. It only took the threat of Galactus to bring out their best."
He turned back to Cartoon Cat. "I'm using this footage. This whole episode. 'Hell's Kitchen Meets The Glitch.' It'll be the highest-rated episode in the show's history."
"WILL IT HELP YOUR CONTESTANTS?"
"If this doesn't motivate them, nothing will." Gordon extended his hand. "Thank you, CC. For the opportunity, the experience, and the absolute madness."
They shook hands—the now-familiar gesture of human hand disappearing into cartoon glove.
"ANYTIME. BRING THEM BACK IF THEY NEED MORE TRAINING."
"I might take you up on that."
The dinner service continued after Galactus left, but it was anticlimactic. How could anything compare?
The contestants finished the remaining tables with newfound confidence. They'd cooked for Galactus. Regular customers were easy by comparison.
By 11 PM, the last customer had left. The kitchen was cleaned. The contestants were packing up, still buzzing with adrenaline and disbelief.
Gordon gathered them before leaving. "What you did tonight was extraordinary. You worked as a team. You maintained quality under the most extreme pressure imaginable. You impressed a cosmic entity. Remember this feeling. This is what you're capable of when you actually try."
"Yes, Chef!" they responded, and this time they meant it.
The Hell's Kitchen crew filed out, Gordon lingering to give Cartoon Cat one last nod of respect before departing.
And then it was just Cartoon Cat, Jessica, Marcus, and Kenji in the quiet restaurant.
"So," Jessica said, counting the cosmic credit tip that had somehow converted to actual usable currency. "We just served Galactus."
"YES," Cartoon Cat's sign confirmed.
"He tipped us ten thousand dollars."
"COSMIC ENTITIES TIP WELL."
Marcus laughed—a sound of pure exhausted joy. "I've worked in restaurants for thirty years. I've seen everything. I thought I'd seen everything. And then a cartoon cat serves dinner to the Devourer of Worlds and gets praised for it."
"IT'S BEEN A WEIRD MONTH."
"That's the understatement of the century," Kenji added. "But also... that was incredible. The coordination, the precision, the way you directed everyone. That was masterclass service."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "WE DID IT TOGETHER. I COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU."
"Still," Jessica said, "you kept calm while cooking for an entity that could destroy planets. That's... that's impressive."
"I'M A CARTOON CHARACTER. I OPERATE ON DIFFERENT STRESS RESPONSES."
They cleaned up in comfortable silence, the dimensional pocket settling into a peaceful quiet after the chaos.
When everyone finally left for the night, Cartoon Cat stood alone in his restaurant.
He looked around at the space. The tables. The kitchen. The dimensional door that led to New York.
His restaurant.
The Glitch.
The place that had gone from an accidental dimensional rift to the hottest restaurant in New York to a cosmic entity-approved establishment in less than two months.
He pulled out his phone. Messages were flooding in.
Tony Stark: "Did Galactus really visit your restaurant?! JARVIS detected massive cosmic energy in Hell's Kitchen. Also, can I make a reservation? For science."
Spider-Man: "MR. CARTOON CAT YOU FED GALACTUS?!?!?! THAT'S THE COOLEST THING EVER!!!! Can I get your autograph?!?!"
Deadpool: "I WAS THERE. I WITNESSED HISTORY. Also my date was impressed that I knew you. We're going on a second date. Thanks, space cat!"
Doctor Strange: "Interesting. Very interesting. We should talk about the dimensional implications of Galactus favoring your establishment. Also, the food was excellent."
Wait. Strange had been there?
Cartoon Cat scrolled through his memory of the evening. There, in the corner, a figure he'd thought was just another customer had been the Sorcerer Supreme, apparently observing everything.
Of course.
There was also a message from an unknown number: "THIS IS GALACTUS. I HAVE ACQUIRED EARTH COMMUNICATION TECHNOLOGY. THE MEAL WAS EXCEPTIONAL. I WILL RETURN. ALSO, YOUR CHOCOLATE LAVA CAKE RECIPE WOULD BE APPRECIATED. FOR COSMIC PURPOSES."
Cartoon Cat stared at the message.
Galactus wanted his recipe.
Galactus, Devourer of Worlds, wanted a chocolate lava cake recipe.
He typed back: "Recipe attached. Glad you enjoyed the meal. You're welcome anytime."
He attached a recipe—pulled from his cartoon knowledge, detailed and precise—and sent it.
The response came immediately: "GRATITUDE. YOU HAVE EARNED MY RESPECT, CARTOON ENTITY. YOUR RESTAURANT IS NOW UNDER COSMIC PROTECTION."
Cartoon Cat sat down at one of his tables, his too-long body folding into the chair, and pulled out a sign for his own benefit:
"TODAY I COOKED FOR GALACTUS."
Then another: "HE LIKED IT."
And finally: "I LOVE THIS LIFE."
He sat there in the quiet of his dimensional pocket restaurant, wearing his chef's hat, surrounded by the evidence of the most successful and bizarre dinner service in culinary history.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. More customers. More chaos. Maybe more cosmic entities (he hoped not—one per month was enough).
But tonight, he was content.
He'd impressed Gordon Ramsay's contestants.
He'd served Galactus.
He'd received cosmic protection for his restaurant.
And he'd had the time of his life doing it.
Cartoon Cat pulled out his special toaster—the one Tony had built—and made himself some victory toast.
It was perfectly warm. Perfectly crispy. Perfectly satisfying.
He ate his toast in his empty restaurant, and he was happy.
Outside, New York carried on, unaware that in their midst was a dimensional pocket restaurant where cosmic entities could dine alongside regular people, where a cartoon cat chef could make the Devourer of Worlds ask for recipes, where the impossible happened every single night.
The Glitch had become legendary.
And its owner—Cartoon Cat, formerly Marcus Chen, dead from gas station sushi and reborn as an internet horror icon with toon force powers and an unexpected talent for cuisine—had found his calling.
Chef, restaurateur, interdimensional host.
And he was going to keep cooking.
Because that's what chefs did.
The End... of Chapter Seven.
(Somewhere in the cosmos, Galactus was attempting to recreate the chocolate lava cake recipe using ingredients from alien worlds. The results were mixed, but the effort was genuine. In Hell's Kitchen, Gordon Ramsay was reviewing footage and planning the most insane episode of television ever created. And in various corners of New York, people were already trying to book tables at The Glitch for next week, hoping to be there when the next cosmic entity showed up for dinner. But those are stories for another time.)