Table 36, Aug Writ Opus 621
Bruce walked up to the two men at Table 36 and gave them his usual greeting, beginning formal, but ending with a bit more familiarity: "Good evening, Sirs, and welcome to Le Jardin Souterrain. What can I get you?"
"Hi," said the customer who wasn't wearing a hat. "Tell your chef I'll have the Crane Steak, please."
It was only his third night on the job, but Bruce had already memorised Le Jardin Souterrain's fare, and, "I'm sorry, Sir, we don't have any such thing on the menu, um... "
"I know. That's why I didn't just say 'I'll have the,' I said, 'Tell your chef that,' you see?"
"I'm afraid not, no."
"I'm a regular. The chef knows how I like my steak. I like it rare, the real rare, not that half-assed, partially-grilled excuse for rare that you usually offer to the tourists who are too dumb to know any better, but the real thing, a rare steak. The Crane Steak. See?"
It sounded reasonable enough. "Certainly, Sir, yes. And something to drink?"
"Half-bottle of house red, thanks."
"And for you, Sir?" Bruce asked the other man, the one wearing a hat.
"Linguini with scallops, please. And a ginger beer."
Le Jardin Souterrain did not serve ginger beer. "Um, Sir... " but the man stopped him with the kind of look that said he was not to be disagreed with, not angry in any way, but firm and unwavering. Bruce nodded and retreated.
As soon as he was through the kitchen doors he made a beeline for the headwaiter. "Blair! I've got a guy who wants ginger beer, and he won't take no for an answer!"
"Oh, are they in tonight?" Blair asked him, and went to confirm through the window. "Sorry, Bruce, they don't usually show up in the evenings; I wasn't expecting them. But don't worry; you should do fine."
Of course, his words had the opposite effect than desired, because up until then it had never really occurred to Bruce that there might be a reason to worry. And given that context, should was a disquietingly indefinite qualifier. "About the ginger beer?"
"Right, yeah. Remember that mini-fridge in the wine cellar?"
"I thought you were kidding about that."
"Nope. Mister Dee and Doctor Crane come in two or three times a week, so we accommodate them. They don't drink much, but they're generous tippers, they bring in other business, and in the five years since Dee started coming here we haven't been asked to pay protection money once."
"Protection money?"
"Yeah."
"People still do that?"
"Are you kidding? We're the only province with two sets of income tax - undeclared revenue is more important here than anywhere else."
Again, perfectly reasonable. "So, are these two... connected?"
"No," said Blair in a voice quiet but clear. "And if you're smart, you'll never ask that question again, about anyone, got it?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"I'm not angry. I'm just looking out for your health."
Bruce decided it were best just to get on with serving Table 36, so he nodded and went about it, placing the order (the chef also expressing surprise that the Crane Steak was being ordered in the evening), pouring the wine, and retrieving a bottle of ginger beer from the mini-fridge (which only stocked one item) in the wine cellar. Blair caught him as he was reaching into the glasses cabinet for a tumbler.
"Ah! Sorry, forgot to tell you - no glass for the ginger beer. He just drinks it straight out of the bottle. Don't even bring one to the table; he finds that insulting."
"Look, Blair, I'm new here, and these guys seem pretty - "
"Don't worry about it. As long as neither of them is asking to speak to me or to Angelo, you're doing fine."
Just then the chef announced that Table 36's meal was ready, so Bruce prepared a tray which would carry both the meals and the drinks. As he finished he noticed Angelo, the owner of the restaurant, staring at the tray. Angelo looked up at him:
"Oh, are they in tonight? That's strange; I wonder why. Well, I expect we'll read about it in the papers before long."
The next few moments passed in a bit of a blur. Bruce served Table 36, found the time for some other customers, and was just about to go on break - when he saw the man in the hat wave at Blair to come over.
There was no mistaking the looks they were casting his way. Bruce was the topic of their conversation.
Oh, well. He decided his break could wait a moment. Blair came right over to him when the discussion was over.
"Congratulations, you just qualified for the lunch crowd. Would you like a couple more shifts per week?"
"Hi," said the customer who wasn't wearing a hat. "Tell your chef I'll have the Crane Steak, please."
It was only his third night on the job, but Bruce had already memorised Le Jardin Souterrain's fare, and, "I'm sorry, Sir, we don't have any such thing on the menu, um... "
"I know. That's why I didn't just say 'I'll have the,' I said, 'Tell your chef that,' you see?"
"I'm afraid not, no."
"I'm a regular. The chef knows how I like my steak. I like it rare, the real rare, not that half-assed, partially-grilled excuse for rare that you usually offer to the tourists who are too dumb to know any better, but the real thing, a rare steak. The Crane Steak. See?"
It sounded reasonable enough. "Certainly, Sir, yes. And something to drink?"
"Half-bottle of house red, thanks."
"And for you, Sir?" Bruce asked the other man, the one wearing a hat.
"Linguini with scallops, please. And a ginger beer."
Le Jardin Souterrain did not serve ginger beer. "Um, Sir... " but the man stopped him with the kind of look that said he was not to be disagreed with, not angry in any way, but firm and unwavering. Bruce nodded and retreated.
As soon as he was through the kitchen doors he made a beeline for the headwaiter. "Blair! I've got a guy who wants ginger beer, and he won't take no for an answer!"
"Oh, are they in tonight?" Blair asked him, and went to confirm through the window. "Sorry, Bruce, they don't usually show up in the evenings; I wasn't expecting them. But don't worry; you should do fine."
Of course, his words had the opposite effect than desired, because up until then it had never really occurred to Bruce that there might be a reason to worry. And given that context, should was a disquietingly indefinite qualifier. "About the ginger beer?"
"Right, yeah. Remember that mini-fridge in the wine cellar?"
"I thought you were kidding about that."
"Nope. Mister Dee and Doctor Crane come in two or three times a week, so we accommodate them. They don't drink much, but they're generous tippers, they bring in other business, and in the five years since Dee started coming here we haven't been asked to pay protection money once."
"Protection money?"
"Yeah."
"People still do that?"
"Are you kidding? We're the only province with two sets of income tax - undeclared revenue is more important here than anywhere else."
Again, perfectly reasonable. "So, are these two... connected?"
"No," said Blair in a voice quiet but clear. "And if you're smart, you'll never ask that question again, about anyone, got it?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"I'm not angry. I'm just looking out for your health."
Bruce decided it were best just to get on with serving Table 36, so he nodded and went about it, placing the order (the chef also expressing surprise that the Crane Steak was being ordered in the evening), pouring the wine, and retrieving a bottle of ginger beer from the mini-fridge (which only stocked one item) in the wine cellar. Blair caught him as he was reaching into the glasses cabinet for a tumbler.
"Ah! Sorry, forgot to tell you - no glass for the ginger beer. He just drinks it straight out of the bottle. Don't even bring one to the table; he finds that insulting."
"Look, Blair, I'm new here, and these guys seem pretty - "
"Don't worry about it. As long as neither of them is asking to speak to me or to Angelo, you're doing fine."
Just then the chef announced that Table 36's meal was ready, so Bruce prepared a tray which would carry both the meals and the drinks. As he finished he noticed Angelo, the owner of the restaurant, staring at the tray. Angelo looked up at him:
"Oh, are they in tonight? That's strange; I wonder why. Well, I expect we'll read about it in the papers before long."
The next few moments passed in a bit of a blur. Bruce served Table 36, found the time for some other customers, and was just about to go on break - when he saw the man in the hat wave at Blair to come over.
There was no mistaking the looks they were casting his way. Bruce was the topic of their conversation.
Oh, well. He decided his break could wait a moment. Blair came right over to him when the discussion was over.
"Congratulations, you just qualified for the lunch crowd. Would you like a couple more shifts per week?"