[John Brendan Cavanagh] The late evening dinner rush is mostly over, but the café is open for another hour or two or three. The beer and wine license has finally come through, which means that the diners are more likely to linger over their meals, sharing a bottle of wine, drinking a beer. Maybe ordering coffee and a dessert to share after because they're feeling mellow, expansive after sharing alcohol.
The license is new. There's a sign in the window - Now serving wine and beer! - underneath the menu posted there, affixed to the picture glass. With the lull in orders, JB set Ernesto to expediting the remaining meals, and wandered out into the dining room. Maybe half the tables are full, most people on the tail end of their meals, coffee and a cookie or a cupcake, a slice of pie. The desserts are easy and unpretentious, baked goods made from scratch every morning, early. Today's selection - rather depleted - are displayed in the pastry case near the front register. While his staff handle the paying customers scattered about the tables, JB serves one who eats free at the counter - a little girl her hair wet from a bath, dressed in warm flannel pajamas. She's sitting on one of the stools, finishing up her evening snack - pear wedges, a chocolate chip cookie, and milk.
Organic, naturally.
JB leans over the counter talking to her - some old joke that has her laughing and him smiling, while Cindy the waitress tends register and the place buzzes with faint conversation, music in the background, indie rock and alt-country, the eclectic mix from a local college radio station.
[Luana Kirchmann] Luana's been there for awhile, sitting at a table by her lonesome. There's a sleek laptop on the table, and her cheese platter for two, being eaten by one, somehow is made to fit there too. She's been drinking white wine, is on her third glass just now, but hasn't become one of those loud, obnoxious drunks. In fact, she's looking quite well put together still, occasionally letting her fingers fly across the keyboard on the wireless connection plugged out the usb socket.
But now, as she catches sight of someone semi familiar over the opened screen of her computer, she finds herself watching the man with the little girl at the counter. Her train of thought flees her as she's momentarily distracted by the sight. She knows John instantly, remembers with vivid details. Olive eyes shift to the girl, watching the back of her hair, taking in the pajamas and the way the two interact.
She smiles, surprisingly warmed by the affectionate display.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Cheaper to buy a bottle," Cindy - the hostess/waitress noted to Luana cheerfully when she ordered her third glass of the house white. " - you know, if you don't drink it all, we can shove the cork back down in there," a wink there, as she set the glass down on the table with a neat motion. " - and you can take it home." Even if that's technically not legal. They aren't a retail establishment, but no one would really care. "Anything else I can get you?"
-
And so on. The banter is light but engaging; Cindy's mastered the waitstaff art of being friendly and personal without being obtrusive. She doesn't glance at the screen of Luana's laptop, and never asks her single customers if someone is going to be joining them, just in case someone isn't.
--
The vision is charming; though he's cleaned up tonight in an chef's jacket over a dark t-shirt, the first three buttons unbuttoned to show the leather cord and silver chain around his neck, the old dog tags on a longer popcorn chain fall longer and are tucked away underneath the unbuttoned shirt, this big, rather rough looking man bends down to the girl's level, engages her directly, as if they were the only two people in the universe. Her legs dangle, swinging, and she's finishing up the milk and cookie. As Luana watches, it becomes clear that it is storytime. Sometimes he moves, turning the pages over, dark eyes darting to her face as the story unfolds. The girl is seven or eight, so storytime is not a picture book but a proper one that they read together, the book flatted on the bar top between them.
When the chapter comes to an end, though, he closes it firmly, shakes his head to her every protestation. "Bed." - firm and quiet can be heard through one of those strange lulls in conversation that sometimes strike even a half-busy restaurant. It is the end of the child's protestations. She knows the tone, and slides down from the stool, living her plate, her empty milk glass on the counter. They disappear into the back for five minutes, ten minutes, before he returns, alone, draws himself a beer from one of the varieties they have on tap, takes a good long drink before he starts around the dining room, pausing at each of the remaining tables to inquire about the meal, make that sort of necessary small talk the world requires.
[Luana Kirchmann] "Don't encourage me," Luana had said to Cindy, grinning all the while. She had been tempted, but paying more by the glass doesn't seem to bother her. She knows if she had the bottle there, it would be gone quicker then she would order a glass. "I'm good for now. Thanks." Cindy would be getting a good tip by the time Luana actually got out of there. She doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave.
Storytime gets a few more glances before she's back to working on the laptop. Pausing frequently she sips her wine or grabs a new slice of cheese with some bread, spreading paste, enjoying different combination as she stuffs it into her mouth and continues to eat. The woman eats like she enjoys it, because she does. While she can do the same thing at home, it's just not the same atmosphere.
Later though, she's looking up when he's making the rounds, closer to her table. "Chef, hmm?" This is from her when he's approaching, presumably coming towards her table. Her gaze flitted over his body, down then up again, focusing on his face. A sip of wine is taken before she reaches and sets it on the table, away from her computer. "I wouldn't have guessed."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] Underneath the chef's jacket, he's wearing scuffed jeans, the aged sort that some men and women pay for, and others simply - wear to near-non-existance. The jacket hides the leather belt cinched at the waist, the long sleeves most of his tattoos, though he's pushed them up his forearms now, which are broad with muscle and rope with tendons. He's carrying his draft beer as he circulates, the liquid is a deep red-amber, some seasonal brew. It's his first of the night, though, not his sixths, and his brown eyes are clear.
"No?" he returns, as he comes close, setting the glass down on the table, leaning over one of the empty chairs there, big hands folded over the smooth, curving slats. " - what would you have guessed?" The response is direct, automatic. There's this moment where his open features are blank, like he's trying to place her. God knows how many faces he sees in a day.
Then the spark of recognition hits, and his attention changes, sharpens maybe. It's not precisely readable, mostly because he's not really processed her presence until now. He's not the sort of man to ever be at a loss for words, though, and he breathes out the edge of a laugh. "Never figured on seeing you again."
[Luana Kirchmann] "Honestly?" A quick look over what she can see beneath and takes in the way he leans, he talks, recalling the last and first time she had met him. "Laborer maybe, or a musician." Her mouth quirks at that, lifting with the way her eyebrows raise in a quick arch.
Far from being dressed for the night life, Luana's in a buttoned down blouse, some silk kind, and a high waist skirt with a pair of heels. Since this weather is still warm to her, even if it's damp and likely to rain outside, she's not wearing stockings and her jacket isn't with her but in the car. A professional laptop-cum-briefcase is settled down between her chair and the wall, tucked out of the way. Her hair is rolled up in a clip, a little messy from the day, but leaves her face open. Make up is less dramatic this time around.
Sitting with her legs crossed, she leans back in the chair and watches him, her smile increasing as he laughs. "And now that you have?" There's a brief pause, where her brows raise again, "Are you wishing you hadn't?" She's holding back her own laughter, but it's there, this quiet amusement threaded through her accented tones.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Here I was hoping to be mistaken for a gentleman farmer," he returns, both bemused and direct, easy, his bulk apparent as he leans over the frame of the second chair at the table. There's a simple silver band around the base of his otherwise bony thumb, and those cheap silicon bracelets that every kid between 4 and 14 seems to wear, three or four per wrist. " - or maybe a mendicant philosopher. Manual labor wins out every time." That's wry, not bitter. Every man in his family worked with his hands. It's no surprise, really, that he came around to it after college.
After a fashion.
She leans back, and he straightens, more through the shoulders, this way of measuring himelf, for his hands are still on the back of the chair. "Naw - " he returns, when she asks if he's wishing he hadn't. It's quiet, there's laughter behind it, more conversational now - part of the banter rather than some deep signifier of amusement. " - that's a conversational trap I'm not falling into. Not by a long shot." His grin deepens with the last, though it does not quite bring out the dimple in his cheek. Then his eyes drop to her meal on the table. "Especially since I'm here in a professional capacity. Everything was to your liking, I take it? Questions, comments, complaints?"
[Luana Kirchmann] Laughing softly, then, easily. Smart man, this one, to not fall into the trap that she sets up. There had been no regret or apology for mistaking him as some other profession. Not that it mattered since he clearly isn't a dock worker, but a successful looking chef and father at that.
When he asks about comments or complaints she slides her gaze over to the cheese platter she had worked through over the last two hours, then back up towards him again. "Next time, when I order something requiring cooking, I'll let you know. But I've enjoyed the atmosphere," she admits that much.
And then, "And I like the service staff. Very pleasant without being personable." For this she meant both Cindy and now him, this latter said with a small glint in the eye. Hard to tell that she's teasing, she's not as open with it as she had been at the bar the other night. He's here professionally after all. "Something often lacking in this country."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] Success is a relative sort of thing. Half of all restaurants fail in their first year. Here, he has all the money he's saved over the years tied up into the building, the establishment. Cindy and her girlfriend, the pastry chef and baker responsible for the flatbreads on the cheese platter, the chocolate chip cookie he'd fed Lucy earlier, and even his sous and line chefs, they've all put things on hold, accepted privation, worked overtime without compensation, and so on, to get the place off the ground. Sometimes it feels like he's walking a tightrope over a precipice without a balancing pole or net beneath. Six months.
They have six months to make it work.
Mostly, he doesn't think about it. It's easier like that. It's how a practical man who learned how to plumb a sink and frame a room at the hands of his father ended up with a useless undergraduate degree in philosophy. It's how -
- none of that, he thinks of none of that. He just grins at her, reaches out over the table offering her his hand to shake. His own is broad, callused, scarred. Teflon hands, from working the line for so many years. The dark lines of his tattoo curl around his wrist and crawl up his forearm. "I'm glad to hear it. You'll let me know if there's anything we can do to improve, won't you? Dessert's on the house tonight, by the way. Compliments of the chef, if you'd like to try anything."
He keeps it light. He doesn't ask where she's from; doesn't bristle at her comment about what's lacking in the States, but he smiles, broad, sure - confident - all white teeth and brown eyes - until he's called away.
The license is new. There's a sign in the window - Now serving wine and beer! - underneath the menu posted there, affixed to the picture glass. With the lull in orders, JB set Ernesto to expediting the remaining meals, and wandered out into the dining room. Maybe half the tables are full, most people on the tail end of their meals, coffee and a cookie or a cupcake, a slice of pie. The desserts are easy and unpretentious, baked goods made from scratch every morning, early. Today's selection - rather depleted - are displayed in the pastry case near the front register. While his staff handle the paying customers scattered about the tables, JB serves one who eats free at the counter - a little girl her hair wet from a bath, dressed in warm flannel pajamas. She's sitting on one of the stools, finishing up her evening snack - pear wedges, a chocolate chip cookie, and milk.
Organic, naturally.
JB leans over the counter talking to her - some old joke that has her laughing and him smiling, while Cindy the waitress tends register and the place buzzes with faint conversation, music in the background, indie rock and alt-country, the eclectic mix from a local college radio station.
[Luana Kirchmann] Luana's been there for awhile, sitting at a table by her lonesome. There's a sleek laptop on the table, and her cheese platter for two, being eaten by one, somehow is made to fit there too. She's been drinking white wine, is on her third glass just now, but hasn't become one of those loud, obnoxious drunks. In fact, she's looking quite well put together still, occasionally letting her fingers fly across the keyboard on the wireless connection plugged out the usb socket.
But now, as she catches sight of someone semi familiar over the opened screen of her computer, she finds herself watching the man with the little girl at the counter. Her train of thought flees her as she's momentarily distracted by the sight. She knows John instantly, remembers with vivid details. Olive eyes shift to the girl, watching the back of her hair, taking in the pajamas and the way the two interact.
She smiles, surprisingly warmed by the affectionate display.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Cheaper to buy a bottle," Cindy - the hostess/waitress noted to Luana cheerfully when she ordered her third glass of the house white. " - you know, if you don't drink it all, we can shove the cork back down in there," a wink there, as she set the glass down on the table with a neat motion. " - and you can take it home." Even if that's technically not legal. They aren't a retail establishment, but no one would really care. "Anything else I can get you?"
-
And so on. The banter is light but engaging; Cindy's mastered the waitstaff art of being friendly and personal without being obtrusive. She doesn't glance at the screen of Luana's laptop, and never asks her single customers if someone is going to be joining them, just in case someone isn't.
--
The vision is charming; though he's cleaned up tonight in an chef's jacket over a dark t-shirt, the first three buttons unbuttoned to show the leather cord and silver chain around his neck, the old dog tags on a longer popcorn chain fall longer and are tucked away underneath the unbuttoned shirt, this big, rather rough looking man bends down to the girl's level, engages her directly, as if they were the only two people in the universe. Her legs dangle, swinging, and she's finishing up the milk and cookie. As Luana watches, it becomes clear that it is storytime. Sometimes he moves, turning the pages over, dark eyes darting to her face as the story unfolds. The girl is seven or eight, so storytime is not a picture book but a proper one that they read together, the book flatted on the bar top between them.
When the chapter comes to an end, though, he closes it firmly, shakes his head to her every protestation. "Bed." - firm and quiet can be heard through one of those strange lulls in conversation that sometimes strike even a half-busy restaurant. It is the end of the child's protestations. She knows the tone, and slides down from the stool, living her plate, her empty milk glass on the counter. They disappear into the back for five minutes, ten minutes, before he returns, alone, draws himself a beer from one of the varieties they have on tap, takes a good long drink before he starts around the dining room, pausing at each of the remaining tables to inquire about the meal, make that sort of necessary small talk the world requires.
[Luana Kirchmann] "Don't encourage me," Luana had said to Cindy, grinning all the while. She had been tempted, but paying more by the glass doesn't seem to bother her. She knows if she had the bottle there, it would be gone quicker then she would order a glass. "I'm good for now. Thanks." Cindy would be getting a good tip by the time Luana actually got out of there. She doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave.
Storytime gets a few more glances before she's back to working on the laptop. Pausing frequently she sips her wine or grabs a new slice of cheese with some bread, spreading paste, enjoying different combination as she stuffs it into her mouth and continues to eat. The woman eats like she enjoys it, because she does. While she can do the same thing at home, it's just not the same atmosphere.
Later though, she's looking up when he's making the rounds, closer to her table. "Chef, hmm?" This is from her when he's approaching, presumably coming towards her table. Her gaze flitted over his body, down then up again, focusing on his face. A sip of wine is taken before she reaches and sets it on the table, away from her computer. "I wouldn't have guessed."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] Underneath the chef's jacket, he's wearing scuffed jeans, the aged sort that some men and women pay for, and others simply - wear to near-non-existance. The jacket hides the leather belt cinched at the waist, the long sleeves most of his tattoos, though he's pushed them up his forearms now, which are broad with muscle and rope with tendons. He's carrying his draft beer as he circulates, the liquid is a deep red-amber, some seasonal brew. It's his first of the night, though, not his sixths, and his brown eyes are clear.
"No?" he returns, as he comes close, setting the glass down on the table, leaning over one of the empty chairs there, big hands folded over the smooth, curving slats. " - what would you have guessed?" The response is direct, automatic. There's this moment where his open features are blank, like he's trying to place her. God knows how many faces he sees in a day.
Then the spark of recognition hits, and his attention changes, sharpens maybe. It's not precisely readable, mostly because he's not really processed her presence until now. He's not the sort of man to ever be at a loss for words, though, and he breathes out the edge of a laugh. "Never figured on seeing you again."
[Luana Kirchmann] "Honestly?" A quick look over what she can see beneath and takes in the way he leans, he talks, recalling the last and first time she had met him. "Laborer maybe, or a musician." Her mouth quirks at that, lifting with the way her eyebrows raise in a quick arch.
Far from being dressed for the night life, Luana's in a buttoned down blouse, some silk kind, and a high waist skirt with a pair of heels. Since this weather is still warm to her, even if it's damp and likely to rain outside, she's not wearing stockings and her jacket isn't with her but in the car. A professional laptop-cum-briefcase is settled down between her chair and the wall, tucked out of the way. Her hair is rolled up in a clip, a little messy from the day, but leaves her face open. Make up is less dramatic this time around.
Sitting with her legs crossed, she leans back in the chair and watches him, her smile increasing as he laughs. "And now that you have?" There's a brief pause, where her brows raise again, "Are you wishing you hadn't?" She's holding back her own laughter, but it's there, this quiet amusement threaded through her accented tones.
[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Here I was hoping to be mistaken for a gentleman farmer," he returns, both bemused and direct, easy, his bulk apparent as he leans over the frame of the second chair at the table. There's a simple silver band around the base of his otherwise bony thumb, and those cheap silicon bracelets that every kid between 4 and 14 seems to wear, three or four per wrist. " - or maybe a mendicant philosopher. Manual labor wins out every time." That's wry, not bitter. Every man in his family worked with his hands. It's no surprise, really, that he came around to it after college.
After a fashion.
She leans back, and he straightens, more through the shoulders, this way of measuring himelf, for his hands are still on the back of the chair. "Naw - " he returns, when she asks if he's wishing he hadn't. It's quiet, there's laughter behind it, more conversational now - part of the banter rather than some deep signifier of amusement. " - that's a conversational trap I'm not falling into. Not by a long shot." His grin deepens with the last, though it does not quite bring out the dimple in his cheek. Then his eyes drop to her meal on the table. "Especially since I'm here in a professional capacity. Everything was to your liking, I take it? Questions, comments, complaints?"
[Luana Kirchmann] Laughing softly, then, easily. Smart man, this one, to not fall into the trap that she sets up. There had been no regret or apology for mistaking him as some other profession. Not that it mattered since he clearly isn't a dock worker, but a successful looking chef and father at that.
When he asks about comments or complaints she slides her gaze over to the cheese platter she had worked through over the last two hours, then back up towards him again. "Next time, when I order something requiring cooking, I'll let you know. But I've enjoyed the atmosphere," she admits that much.
And then, "And I like the service staff. Very pleasant without being personable." For this she meant both Cindy and now him, this latter said with a small glint in the eye. Hard to tell that she's teasing, she's not as open with it as she had been at the bar the other night. He's here professionally after all. "Something often lacking in this country."
[John Brendan Cavanagh] Success is a relative sort of thing. Half of all restaurants fail in their first year. Here, he has all the money he's saved over the years tied up into the building, the establishment. Cindy and her girlfriend, the pastry chef and baker responsible for the flatbreads on the cheese platter, the chocolate chip cookie he'd fed Lucy earlier, and even his sous and line chefs, they've all put things on hold, accepted privation, worked overtime without compensation, and so on, to get the place off the ground. Sometimes it feels like he's walking a tightrope over a precipice without a balancing pole or net beneath. Six months.
They have six months to make it work.
Mostly, he doesn't think about it. It's easier like that. It's how a practical man who learned how to plumb a sink and frame a room at the hands of his father ended up with a useless undergraduate degree in philosophy. It's how -
- none of that, he thinks of none of that. He just grins at her, reaches out over the table offering her his hand to shake. His own is broad, callused, scarred. Teflon hands, from working the line for so many years. The dark lines of his tattoo curl around his wrist and crawl up his forearm. "I'm glad to hear it. You'll let me know if there's anything we can do to improve, won't you? Dessert's on the house tonight, by the way. Compliments of the chef, if you'd like to try anything."
He keeps it light. He doesn't ask where she's from; doesn't bristle at her comment about what's lacking in the States, but he smiles, broad, sure - confident - all white teeth and brown eyes - until he's called away.
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