Lunch hour


"Why is it so fucking hot in here?"

The kitchens at Calaveras ran all along the back of the restaurant, with windows that gave on to a little bricked lane. A potwash cracked a window open in response to Salvador's complaint as he shed his jacket and cut neatly through the long space, careful not to get in the way of his busy chefs.

           "You wanted it hot!" Lili crowed from the other end, over the din of pots and pans and fire charms coming alive. "You said, hey, Lien, I don't want people thinking 'bout the cold when they're in here, why don't you turn it up a notch! So I turned it up a notch!"

Sal shot his head bartender a dry smile, following her out of the kitchen and into a quiet passageway. "Yeah well, I don't want them to think they're in hell either alright?" he glanced at the open doorways to their right - three altogether, one after another.

Each doorway led to the working side of a small bar hidden in curtained alcove. And each alcove could fit about fifteen patrons easy, or twenty in a pinch. Salvador congratulated himself on that idea; it gave everyone the feel of a smaller, cosier bar even though the restaurant just outside the curtains could be in full swing.

"Where's uh, shit, forgot his name. The guy manning bar three?" Salvador slowed down at the final door, looking out at the three or four lunchtime drinkers sitting idly at the peach marble counter.

Lili pursed her lips together in a way he was beginning to associate with bad news. "He, like, saw his ex walk in and dashed? I think? I can get the potwash to cover," she offered, both problem and solution in the same breath.

"What? Larry?" Salvador narrowed his gaze and paused, while Lili flashed him a pleading smile. "Larry can't mix soap with water, you want him to mi-- never mind. I get it, I get it," he raised his hands, understanding perfectly what she meant when she called him away from coffee to chat. "I'll do it. We'll get someone in tomorrow."

The witch didn't waste time, shoving a black apron in his direction and running off to tend her own alcove.

Sal tied the apron around his waist - he shook his head to himself as he slipped out into the bar, and quickly changed this into a friendly nod at a customer who was just being shown in through the red curtains.

Sometimes when you wanted to do a job right, you had to do it yourself. Especially when your alternative was Larry the potwash.

Cook Nate Briggs owed kitchen manager Tamara Handrow several fresh favors. She'd managed to keep his name on the books during the Calaveras buy-out while he was out with an 'illness'. He'd spun her a better story than, 'I recently had my finger stolen by a necromancing hag and returned to me by a crazy werewolf hunter nemesis but it's still off and it's all really upsetting.'[1] She'd let him lie to her for as long as she could, she'd said, but he had to turn up eventually. "Or they'll stick you opposite Larry."

Nate turned up in the middle of the transition a few days ago, sliding his way into the new menu, new procedures, new staff, and new customers. Calaveras had been turned on its head seemingly overnight. Nate had enjoyed his job insomuch as he enjoyed hating it. For someone like Nate, the best relationship one could have with a straight and steady job is resentful resignation. There was an arrangement. An understanding. He was managing to keep a low profile, but the scrutiny that came with an eager, nosy new owner was unwelcome.

The kitchen was overcrowded with cooks getting trained on the new menu, so as soon as Nate arrived Tam diverted him towards taking stock of the bars. He didn't mind. He pulled his blazer back on, and adjusted the single brown glove he wore on his right hand to cover the fact that one of his fingers was skeletanized, a bony prosthetic arranged therein by an Israeli mage.[2]

There were several new faces since Nate's return that he didn't flinch at the unfamiliar wizard tending Number Three. He was older, attractive, Latino, and seemed completely at ease. Another ringer.

Clipboard in hand and wand tucked under his armpit, Nate squatted down to begin counting out the wine bottles on the lower shelves.

"Behind you," he warned, but waited until the bartender was out of conversation with the customer before saying anything else.

"You the new Tully?" Nate asked, referencing one of the usual day-time bartenders who Nate had noted as being on the schedule.

1.	20 Jan 2012 - Names in Smoke, 20 Mar 2012 - The Message
2.	20 Jan 2012 - Guts On Fire