sipped the soda she handed him. When the enchiladas arrived, he dug into them happily enough.
By then, the lunch rush was pretty much over. Rhonda Ruckelshaus and friend left her a $1.50 tip, which was slightly over ten percent. Deirdre wondered if she’d done a bad job or if that was typical. She went to help clear away the plate and silverware from the table where the single man had been sitting and found a quarter next to the plate.
She sighed, dropping the quarter into her pocket as Chico piled dirty dishes on a tray. He gave her a dry grin. “Don’t worry. Sometimes being drunk makes them tip bigger.”
The kitchen door swung open, and the cook, Clemencia, walked into the room, untying her apron. “Did Tom give you any lunch?”
Deirdre shook her head. “I only waited on two tables.”
“Doesn’t matter. Food comes with the job. Besides, I’ve got leftovers to finish up. Come on.”
Deirdre followed her back into the kitchen to a table toward the back. Chico carried the last tray of dirty dishes over to a sink where another man was rinsing them and stacking the dishwasher.
Clem pulled a pot from a burner. “Tortilla soup. Soup of the day, actually. Bobby Sue forgets to mention it half the time, which means we always have some left over.” She ladled a bowlful for Deirdre and then sprinkled a handful of fried tortilla bits and avocado on the top. “Take a bite and tell me what you think.”
Deirdre inhaled the scent of chicken broth and cilantro. Her stomach growled as she took the first bite. “This is really, really good,” she muttered around her mouthful.
“Yes, it is,” Clem agreed, ladling up her own bowl. “Now remember to mention the soup of the day tomorrow.”
“I will.” She slurped up another bite, tasting chicken and tomato, with bits of chili. Behind her, Chico dipped a bowl for himself and headed back out to the bar.
She took a longer look at the chef. Clem Rodriguez seemed to be around her age, maybe a little younger. She wore jeans and a faded Texas Tornadoes T-shirt under her apron, her dark hair clipped short under her chef’s beanie. Her large dark eyes might have made her look demure if they hadn’t glittered with intelligence. Deirdre watched her rapidly consume her soup, sipping from a large glass of iced tea as she did. “Do you do dinner, too?” she asked.
Clem shook her head. “Not yet. I’ve only been here six weeks or so. Tom says another few weeks and then we can try it, once we’ve built up the lunch traffic. Nighttime is mostly bar food right now—they can microwave most of it, so I don’t need to stick around after I put it together.” She pushed her empty bowl to the middle of the table. “Now tell me why you’re waiting tables in a roadhouse. Not that Main qualifies as a road, but the Faro’s as close to a roadhouse as Konigsburg comes. And frankly, you don’t strike me as the roadhouse type.”
Deirdre shrugged. “I needed a job. I’m trying to earn enough money to rent the place next door. Mr. Ames is going to lease it to me, but I’ve got some cash flow problems right now.”
“The T-shirt shop?” Clem raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t strike me as a paying proposition.”
“I want to turn it into a coffee roaster. With a few tables thrown in.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Well, now, that’s an interesting idea. You have any experience?”
Deirdre nodded, her mouth full of soup.
“Of course, waiting tables here isn’t likely to make you a pile of money, even though you’ll probably rake in more tips than poor old Bobby Sue.”
“I have some other money, but I can’t get at it for a couple of months.” She pushed herself up from the table and walked to the stove. “I figure I can make enough here to keep Mr. Ames from renting to somebody else while I wait.”
“Honey, ‘Mr. Ames’ hasn’t been able to rent the place for weeks. My guess is he’ll wait no matter how little you can give him. And you’d better call
By then, the lunch rush was pretty much over. Rhonda Ruckelshaus and friend left her a $1.50 tip, which was slightly over ten percent. Deirdre wondered if she’d done a bad job or if that was typical. She went to help clear away the plate and silverware from the table where the single man had been sitting and found a quarter next to the plate.
She sighed, dropping the quarter into her pocket as Chico piled dirty dishes on a tray. He gave her a dry grin. “Don’t worry. Sometimes being drunk makes them tip bigger.”
The kitchen door swung open, and the cook, Clemencia, walked into the room, untying her apron. “Did Tom give you any lunch?”
Deirdre shook her head. “I only waited on two tables.”
“Doesn’t matter. Food comes with the job. Besides, I’ve got leftovers to finish up. Come on.”
Deirdre followed her back into the kitchen to a table toward the back. Chico carried the last tray of dirty dishes over to a sink where another man was rinsing them and stacking the dishwasher.
Clem pulled a pot from a burner. “Tortilla soup. Soup of the day, actually. Bobby Sue forgets to mention it half the time, which means we always have some left over.” She ladled a bowlful for Deirdre and then sprinkled a handful of fried tortilla bits and avocado on the top. “Take a bite and tell me what you think.”
Deirdre inhaled the scent of chicken broth and cilantro. Her stomach growled as she took the first bite. “This is really, really good,” she muttered around her mouthful.
“Yes, it is,” Clem agreed, ladling up her own bowl. “Now remember to mention the soup of the day tomorrow.”
“I will.” She slurped up another bite, tasting chicken and tomato, with bits of chili. Behind her, Chico dipped a bowl for himself and headed back out to the bar.
She took a longer look at the chef. Clem Rodriguez seemed to be around her age, maybe a little younger. She wore jeans and a faded Texas Tornadoes T-shirt under her apron, her dark hair clipped short under her chef’s beanie. Her large dark eyes might have made her look demure if they hadn’t glittered with intelligence. Deirdre watched her rapidly consume her soup, sipping from a large glass of iced tea as she did. “Do you do dinner, too?” she asked.
Clem shook her head. “Not yet. I’ve only been here six weeks or so. Tom says another few weeks and then we can try it, once we’ve built up the lunch traffic. Nighttime is mostly bar food right now—they can microwave most of it, so I don’t need to stick around after I put it together.” She pushed her empty bowl to the middle of the table. “Now tell me why you’re waiting tables in a roadhouse. Not that Main qualifies as a road, but the Faro’s as close to a roadhouse as Konigsburg comes. And frankly, you don’t strike me as the roadhouse type.”
Deirdre shrugged. “I needed a job. I’m trying to earn enough money to rent the place next door. Mr. Ames is going to lease it to me, but I’ve got some cash flow problems right now.”
“The T-shirt shop?” Clem raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t strike me as a paying proposition.”
“I want to turn it into a coffee roaster. With a few tables thrown in.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Well, now, that’s an interesting idea. You have any experience?”
Deirdre nodded, her mouth full of soup.
“Of course, waiting tables here isn’t likely to make you a pile of money, even though you’ll probably rake in more tips than poor old Bobby Sue.”
“I have some other money, but I can’t get at it for a couple of months.” She pushed herself up from the table and walked to the stove. “I figure I can make enough here to keep Mr. Ames from renting to somebody else while I wait.”
“Honey, ‘Mr. Ames’ hasn’t been able to rent the place for weeks. My guess is he’ll wait no matter how little you can give him. And you’d better call
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