the rickety chair he’d been occupying. He managed to stifle his grin. “Later. I have to go back to work now.”
Tineke pouted, but she was professional enough not to argue. Barely. She was head of the waitstaff, so she couldn’t really get away with making him sit back down and talk. “Okay. But maybe we can overlap our dinner breaks a little?”
Sam laughed.
“I checked your other tables and got menus for the new group, but I bet they’re ready to order drinks now,” Tineke said, turning back to Juan Miguel and reaching for the plate. He slapped her hand away as Sam walked out of the kitchen, checking the pocket of his apron for his order pad. He kind of liked the white apron thing. It was the only nod to a uniform at Fatty’s. Other than jeans, but that was more habit than requirement.
The group in the center was big, but the lighting at Fatty’s was so low it was hard to make them all out. Fatty’s was all about the mood, the booze, and the burgers. At least that’s what Sheff, the owner, said. As far as Sam understood, for Sheff, “ambiance” meant “almost too dark to see your food.” Since Fatty’s didn’t have many windows, it was pretty much always dark, not to mention loud. The acoustics matched the ambiance.
Sam ambled over to the new table. From what he could tell, there were about twelve customers, and everyone in the group wore a suit. They sat a bit stiffly, as if they didn’t know each other that well, but they were comfortable enough to chat. The people at the table were mostly men, but a woman sat on the corner closest to him. Something in her body language screamed that she was in charge.
Regardless, he’d learned it was smart to make the women happy; they always seemed to be in control of the tip. Sam smiled his extra-friendly smile as he walked up to her. “Hi! How are all of you doing tonight?”
“We’re just fine,” the woman answered, smiling back at him. Murmurs around the group agreed with her, and someone coughed.
“I can take your drink orders now and give you all a little longer with the menu, if you need.” Sam made a show of looking around the table, even to the shadowy figures at the dim far end, but he focused mostly on the woman in charge.
She didn’t even bother to ask anyone. “We’ll order drinks and appetizers now—three orders of the truffle-oil fries—and we’ll be ready to order dinner when you get back with the drinks.”
Oh, she was so in charge. Sam started playing the guessing game as he worked his way around the table, taking orders. What business were they in? A conservative one, judging by the clothes, but not a lucrative business. Not sales—the suits didn’t have that flashy edge, and no one was ordering fruity drinks. Salespeople were tropical drinks people.
Not stockbrokers or bankers; they ordered brand-name alcohol with special instructions, like, “I’ll have a Sapphire tonic with two limes, a lemon, and a cherry on one of those little plastic swords—a red sword, please.” These people were a little more down to earth.
They couldn’t be lawyers, either. The suits weren’t quite expensive enough, and no one had ordered a $25 glass of wine yet. Lawyers always had at least one wine snob in the group, even at a place like Fatty’s.
Fatty’s did take its booze very seriously.
Sam turned to his ninth customer, down at the shadowy end of the table.
“Hi, Sam,” Ian said. He looked entirely too calm, as if he’d had fair warning he was about to see a previous hookup, unlike some people.
“Ian!” Sam gulped. Ian smiled tightly at him, while Sam just stared.
“Friend of yours, Ian?” a woman asked.
“Sam, this is Andrea, one of my coworkers.” Sam managed to flick the woman next to Ian a smile, then his eyes went back to Ian. “Sam’s my cousin’s—” cough “—partner’s friend. We met a couple weeks ago at a party.”
“Eleven days,” Sam said.
D’oh ! Heat flooded his face. That had to be an
Tineke pouted, but she was professional enough not to argue. Barely. She was head of the waitstaff, so she couldn’t really get away with making him sit back down and talk. “Okay. But maybe we can overlap our dinner breaks a little?”
Sam laughed.
“I checked your other tables and got menus for the new group, but I bet they’re ready to order drinks now,” Tineke said, turning back to Juan Miguel and reaching for the plate. He slapped her hand away as Sam walked out of the kitchen, checking the pocket of his apron for his order pad. He kind of liked the white apron thing. It was the only nod to a uniform at Fatty’s. Other than jeans, but that was more habit than requirement.
The group in the center was big, but the lighting at Fatty’s was so low it was hard to make them all out. Fatty’s was all about the mood, the booze, and the burgers. At least that’s what Sheff, the owner, said. As far as Sam understood, for Sheff, “ambiance” meant “almost too dark to see your food.” Since Fatty’s didn’t have many windows, it was pretty much always dark, not to mention loud. The acoustics matched the ambiance.
Sam ambled over to the new table. From what he could tell, there were about twelve customers, and everyone in the group wore a suit. They sat a bit stiffly, as if they didn’t know each other that well, but they were comfortable enough to chat. The people at the table were mostly men, but a woman sat on the corner closest to him. Something in her body language screamed that she was in charge.
Regardless, he’d learned it was smart to make the women happy; they always seemed to be in control of the tip. Sam smiled his extra-friendly smile as he walked up to her. “Hi! How are all of you doing tonight?”
“We’re just fine,” the woman answered, smiling back at him. Murmurs around the group agreed with her, and someone coughed.
“I can take your drink orders now and give you all a little longer with the menu, if you need.” Sam made a show of looking around the table, even to the shadowy figures at the dim far end, but he focused mostly on the woman in charge.
She didn’t even bother to ask anyone. “We’ll order drinks and appetizers now—three orders of the truffle-oil fries—and we’ll be ready to order dinner when you get back with the drinks.”
Oh, she was so in charge. Sam started playing the guessing game as he worked his way around the table, taking orders. What business were they in? A conservative one, judging by the clothes, but not a lucrative business. Not sales—the suits didn’t have that flashy edge, and no one was ordering fruity drinks. Salespeople were tropical drinks people.
Not stockbrokers or bankers; they ordered brand-name alcohol with special instructions, like, “I’ll have a Sapphire tonic with two limes, a lemon, and a cherry on one of those little plastic swords—a red sword, please.” These people were a little more down to earth.
They couldn’t be lawyers, either. The suits weren’t quite expensive enough, and no one had ordered a $25 glass of wine yet. Lawyers always had at least one wine snob in the group, even at a place like Fatty’s.
Fatty’s did take its booze very seriously.
Sam turned to his ninth customer, down at the shadowy end of the table.
“Hi, Sam,” Ian said. He looked entirely too calm, as if he’d had fair warning he was about to see a previous hookup, unlike some people.
“Ian!” Sam gulped. Ian smiled tightly at him, while Sam just stared.
“Friend of yours, Ian?” a woman asked.
“Sam, this is Andrea, one of my coworkers.” Sam managed to flick the woman next to Ian a smile, then his eyes went back to Ian. “Sam’s my cousin’s—” cough “—partner’s friend. We met a couple weeks ago at a party.”
“Eleven days,” Sam said.
D’oh ! Heat flooded his face. That had to be an
Similar Books
