Jamie's sense of humor was highly tuned to the punny. The kids found him funny, and he was the farthest thing from the old ballet master who smoked and smacked the floor with a stick when he let his ass drop and his elevation droop. That guy had terrified him. Jamie wasn't terrifying anyone. He wasn't short but he wasn't super tall. He was proportionate which was a big deal in dance and he had the breadth of muscle underneath well-washed cotton and a hoodie that was hours of lifting girls who were tiny but still probably a hundred pounds, give or take twenty. He had a grin that dug deep into his cheek, and he flopped the menu down on the counter because he already knew what he was going to have.
And yeah, okay. It was probably the stupid thing you did when you could afford to pick ambiance over you know, getting bugged by your students in public. He wasn't Mr. Mayer anywhere but the studio (which felt weird, because he had been 'Mayer' or 'Jamie' any time he had been in class since he was six and it was doing weird stuff to his personal identity to be something else) and he could afford it.
"Yeah, man. The yolk doesn't work. You need ketchup, or relish. I used to freak my sisters out with my food choices, it's good to see someone who takes it seriously into adulthood." Jamie said it very seriously, but the grin was kind of a give-away. "Don't mix it with mayo, though. Then it just looks nasty. Kind of medical? I don't know."