Jules (iheartwine) wrote in summerview, @ 2018-12-19 14:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | julius fírinne, player: lyddia, zmarie roque |
The fortune queen of New Orleans was brushing her cat in her black limousine
12/19
Marie ✦ Julius
Brain picking, snacks and sazeracs PG-ish? Completed |
Ah finally it was one of those simple, easy, middle of the day shifts where Julius could actually breathe. Actually, he wasn’t technically on to bartend today (or most days really), he was in to do paperwork type things--sign off on the payroll, input the orders for the Back of House, check over the menu James had whipped up for the holidays (as if it would be anything but flawless), that sort of thing--but the bartender on duty that afternoon needed a break, so he was happy to oblige (that would show that Front of House manager he was pulling his weight in his own damn restaurant, but of course, he’d hired them to be a stickler, so he had no one to blame but himself). So anyway, he was working at the bar, fully expecting a simple afternoon of wine pairings and straight off the menu ordering, but then she walked in. She being one of Maeve’s waitresses (honestly, he made it his business to know who worked for her, because he was fairly certain she’d done the same). And suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to use the blender. It should be noted this was not a normal urge for Julius, but there it was. Loud and clear as if it was being broadcast in his head. He started pulling bottles off the shelf, tossing the ingredients for a Cajun Margarita into the blender, and the whole thing was blended, rim salted, poured and ready before she even sat down at the bar. That was how things were supposed to work, but with a mostly non-Fae staff, it wasn’t always possible. But on the off chance Maeve had sent her, he was gonna do things right. “Cajun Margarita. That’s something I haven’t made in a while.” "I am surprised you even know how to make one at all. Merci, bouille," was Marie's response as she settled at the bar. He'd even gotten the color right, a peach-like shade from the hot sauce and then the pepper garnish as a finishing touch. She had long since developed immunity to the spice and heat and could actually sip the beverage without her mouth turning into a fiery inferno (not to mention she’d be a poor Cajun if she hadn’t). Mais, she’d just make herself at home, then, because of this nice welcome. Her sweater dress was one that she'd refashioned - cut off a few inches, added a colorful belt - because she saw them all the time in the thrift store and they were always so frumpy. No matter, it was nothing a sewing machine couldn't fix. But at least it hugged her nicely now, and the ankle boots paired with it were comfy - she set her handbag down on the stool next to her, continuing to enjoy her drink. She studied the bar owner with dusky eyes (that had shed approximately zero tears since the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina; after that, she had no time for emotional hiccups), those conventionally handsome looks and a playboy's smile. Awwww. C'est mignon. "Is the special treatment because of the quaint small town rivalry with my boss, or do you just think I'm pretty?" It was an unusual drink, to be sure, but if he could shove one of his bartenders aside to make Maeve a proper Singapore Sling a couple months earlier, he could handle a tweak on a classic like this. At least, it was not really a stretch of the imagination. He had an approximate knowledge of many things, and a solid arsenal of drinks under his belt. That and the whole just knowing what people liked thing. It certainly helped a bit when memory on how to construct an unfamiliar drink got a little dicey. “You live long enough you learn how to make a lot of things,” he replied with a casual shrug, though he was never truly unappreciative of a compliment. Particularly when he’d just whipped up something he hadn’t made in ages, and completely off the cuff too. No Googling or anything. “Ah, are you insinuating I don’t provide this level of service for all my customers?” He asked, eyebrow raised, one corner of his mouth tugged up along with it. It was sort of his Modus operandi after all. Though, to be fair, he didn’t tend bar nearly often enough to make it a thing, even if it was supposed to be. “But, I suppose being pretty doesn’t hurt.” “That would be exhausting.” Marie replied, and it wasn’t as if she judged for not automatically knowing everyone’s favorites. “What do you do when you encounter someone who does not know what they want or what they like?” That applied to many avenues, did it not? Fickles creatures, they were. But if the bar owner liked himself a challenge, then he liked himself a challenge - that brand of tenacity was to be commended. She assumed he had other things to do besides watch her drink, however - which was why she offered her next suggestion. “You can take a smoke break and meet me outside in a few minutes?” she asked, hoping that he would. Besides the joy of inquiring about his business, she just could go for a cigarette - it felt like not many smoked them these days, stupid girls and even some equally stupid men preferring to suck on those weird mechanical vapor contraptions. Very astute, this one. It was exhausting. “Why do you think I only bartend on slow nights,” he pointed out. Sometimes it was hard to parse one want out from another when it was too busy, so he actually had to listen to what people were requesting, and that was when people ordered things to impress someone else (sometimes him), instead of things they actually liked. “Then I make a very educated guess.” Sometimes peoples likes were wrapped up in other things they enjoyed, and if you could figure those out--favorite smells or flavors, for instance--it was usually pretty easy to build a beverage out of that information. Likes and dislikes were also typically more subconscious than people realized. At her question he checked his watch with a slightly amused look. “The bartender will be back from their break in a few. Should give you enough time to down that, and we can head out, through the back,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. Smoke breaks were supposed to be taken in the back alley so as to not deter customers coming through the front door, one of his own rules that he stuck to so as not to appear hypocritical. And really he didn’t see the harm in walking her through the kitchen--even if she was here on business from Maeve, Maeve had already seen the kitchen. "Laissez les bon temp rouler, bébé," Marie toasted him with her drink, tipping the salt-rimmed margarita glass slightly in Julius' direction. "I will follow, then. And my name is Marie. So you have something to call me that is not simply...'waitress at the other bar.'" The rosy pink carve of her mouth split into a smile, directed right at him. Yes, because she wasn't here thanks to Maeve, and would prefer those associations melt away like a forgotten ice cream cone sizzling on a sidewalk during a hot summer day. In the meantime, she'd just enjoy her drink and take in the sights. Maybe make note of a snack for later, though she had to admit, she kind of wanted to dine on the homme who made this drink. Julius’s French was generally terrible--honestly, most languages he had no more than a few choice words and phrases in, after learning English had burned him out so thoroughly--but thankfully that was one he knew. “Sláinte,” he joined, raising a glass of ice water in response (it was too early in the work to start day drinking on the job, it was one of the few rules he adhered to). “Marie,” he repeated, “that’s much less of a mouthful. Sounds nicer too.” Much better than waitress from the other bar, indeed. “Julius,” he added, with a grin, “Though I suspect you already knew that.” Still, proper introductions were polite. He took a sip of his water, and idly wiped down a few clean glasses before the other bartender finally returned from their lunch. Julius tossed the dish rag their way, and reached into his pocket to pull out a pack of clove cigarettes, tapping the pack against his palm. “Ready, darling?” The glass now drained, Marie nodded, sliding off the stool. As dexterous as darkness itself! “Ready, bébé,” she said, removing her own pack of cigarettes. The candy pink box was unmistakable - those coffin nails were Black Devil brand, and the paper itself was a fitting onyx shade. It was the smoke that was most delightful, vanilla or chocolate or whatever flavor you had. This one happened to be roses. Black Devil, yes. Fitting because she, technically, was a demon. Her and the devil were old friends - some days it felt that way. Once they got outside, she offered the pack, split-open. "Want one?" Marie liked cloves too (they tasted like Christmas, for some reason) but she had to special order these foreign cigarettes online. Not many shops offered them. And she didn't always give them away either, but she could spare one lone tobacco-infused vice for someone so tasty. At least, he better be tasty. Or else she'd want her cigarette back. "This in exchange for some wisdom, I hope? I am aiming to open my own restaurant. Soon." Julius had one of his own smokes about halfway to his mouth when she offered up one of hers. Clearly it would be rude to refuse a gift. So, he slipped it back into the pack, and returned the pack to the pocket of his pants. Generally he preferred the clove cigarettes not just for the taste--which was a strong selling point, not the Christmasiness of it, but the spiciness--but also because it did a nice job of overpowering the smell of violets. There were worse things to smell like, obviously, it just didn’t seem very fitting, in his opinion, were it not for his family’s particular affinity for flowers. And now he was about to smell like roses on top of it. “Much obliged.” He plucked one out of the proffered pack and held a lighter to the tip of hers before lighting his own cigarette. Oh. Well that was interesting. Either she hadn’t gone to Maeve at all, or she was trying to get advice from multiple angles, but he couldn’t help the smug expression that crept into his features as he took a drag from the rose scented cigarette. “Alright, deal.” He didn’t feel like binding her to it when he was already smoking, but it was still a deal in the strictest sense of the word. “What do you want to know?” What was this? Violets and roses? Julius was just a delightful floral garden, wasn’t he. Suck that cigarette back, baby. It would just make you all the more tastier in the end. Marie regarded him through a rosy, aromatic cloud, deep hollows of amber eyes that maybe even had a tinge of red to them out here under the grand moon and stars. What did she want to know, well, that was the question. “How did you acquire this place?” she asked, exhaling with an ashing of her cigarette toward the ground. “Ill-gotten gains or honest ones?” She had some money saved, but it was mostly ill-gotten. Something that she’d stopped, mind you, the conning of tourists out of their cash - she didn’t practice any specific religion or hold much stock in the voodoo ways, but it was best to hold on to the idea that the ones who brought good, got themselves some good. And she was already too far apart from the idea of being a good person - basically she just wanted one thing that was pure. Harmless. Maybe her Cajun recipes, shared with others, could be that. His eyes got a slightly mischievous glint at her question. It was a good one, and direct, which he tended to prefer. Words held so much weight and shouldn’t be abused, after all—always chosen with care. He’d challenge her to find anyone around here with a perfectly squeaky clean slate, but still, it was a good question. “Hmm…” he hummed, scratching at his chin with his free hand. “I suppose it depends on the definition. But… a little of both. Ill-gotten gains are easier to accumulate but honest gains are more interesting to acquire.” It was a different skill set. And often the best way to obtain new skills as well. He shrugged and took another drag from his cigarette, the smell of which was giving him a flashback to some Golden Age Hollywood dressing rooms, but in a pleasant sort of way. “I like to spend what I have though, so most of what it took to start this place I came by honestly and recently.” He wasn’t a hoarder. He didn’t have some secret stash hidden away. That was actually a good answer, it was what Marie had been looking for. “I tend to agree,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. It looked like streamers, grey ones, racing toward the night sky. “When I was in New Orleans, I had a grifting business. Many tourists are so taken in by ‘the voodoo,’” she grinned. “It was on Bourbon Street. An outdoor mall of booze and debauchery.” Puddles of vomit and urine on the streets too, when things got crazy. Which was pretty much all the time. “Mais out, it was interesting as you say, to acquire those funds. But I moved here to not do something like that, and to introduce this town to actual spice.” A wink at that, since white people mostly just used salt and pepper and called it a day. Don’t try to deny either, white folk. “What would you do differently, if anything?” “That’s smart,” Julius said, “Playing into the location like that. It’s a good way to make money quickly.” Knowing your audience, so to speak. He could always appreciate someone who managed to do that and do it well. It was a lesson from the theatre that translated well into the real world. “I’ve been,” he said, nodding with a small smile, “It has a good energy, but definitely the perfect place to trap tourists and snag some of their money.” Like taking candy from a baby really. He’d almost put that in the category of honest gains, since really grifting from tourists was nearly harmless in a lot of ways. It was what they came for, after all. No harm, no foul. Ah, but that was clever too. Julius laughed lightly on the tail end of a cloud of smoke. “That’s a good business practice--find an empty space and fill it with what’s mising--bravo.” Personally he was fairly adept at seasoning, but he’d also had two hundred years to get that way. Still, one could never have too much spice. “That’s a loaded question. We’re just talking about the restaurant, right?” He asked, eyebrow raised curiously. “I’m not sure I have anything I’d change about it. But I spent a lot of time planning before I went ahead with it.” “For now, just the restaurant. But if you wish to tell me what you would do differently in life, I will be glad to hear it,” Marie chuckled. The cigarette went out then, there was barely any left - ashes flicked onward, and the smoldering remains stamped beneath one of those snazzy ankle boots. She liked hearing other people’s experiences - especially when it came to owning their bar, or pub, or restaurant, or whatever else. Mostly she was prepared to open her own, but the support was nice. No one told her it was a bad idea yet. “When do you get off? Work, I mean,” she added charmingly. Ha. “You could come by my place. I make a better sazerac than anyone you could hire for your bar.” The demoness even kept her hands in her sweater dress pockets. Rare that she wouldn’t add an extra oomph to be more persuasive, but she liked this one. Honestly, there weren’t an exorbitant amount of huge life changes he’d make if given the chance, strange considering the number of years he had under his belt, but most changes he would consider were relatively small. Insignificant, possibly. Julius shrugged. “Not much, really. Nothing of interest.” Maybe he’d have gone to school for something other than archaeology and avoided the whole nearly getting crushed by rocks. A small thing like that. “Anything you think you might change in the moment usually isn’t as bad as you think after a decade or two goes by. It all kind of builds character along the way. You win some, you lose some.” He took a last drag off his own cigarette before stubbing it out on the brick wall behind him, and flicking it down the alley. Julius gave her an amused look, another smirk forming at the not-so subtle addition there. He gave his watch an exaggerated glance. “Oh, I don’t know… I mean, I own the place, so technically never, but..” He shrugged again. “No one’s going to stop me. I can probably sneak out of here, now, honestly.” Grinning at her bravado, he let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a challenge. I’d like to see that.” Now? Even better. That meant Marie didn’t have to wait, which also meant pangs of hangry wouldn’t come over her. And no one liked her when she was hangry - she also looked terrifying, a literal demonic nightmare, and she wasn’t fond of mirrors in those instances where she let herself go a little too long without a good chi meal. “Let’s sneak out then, bébé,” she crooned delightedly, wrapping her arm around his. “I am not far from here. I promise you a good sazerac and a good time.” Julius was right as well - you win some, you lose some. But she was definitely a winner, and that fact? She’d make sure he knew it intimately. A sazerac and a good time? Clearly he’d be remiss to turn his nose up at such an offer, and since Marie was Maeve’s employee and not his own--and clearly here on her own accord--there was no danger of… Well… Shitting where he ate, for lack of a better term. He probably should let the FOH manager he was peacing out for the night, but. Eh. He could text them. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and shot them a text. “Done, lead the way darling.” |