19584/Ain't It Real

Ain't It Real
Date of Scene:	01 December 2024
Location:	Lafayette's Beau Cherie
Synopsis:	After a bartender mucks up, two bartenders aren't impressed by that and find common cause.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Stirling Winchester

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Beau Cherie isn't the kind of place anyone who knows the south ends up by accident, no more than a local bothers hanging around Times Square. Two types come here: tourists and children of necessity. Maybe the third, blown in because the icy chill off Coney Island cuts through their coat and they'll pay $17.99 for an entree if it means they get warmed up long enough to reach the subway. Less necessity and more numbed, really.

The bartender and a server apparently don't care much about authenticity, but they do worry about their tips. The two stand near the entrance where the bar wraps around, listening to an angry fellow spout his displeasure at the food or service. He slaps the sticky surface with his bare hand and recoils in disgust, face a dark sneer. "Whaddin the hell is this supposed to be? I ordered a 75, and figure you can't possibly be screwin' that up. Why's it got an *egg* in it?"

Pinned behind his grandiose gestures, Meggan simply stands there trying to get back to her table. It would be possible, if she could brave windmill arms that block her way to the narrow aisle and squeeze past the server holding a tray of pseudo-alligator bites and sauce, both slowly cooling into a gloppy mess.

"My wife can't eat eggs, and sure as day didn't expect her to be poisoned by some..." The angry guy draws in breath, wholly unaware he's feeding the woman behind him who looks sidelong toward the door and then her two-top table where her purse and coat are. Ostensibly she could leave without one, but not the other.

Meggan glances at the bartender, who goes through the motions of looking like he's concerned while wiping down a glass and pouring another drink -- wrong, obvious to anyone who has ever in their life poured a beer. Foam splatters. Festive lights blink.

Anyone who enters might want to rethink their choice.

Stirling Winchester has posed:
Stirling hasn't had Cajun cuisine in quite some time and this might be when that changes. The dark haired man strolls on into the Beau Cherie and takes a look around as he passes the threshold. A deep breath in through his nose and he stops for a moment, eyes squinting faintly at something. For a moment it looks as though he's going to turn around and leave, but this place had come recommended.

As he heads towards the bar Stirling will have to pass the three men conversing and the woman stuck behind them. He ends up standing next to her, giving her a smile and saying, "Hey. How are you?"

The strange conversation does half decent job of taking his attention, as does the obvious lack of skill on the bartender's part. Probably best to start drinking now.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
To its credit, Beau Cherie at least smells pretty good. The spice blends might be off and the drinks dubious, but the kitchen permeates the restaurant with an appealing fragrance beyond the acrid sea outside or the slight whiff of gasoline from so many generators running around certain food trucks. That alone might be the deciding factor for people popping in or out to find another option from the string of chain restaurants on the shore.

Meggan might be contemplating the space between the top of the booth and the ceiling, given how fixed her gaze remains on that space. Before she can try vaulting over it - and hope no one recognizes her from the Justice League - someone's breaking into her thoughts with good intention. A fair ransacking, honestly. She turns, looking back to the fellow heading her way. The corner of her mouth tugs upwards in a smile, though there's a certain dimension to it still distracted by the argument between bartender, server, and annoyed patron. There's talk of a refund, and 'no refunds' on a handwritten sign on the bar wall. Very impressive... for a hole in the wall which this ain't.

"Could be better, given my kit's over there and I'm over here," she announces, apparently ignorant of the American answer of 'Fine, thank you,' even if it's not. The accent gives her away, some exotic melange of Welsh and Gaelic woven around English, a mezzo soprano fit to turn heads. "Kind of you to ask. And yourself?"

Stirling Winchester has posed:
"I'm doing well, thanks," Stirling replies to the lady with a soft chuckle. "Didn't expect a show with my meal." His head inclines in the direction of the folks conversing about refunds.

He gives a glance to the woman's stuff, then nods seriously, "Yeah. Unfortunate situation to be in." There's no rush on his part, seemingly enjoying the people watching and conversation. "Well, worse things could be happening, I suppose."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Silvered glasses hang from the front rack of the bar, obscuring the tender moving slowly between making another drink and closing out an order. He's in no rush to settle with the angered customer, who just throws his arms in the arm and stamps back to his seat. That opens up the aisle, though the server hoists the plate of bites and sauces to go presumably hand them off to unsuspecting patrons.

"Give it five minutes and Zatanna or Wonder Woman might come out with the chorus line with Dazzler," Meggan chimes in, her eyes narrowed a little yet. The matter of refunds might not be settled to everyone's satisfaction, given the two affected diners shuck their napkins and grab their coats. She hums tunelessly under her breath. "Seems a right shame they're so put out. Word of caution, might want to avoid anything too fancy here. Maybe stick to the fizzy drinks." Her fingers flex and curl as she eases into haunting the wall, expecting no doubt someone to come barrelling down the hall, be it staff or guest fleeing for the boonies. Her vibrant gaze is a strange shade of rust-brown, like the leaves attain in that last gasp before winter cold truly sets in. "Least there's stools and it's not standing room only," she quips to Stirling. "I'd suggest snagging one. I'm going to duck and grab my things in case it gets to be a real problem, don't mind me."

If he doesn't, it's a quick dash to snag her battered blue coat and little hobo purse, things that mark her as a student or hardly the wealthiest creature on earth.

Stirling Winchester has posed:
"It would be nice to see Zatanna and Dazzler again," says Stirling with a big grin as he looks around the establishment one more time as if they might actually appear. "Never met Wonder Woman, though I imagine I'm like most of the rest of the world when I say she's one of my favorite famous people."

As he does indeed grab a stool to take a seat he says, "Don't let me stop you from doing your thing. I mean, I could use the company if you're bored, but I have learned to be very easy going about that sort of stuff."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Oh, she is absolutely lovely. Fab lady, the real deal," Meggan asides in a low voice, giving a proper nod upon her return with her coat and purse. The garment stays bundled to her side, the purse tucked under her arm until she hops up on the available stool. Her server -- not the same as the couple who got the eggy champagne abomination -- will have to figure out where she relocated to. All the fun keeping them on their toes, right? "I'd not want to see her cross at anyone."

Hopping up onto a stool is nearly effortless, though she keeps from smacking her knees or dislodging Stirling somehow with care. "I don't think my acquaintance plans on showing, and that's entirely on them." With a wave of her hand, she dismisses the notion. "Though nothing wrong with dining alone, company is far preferred. I'm Meggan. Meg, if you like. Pleasure."

The bartender eventually shows up to take orders, barely even looking at them when he asks, "What'll you have?"

Stirling Winchester has posed:
"You and me both, sister," Stirling replies to the comment about getting on Wonder Woman's bad side. "I mean, I'm a pretty tough guy, but she's beyond amazing..." He stares off for a moment, lost in thought.

"You got stood up?" There's a note of disbelief in the veteran's tone. "Whoever your meal was supposed to be with is clearly missing out."

"Meggan?" The guy grins and offers a deep nod, "I'm Stirling. Enc..." Wait. There's something he has for this! "Are you a witch? Because I am enchanted." Yes, his bad line was delivered!

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Bit like picking a fight with the Sun. Or Superman," the British woman agrees, rolling her shoulder to slouch off the hobo bag. She catches it on her elbow, the weight minimal but enough for gravity to exert a force that even she has to acknowledge. Meggan curls her fingers under her chin and rests in that easy posture. "And looks like it. Life happens, though."

Her expression lightens by shades, though the sharp edges remain under her fair complexion like the promise of ice when the morning sun lances off a brilliant surface in a dazzler glimmer. "I try not to hold it against anyone. Bad way to go about it, right?"

When she finally pulls her attention away from the bartender or whatever anger still simmers at the couple heading out the door -- probably without settling their bill -- it's a bit like that light effect, illuminating with a kind of weight of its own. Stirling introduces himself and she nods to his grin, listening closely for the way he says his name. There are differences across the Pond, and catching them is important. "Stirling. Like the castle?" Righto, other side of the Pond indeed. Her fingers curl and uncurl beneath her jaw, lips parted. "Am I a wot? I... float, I suppose. Bother, we're going to need a piece of wood, aren't we?"

Stirling Winchester has posed:
"Wonder Woman. Superman. Captain Marvel." Stirling says the names with some reverence before he sighs. "And they're so beautiful, too." With a grin at Meggan he adds, "That said, I'm in great company right now."

"That's a nice way to look at things. Folks all got their own stuff going on, I imagine." A big old shrug as he turns his body to face his acquaintance more directly, "Exactly like the castle! I don't think that I am Scottish, but my family has long wanted to go visit." He pauses, then opens his mouth to say something, then shuts his lips before words escape.

"See, I was trying to flirt, but I am bad at it," Stirling explains with a sheepish smile. "I say I'm enchanted, so you must therefore be some kind of practitioner of the arcane arts. It's a bad line. But it's better than the polar bear."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Curiosity, meet cat. Cat, meet curiosity. "You've met Captain Marvel or Superman?" Meggan perks to this factoid plucked from the conversation, inviting Stirling to continue with the line of thought exactly as he wishes. She laughs softly. "You've a kind way about you, saying that. I hope you get a fair reception around here. New York isn't famed for its approachable people, bit of a thing about them. Standoffish, sometimes."

Still, though, she encourages him to go on if he clearly intends to edit his words, nodding a little as he speaks. Stirling's mannerisms interest her as much as what he says, reading into a different lexicon altogether that way, but such is the curse of an empath. She reads and adapts almost unconsciously. "Oh, go if you haven't, I highly recommend it. Ignoring all the 'Braveheart' tat, it's something else though."

Her back straightens slightly and the welter of her pomegranate braids slide across her shoulders, revealing the angular peak of her ears. Careless in a place like this; not careless at all. "Oh, and here *I* go for Monty Python. Glad you won't be dipping me into the sea to see whether I sink like a stone, at any rate. They've likely no ducks about, even if scales might be around in Coney Island. That mystery shall have to remain."

Unless he's hiding ill intent with considerable ability, she gauges him less of a risk. "But, not exactly a witch, more I *am* magic. If it matters."

Stirling Winchester has posed:
"Met them? No. Seen them?" Stirling nods his head a few times. "It was a while ago, but I got to see them doing some superheroing. They're so fast when they fly!" With a chuckle and a shake of his head he says, "I'm kind? Thank you. I've recently begun trying to be more kind and gentle in my everyday life. It's what my ancestors would want."

"Yeah? I'll check it out someday, then. I've been to the UK before, but mostly just layovers on my way elsewhere. Cross trained with some guys there at Aldershot."

Stirling eyes the ears, smiling and tilting his head slightly, "Oh wow. You are magic. That is..." There's a break, "Awesome!" He perks up even more, "My aunt was a witch, actually. She wasn't made of magic, or whatever, but I feel safer knowing she's looking out for me."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Important to know what you want too, though," Meggan murmurs. Her water finally shows up along with a slice of lemon in it, and the perturbed server finally shows up with bread pudding under bourbon sauce. Hard to do wrong, but they will all the same, the stodgy dessert certainly tasty but not exactly to Nawlins standards. Good enough for her though! She recklessly bounces a spoon off the syrupy finish, scooping out a hole for the sugary concoction to trickle into. "Aldershot! Hampshire's pretty this time of year. Nothing like the mountains here but still cozy and wild."

A spoonful of bread pudding vanishes as she takes a polite bite, decidedly aware of her manners in a way that sort of exudes up through her. "You're well-travelled then? Where's your favourite place that you've been?"

A sip of water down and the information she absorbs with a beam. "Was she? Oh, that's excellent. It's a good job, all told. Not that being a shopgirl or a soldier or a bartender's bad at all, I'd never suggest that. All the normal jobs are right important, you know?"

Stirling Winchester has posed:
"Well, what they want is what I want most of the time," Stirling grins when talking about his family members. "I was lost until I rediscovered them."

"Yeah, it was a nice spot, Aldershot. Didn't see much more than the ranges we were training on, however. High operational tempo at the time."

"My favorite place?" He chuckles and leans back a bit as he considers things. "Now's the time I wish I'd been on more vacations. My favorite place to travel was probably Barcelona. Took a vacation there with some friends and it was wonderful."

"Oh yeah. She did a lot for a lot of people, but every job is necessary. With a few exceptions."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Another bite of the bread pudding isn't making a significant dent in it, though that's not really anything surprising. The food she needs -- the nourishment, anyway -- derives as much from the conversation as the argument in the kitchen or the bourbon-infused sauce drizzled over the dense cake. Meggan is one to pay heed though, eyes wide as she takes in the facts bit at a time. "Barcelona, that's definitely a lot warmer than here. Gorgeous spot right by the sea."

For the autumn-aspected Tuath, the notion of perhaps longing for hotter weather, sunshine, and orange-scentered breezes is possibly unusual indeed. She turns her spoon around, contemplative for a moment. "Get your holidays in. That's important, especially with the dangers or demands always round the corners. Something's always getting in the way."

She then takes a few more moments to consider if she wants to eat another spoonful of pudding, and thinks against it, ultimately, spoon put down. "What's it that you do here, if not holidaying or witching or such?"