Granger-Reinpol Restaurant Hospitality and Service Consultancy
Chapter Two, or The Restaurant Of Small Proportions
"How is it, Meds," Hermione mused, "that beer is cheaper than water here?"
"I don't know, but I absolutely love it." Medora finished off the bottle she had bought 'for the road' (i.e the short walk down the street from the auditorium to their hotel) and quickly threw it into a recycling bin, then shoved her hands in the pockets of her jackets again. "My hands are cold now, bother."
"That's the price you pay for drinking beer everywhere. Honestly, I don't understand you."
"You've got to enjoy it while you can Hermione. Soon we'll be back in damp London with no fantastic alcohol to warm our frigid, tired bodies," she sighed dramatically.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I don't know why you didn't go into theatre instead."
"Trust me, acting like a stuffy customer who's tetchy for no reason at all is quite a lot of joy as well. It more than makes up for it." Medora's smile had a wicked slant to it that Hermione knew meant unnecessary trouble.
"Please, please, don't make a fuss tonight."
"Me?! On your special night? Wouldn't dream of it. It's your treat, remember?"
"I'd forgotten," came the dry reply.
"If anyone were to make a fuss tonight, it would be you. Our disguises will be an father taking his newly-adult daughter out for a nice dinner. I, being the charitable soul I am, will be the sage old man. You shall be the attractive lady out to have a bit of fun!"
Hermione did her eyebrow raise.
"Er, or you could just be… Well. A lady. That's fine too."
"It's adorable how I'm the one who'll be putting on our disguises and yet you think you've got a say," Hermione teased.
"Oh, come off it Hermione! I'm sorry I'm not a special magical little unicorn, all right? Besides, I've already mentally prepared myself to be the sage old man. There's no worse you can do."
"I'd take that as a challenge if it weren't for the fact that I've already prepared the potions."
ooo
They quickly prepared when they got to their room and went through their identities once more before heading out of the hotel, stopping at the concierge to ask for directions. Medora all but lumbered along (with another bottle of beer, of course), while Hermione struggled to make her clothes fit a bit better. She cursed herself for forgetting that the potion would make her a bit shorter, too.
"It's sort of like…" Medora started, watching Hermione stealthily charm her different pieces of clothing while they walked down the alley.
"Like what?"
"These disguises. It's sort of like magic, honestly."
Hermione stopped and stared at her.
"What?" Medora asked, waving her bottle to emphasise her confusion.
"Maybe… because… it is magic?"
Medora stared right back.
"I knew that! Hermio – Hannah, you're so funny sometimes!" she suddenly roared, with a loud, bellowing laugh.
Merlin, she's really getting into her role, isn't she.
ooo
"Signore!" came the friendly greeting of a short, round man, just as they reached the restaurant. "May I ask if you have a reservation?"
"We do," Medora replied. "I am Mister Fidel."
"Ahh, signore Fidel! Two people?"
"My daughter and I, yes."
"Si, si! This way, please."
They entered the doorway and walked past a bar, a row of coat hangers, and a long, narrow counter with a shelf above it holding a host of cutlery, napkins, and plates. There was also a pair of small, two-seater tables along the opposite side of the corridor, leaving only a narrow aisle in the middle for movement. This led into a bigger area, with five tables (yes, Hermione counted) that sat four to six people each, and three smaller ones. Medora had not been lying about the restaurant being tiny.
The main part of the restaurant had a few large mirrors with elaborate frames adorning the walls. One wall however simply had a massive blackboard on it, and written in a beautiful, flowing script was what Hermione supposed was the menu. She could hardly recognise a handful of words. On each table was a small candlelight, as well as a few random fruits, adding a splash of colour.
The waiter stopped at the second table in the corridor, closer to the main area, and offered to take their coats.
"Is this our table?" Medora asked. There was only one other diner, who was seated at a four-person table. "It isn't the most ideal of locations."
"I apologise, signore, we are fully reserved. It is Friday night, no?"
"I suppose it is…"
"It is better here, later!" he assured them. "Over there? A lot of noise, when the people come. Here, there is much less!"
"Hmm," Medora hummed, clearly unimpressed. Nevertheless, she let the man take her coat, and Hermione followed suit.
"I'm really not happy with this table," Medora said, once they sat down. "This aisle is tiny, and they'll be walking up and down it all night!"
"Not really, Me – Papa. There's only one other table down there, they won't need to go there much, would they?"
"True, true…" she mused, then suddenly, she burst out again. "Ah, my daughter! Always so logical!"
Hermione laughed incredulously at her friend: a tipsy Medora was bad enough, and here was one who was supposed to be acting at the same time. At least she didn't feel too embarrassed at the moment – after all, the restaurant only had four waiters. Looking around, Hermione mentally checked them off the list Medora had told her.
Typical Italian uncle-like character, check.
Tall Asian man, incredibly tanned, check.
Short, plump, friendly-looking lady, check.
Only one of them was not there… the supposedly attractive ("Okay, fine, he's not that attractive. But better-than-average?" Medora smiled hopefully), glasses-wearing, dark-haired, European gentlemen of questionable origin ("I am not joking," Medora had insisted, "they wrote 'questionable origin'. It's absolutely hilarious; even they don't know where he's from").
Wine menus were brought to their table, and Hermione flipped through it, disinterested. Medora on the other hand perused it like the connoisseur she had decided to be. Finally, she called the waiter over again.
"I'm sorry, do you have a list? I mean, there's one per page here, it's awfully hard to flip –"
"I am the list," said a different voice.
Medora laughed heartily, and Hermione glanced up. Oh, here was the last waiter. Glasses, suspenders, and a smile.
He asked what taste they were looking for, and Hermione blinked owlishly at him, looking over at her 'father'. He seemed to get the idea that the decisions were coming from that side tonight, and turned his attention to Medora. After much debate and fancy wine names, a suitable champagne and red were chosen.
The wine menus were collected, and the waiter clapped his hands together. "Now, your courses for tonight! My name is Lincoln, by the way. The menu is written in a mix of German and Italian, so I will translate it for you now," he said cheerfully, then added, "before the main crowd comes in. They're incredibly noisy."
"I know German and Italian," Hermione said suddenly.
"You do?" asked the man in shock (it is worth noting now that Medora and Hermione were disguised as an Asian father and daughter).
"You do?!" asked Medora, in even more shock.
"Of course. There's a carpaccio, mozzarella with rucola, and –"
"… wait," Lincoln said, narrowing his eyes. "Those are just Italian dishes. You can't even see the menu from here!" he accused.
"Hannah, I am too tipsy to handle your cheekiness right now," Medora warned.
Hermione laughed in her face. Served her right.
Eventually, they finished ordering, with much bellowing from Medora about the 'right' kind of meat, just as the dinner crowd arrived. The previously quiet restaurant was suddenly alive with conversation, in a variety of languages.
"There's something about Lincoln that's oddly familiar," Hermione told Medora as she sipped her champagne. "His voice…"
"I didn't recognise him from anywhere," Medora replied, drinking her champagne much faster. "Maybe he's one of your friends." The last part was said pointedly, and followed by a giggle.
Hermione looked appalled. "You're an aging man, you don't giggle!" she hissed furiously.
Medora, typically, ignored her. "Seems like only that first man and our waiter speak English," she commented.
"I thought you said you handled the paperwork, shouldn't you already know?"
"I am mightily offended! Mightily!" Medora said, taking a gulp of her wine to show just how mighty her offense was. "I was just informing you, all right?"
"All right, all right. No more snarky comments. But really, where is he from?" she muttered, more to herself.
"I know," Medora declared.
"You do?!" she asked, an uncanny resemblance of the two people before who had asked exactly the same thing. Had Meds suddenly gained a bout of clarity?
"Yes."
"Where?" Hermione asked exasperatedly, when her friend didn't elaborate.
"Questionable."
Medora even had the gall to add a sagely nod.