Wrecking A French Restaurant Guys
I like going to work.
It was an excuse to put on nice makeup and smile at a variety of people that went in and out of the restaurant. That was always the most fun part, the smiling. It made people a little uncomfortable sometimes but I just couldn't help but be happy when someone broke the top and took the first bite of their chocolate soufflé and for a moment, knew what life truly was. The fact that their eyes dimmed as they went back to the boring conversation they were a part of was something that made me sad.
My sadness didn't last long though, when the entirety of the restaurant went hush and I looked up to find Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, and Steve Rodgers waiting for a table. No one was acting. Without really thinking about it, I took over the hostess's job and looked down at her list. There was no reservation for Stark, but he operated under the assumption that he didn't need to have one. Luckily, there was an open table, perfect for seating four.
"Right this way, sir." I gestured.
Bruce stiffened, looking at me like he had never seen me before, even stopping and running into Natasha. The woman turned, about to ask a question but before anything else could occur, he composed himself and kept walking.
We laid out the menus and wine lists for them, and I rattled off the specials in my brand new stuffy broadcast voice. I could've sworn I saw Bruce snort. Natasha slid closer to him and whispered something in his ear. That was a new development to work with. Maybe I would have to adjust my shipping preferences a little. It was fun to watch him as he tensed and blushed to whatever she was saying.
By the end of the night, I figured it would be a miracle if I kept my job.
"Hey, hey lady—tell me how much of this fine—fine, lovely wine can—we uhm—" Tony Stark appeared to be very drunk, but I remained stoic (well as stoic as a person constantly smiling could be) and for the rest to come tumbling out, "This wine—you've got there—" He accidentally pulled on the cloth, causing a few plates and bowls to tumble and crash. I deftly sidestepped the grapefruit sorbet palate cleanser and it's miraculously intact crystal bowl.
"The chef would love to send a few bottles home with you." I smiled, clasping his menu, "So is this altogether?"
Steve was looking at Tony with absolute disdain. Behind them, Natasha was fixated on Bruce, and Bruce was fixated on the smashed remains of his pot du crème. He stared at it like a small, disappointed child and I knew that I may not be a superhero, and I may not be a genius (we could argue that one at a later point), but I had to act. I ran back into the kitchen.
"I need two bottles of the white shit—" The sommelier just glares at me and I shake my head, "Fine, the Dom Pérignon shit." He sighed dramatically and pulled out two bottles. "Great, thanks!"
I looked up, "Hey Teddy, if you love me you'll give me that one."
"It's dessert for table—"
"Don't care. Give it to me." He seemed to obey my mystic geass powers and I ended up with two bottles (with happy little bows) under my arms and a plate in my other hand. I put the champagne in the trusted hands of Captain America and ran around the table to present Bruce with a chocolate soufflé. Both he and Natasha looked up at me like a savior. Even as a very drunk Tony wrecked the place, and Steve trying to keep things other control (therefore making everything worse), Bruce and Natasha sat in the corner eating a chocolate soufflé.
It's a small thing, but it's an enormous victory in my tiny eyes. The light from the first bite didn't leave Bruce's eyes.
At least now I know why he likes the color red best.