"As fumes from the pots fill the kitchen, Serbia was checking something on her phone. "Damn, these French peasants really aren't kidding," she said to the obvious chaos presented in the news.
""Hey, Serbia, guess who just walked in?" her partner yelled from the bar.
She popped her head and was stunned to see a very angry France come in.
"Hey there, how have you been? Busy I see," she said as he stomped in and slammed his body into the chair. His serious frown made a surprising contrast to his usually cheerful expression.
"You can say that," he muttered.
"Yeah, these protests are crazy," Srpska included himself in the conversation. "Very different from your usual protests."
"But, of course. This is no regular protester, of which I am an expert in. this is important and should be treated that way," he declared, emphasizing it by his serious posture.
"Aha," the two mouthed confused and a little frightened. This was not the France they were used to. This one was scary.
"Now, give me a bottle of your best wine. And make it FRENCH!" the customer stated, banging his fist on the bar.
"Ye, yes, Sir," the bartender stuttered nervous and looked for a glass in a hurry.
"A sweatdrop fell over the cook's temple. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything," she tittered and hastily disappeared.
As the night progress, the place was filled more and more with French human comrades. They drank and sang, songs completely foreign to the Balkan tavern owners. Srpska stood by the bar, nervously still, with his lips twitching and his eyes soaking up what the tense atmosphere. Serbia came out of the kitchen with another large plate of fried onions.
"What's all this singing about onions. And why can't Austrians have any?" her partner asked.
She hushed him. "It has nothing to do with us. So don't get on his bad side," she said in a strict tone.
The bartender gulped and continues mixing something with great precision.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Oh, France asked me to make a cocktail for him. He was very specific on how to make it. Even gave me a list of instructions," he said.
Serbia glanced at the piece of paper near him and hummed. As he carefully sprinkled salt over the glass, she snatched it and started pouring various liquids willy-nilly.
"What the hell are you doing?" he shrieked in panic.
"Relax. This will make it better, I promise," she said calmly.
"Where's my drink?" France yelled, which was her cue to go into the back. The patron took a glance at the glass and then at the nervous tavern owner. Srpska tittered. France squinted but took the drink anyway. "Hmm, delicious. Tastes better than usual," he said, and went back to his comrades.
The rowdy bunch continued on until dawn. The two tavern owners were so fed up they hid away in the kitchen.
"It's almost closing time and they are not even close to settling down," Srpska noted irritated, as the singing and laughter was heard from the outside.
"Yeah, that France sure fooled me. Acting all flamboyant and harmless," the cook added hearing another glass being shattered.
"We got to do something. I'm done. I want to close down and go," he said.
"Alright, I'll figure something out," the cook explained. Pondering for a moment, an idea popped into her head.
"Is that a cabaret, down the street?" she yelled opening the tavern door. That got everyone's attention.
"Oh, look and the girls are getting ready!" she continued pointing.
Not even checking, the drunk gang honhoned their way out of the door as if in a swarm. Right with the last one leaving, the girl slammed the door and locked it tight.
"Phew," she puffed relieved.