(1937-09-08) You're Hired
Details for You're Hired
Summary: Veruca negotiates an arrangement with 'Chef' Carmichael.
Date: 09-08-1937
Location: Farin Braw Restaurant, Diagon Alley
Related: Related Logs: None.

Farin Braw Restaurant, Diagon Alley
Sat Sep 08, 1937

It is a summer night. The weather is cool and raining.

The Farin Braw Restaurant has every appearance of a pub that someone scooped up from a small Scottish village and plopped down in Diagon Alley. The entry door lets into a large room, crowded with wooden tables that are a bit scarred but are kept clean and well tended. Wooden chairs are surprisingly comfortable, because if you don't keep 'em in the seats, their money leaves with 'em. One wall is dominated by a long oak bar, polished to gleaming, lined with high stools for patrons who would prefer to be closer to the 'action'.

Carmichael stands behind the bar, stroking at his moustache as he glares down at a newspaper, "Damn it all! These goose-stepping bastards and their la-dee-da rallies. Think they'd stop flexing and come at us already!" He tears up the paper and throws it into a trash bin with an all-around grumpy demeanor.

Veruca cannot be called a 'regular' by any means, but this isn't her first foray into the Farin Braw. Work kept her busy late, and she noticed in passing that the place was open. Having not eaten since much earlier in the day, perhaps she can find something palatable here. Dark eyes glance around, spy an empty table, and she moves gracefully toward it.

Carmichael spies the woman walking into his establishment and twirls his moustache once more, scanning her up and down, "Well, hello there." He slides around the bar and approaches her table, using a rag to wipe his hands of any blood that might have gotten on them from his latest butchering, "What can I get ye, lass?"

Something of an uneasy glance goes around the restaurant/pub, although the woman's carriage and demeanor speak nothing of weakness. A nod greets the gentleman that approaches, "Good evening." Veruca's voice is low and melodious, the gaze that falls upon him direct. "What would you recommend?" She crosses her legs, smoothing her skirt down, looking up at Carmichael expectantly.

Carmichael presses his hands against the table and leans down, "What would I suggest? I'm the owner…I'd suggest the most expensive thing on the menu. What do /you/ want to eat, lass?" He raises an eyebrow to her and waits for an answer.

The dark gaze stays even, and Veruca just looks at him a moment, almost without expression. "Vodka. Neat." That'll do for a start, while she decides if it's worth adding length to her day with a meal. She reaches for a small, dark bag she had set on the table, withdrawing a cigarette and a book of matches.

Carmichael smirks and says, "Hrmm…a Russian drink. How disappointing." He stands up and walks over to the bar, picking up a glass and tipping a bottle of vodka into it until some of it splashes out onto the wooden surface. He carries the glass over and sets it down on the table, saying, "Might I suggest some borscht for your pinko palette?"

The lit match sets flame to the end of the cigarette for a brief moment, tempering down to a red glow as Veruca inhales. Dead now, the match is left on the table, and the witch appraises the pub keeper's bar tending skills. Not so 'neat'. His comment brings neither humor nor anger to her face as she slowly exhales through her nose, a light puff of smoke drifting around her. "Nyet."

Carmichael smirks at the woman and says, "Well, what'll it be?" He crosses his arms and looks down at her, appraising her. He pulls the chair out across from her and has a seat, his brow furrowed as he peers at her.

The wizard's Scottish brogue is easily identifiable, and may be reason for pause. It's not like Scots are known for their prowess in the kitchen, nor for their fine foods. Haggis? Dreadful. Something simple then. "Poached egg on toast." How wrong can that go?

Carmichael nods at her and stands up, "Right away, madame." The title is said with a bit of sarcasm. The Scot soon disappears into the kitchen through a curtain. Clattering can be heard through the cloth…as can loud cursing, but that's just Carmichael's M.O.

Veruca watches the man's retreat, eyes slightly narrowed. She draws on her cigarette slowly, gaze on the curtain through which Carmichael disappeared. Perhaps she was wrong about a poached egg on toast, if one were to go by the clattering and swearing that drifts out from the kitchen. Dismissing that for the moment, she looks around again, noting only a few other patrons. Perhaps he's already killed the others, she muses to herself.

Carmichael is gone for a few minutes, cooking away back in his kitchen. He's completely quiet when it comes time for preperation. Like an artist who's been stricken by the Muse. Afterwards, however, he turns back into the same old grump he always is. He slips back through the curtain with a plate in his hand and sets it down at Veruca's table, "Enjoy." With that he walks by another table and begins picking up some dishes.

Veruca's reply is automatic, "Thank you." She looks down at the plate and is rather surprised by what she sees. Not only does the egg look perfectly poached, but there's a sauce that smells delicious. The cigarette is pinched out and laid aside before Veruca takes up the fork from the place setting, and uses the edge to carve off a corner. The bite is as much of a surprise as the smell, the egg all but melting on her tongue and the delicate hint of a fine wine accenting the flavour of the sauce. Her brows raise slightly, registering her typically subdued surprise.

Carmichael grumbles as he carries some things back into the kitchen for sorting out. He returns and walks over to another patron's table, snatching an un-torn-up newspaper from him and giving him a glare as the man tries to contest. He leans back against the bar and finally gets past the first page of the news this time. Though, he does peek over the top of it to look at Veruca, a smirk on his lips as she takes her first bite.

The one bite alone reminds Veruca in no uncertain terms just how empty her stomach is, and she settles her attention on the small meal. She eats ravenously, yet with utmost delicacy and manners. It's a matter of minutes before she's finished and a smile actually flirts with her lips as she looks at the last smear of sauce on the plate. The thought of licking the last taste from the plate is what brought the smile. Or, more precisely, the thought of licking that last delicious morsel from the chest of her last muggle conquest. Bringing up the napkin to dab at her lips, she internally chastises herself for her momentary wandering. But, pleasures of the senses can mingle in delightful ways at times.

Carmichael peeks over the top of his paper at the woman and says, "You'd be wise to not eat so fast next time. The rationers only come around once a week." He smirks and flips the paper out a few times before turning the page. "Did you enjoy it, then?"

A man is not the only creature who's heart can be reached through their stomach. Well, not so much Veruca's heart, as much as that little place inside of her that relaxes every now and then. A bit, anyway. Stiff and formal is her own M.O., after all. "I will keep that in mind," she rejoinders easily, not entirely as cold as previously. "It was delicious." There is nothing to tell of her surprise of this fact in her voice.

Carmichael smirks and folds the newspaper up, tucking it beneath his arm. The mans moves over to have a seat at her table, "Well, that's a relief. My heart was a-twitter with anticipation."

The half cigarette is already in Veruca's hand as she levelly watches Carmichael seat himself again, uninvited, at her table. "I'm sure it was," she says mildly. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and stares across at the man. "You don't have a house elf back there doing your cooking, hm?" she asks with an arch of one brow. She waits, not yet reaching for her matches.

Carmichael raises an eyebrow to her and twists his moustache, "I'm afraid not. It's just me. Cooking, cleaning, bartending. Don't need anyone else." He leans back and crosses his arms, looking quite happy with himself.

Veruca nods thoughtfully, taking up the matches and flaring one to light her smoke. A flick of her hand sees it out, smoke trailing upward from the blackened head. "I would like to offer a business proposition, for your consideration. Mister….?" She looks at him expectantly, head tilting ever so slightly to the right.

Carmichael keeps his eyebrow right where it is and says, "I'm usually only interested in one type of proposition…but this intriques me. Go on." He leans in, studying her as she talks.

There is another pause as Veruca gently drags on the cigarette, and she studies the somewhat hawkish looking man across from her. As she speaks, smoke puffs gently from her lips, "I have need, at times, of a competent chef for private events." The smoke is expelled in a final breath out. "Perhaps once a month. Never for less than four, at times as many as fifty. Sound interesting enough to go on?" Negotiation comes easily to her, and there's no falter as she gives the information thus far.

Carmichael leans back and ponders, twirling his moustache thouroughly, "Hrmmmmm." It's only a moment before he gets down to brass tacks and says, "What's the pay look like?" He looks up at her, with dollar signs essentialy appearing in his eyes.

Veruca seems to not even need to think about this. "Menu price per person, plus twenty percent for your time." She holds the cigarette near her lips, the smoke creating a light haze in the air between them.

Carmichael raises an eyebrow and says, "It would seem that we have a deal, Miss…" He leans back into his chair and awaits an answer from her with crossed arms.

Not quite finished with the cigarette, Veruca never-the-less deftly flicks it away, into the air toward another table. The smoking butt disappears with a barely audible pop. The beauty of smoking a wizard brand over a muggle brand. No filthy butts to deal with. She takes up her purse once more, producing a small card and snapping it onto the table in front of Carmichael. Veruca Max, Macnair Manufacturing and a street address. "Of course," she supplies easily, "This deal will be contingent on the success of the first event. You will be given ample notice, and will have the menu no less than five days in advance." She will also have the business researched as much as she is able.

Carmichael isn't an easy man to research, but a girl's allowed to try. He picks up the card and tucks it into his vest pocket. He stands up and nods to her, "Fair enough." He picks up the plate and tosses it into the air, some magic guidance joining in and helping it make its way to the kitchen. He steps behind the bar and holds his hand up towards the door, "Now. Get out. I'm closing."

Veruca stands, in response to the order but without reaction to it. Some coins are placed soundlessly onto the table and she steps away. More than enough to cover her simple fare, perhaps more as a good faith gesture. He doesn't have to be pleasant. He just has to be good. Her heels click as she crosses to the door and lets herself out to the street beyond.

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