Nov 29 14:50:41 107 PA - A Second Visit to Yakov's
From Chronicles
Nov 29 14:50:41 107 PA.
YAKOV'S DELI
There's a jingle heard below as a customer enters the deli.
It is a lazy mid week afternoon and the Deli has been winding down since the lunch rush. A cute as a button waitress is busing the tables as a few prep cooks are scrubbing and cleaning down everything. In the corner, sitting at a table is a shortish stocky bearded gentleman. He is casually thumbing through some sort of book as he eats a huge submarine sandwich.
The older man from a few days past walks into the deli, dressed in more military attire than last time. Not like he's going into battle, just not as casual. Gabriel seems to enjoy the aroma again, and though he notes the proprietor over in the corner, his first action is to step up to the counter. "Ya hotel by zakazat pozhalui'sta shchi." Perhaps he recalls that the owner is from Russia - though still mysteriously so. Whether or not the daytime cooks will understand his request? That remains to be seen.
Gabriel remains standing near the cooking area, politely waiting for the meal to be completed. "Pozhaluista, moi drug," still sounds funny in a Kentucky drawl. "I was rich at one point but I never stopped being a normal guy. I'll wait, thanks." He then stops to consider for a moment, then says, "Actually, do you by any chance have some whole milk laying around? I'm not in the mood for alcohol or soda right now. But if you all you have is water, that's fine." The older gentleman has a pleasant smile on his face, with something more behind it as well, but rather mysterious. Then, quietly to the nearest cook, he leans in and asks, "Is Mr. Rasputin not to be disturbed right now?"
The cook nearest is the youngest, and he is scrubbing away at the display case. He looks up, bumps his head and then shakes it, "Ouch." He says with no Russian accent, "Da, just say hello. He is just reading, he doesn't mind people bothering him. I'm sure he is just absorbed by his notebook." The other cook works on your meal, pulling out already prepared meat to make up the meal. Then the waitress, quickly walks over and pours your a tall glass of milk, and with a cute smile, "Where would you like to sit?"
Picking up the milk, the man does take just a quick moment to sniff at it. Every once in a while, you can get bad milk, and frankly, it tastes like shit. However, this glass is good, and has answers the waitress with a pleasant smile and, "Oh, if you can just had over the bowl, I can seat myself, bol'shoe spasibo. In fact, I think I'm going to wander over and see if I can't bother your boss." Gabriel finishes up his statement with a friendly wink. "Smells good, propustite devushku." He holds the milk in his right hand and takes a sip, just awaiting the final delivery of his soup.
The waitress nods and pours up a bowl, hands it to you with the glass. Then she goes back to cleaning. Rasputin doesn't seem to notice as he flips another page. Then he takes another bite, he seems fairly focused. Though, something does push out the chair opposite of him.
With a smile and thanks, the older adventurer pays for his meal with a small tip for the waitress and cooks - it's all that he can afford - and wanders slowly over to where the other man is seated. As he approaches and comes alongside the table, he asks, "Privet kak vy segodnya sudar. Mogu li ya prisoedinit'sya k vam?" Then probably unnecessarily summarizes, "Hello, sir. Do you mind if I join you?" Gabriel's soup is carefully balanced in his left hand, his glass in his right.
Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, da. Pleasink, be sittink." He smiles and flips another page, takes another bite, swallows, and says, "How are you doink?"
The man in the dark clothing slides easily into the chair opposite the short fellow - shockingly, a man even shorter than he. "I'm doing well, thanks. Lucky to be alive, actually. So... I guess that you could say that all in all, quite well." He sniffs at his soup and helps himself to a spoonful. "Vkus horoshii!" Gabriel exclaims upon tasting it. After a moment of savoring the food that he'd become used to over decades of happiness, he asks, "Not that it's any of my business but... doing the business ledger?"
Rasputin smiles as you eat your food then shakes his head question, "Net, net. Mink notes from mink various works. Study notes of a sorts, da."
The small deli is fairly empty. There is a waitress cleaning tables, two prep cooks working on cleaning and making some food. Then in the corner, two gentleman work sit sharing a meal. One has a large submarine sandwich, the other a bowl of soup.
Sip. Both milk and soup funnel themselves quickly down Gabriel's throat. "You make great stuff here, Rasputin." A sudden quizzical look crosses his face. "Before I invade your notes, is there any particular reason that you named your place 'Yakov's' Seems like it might have been 'Rasputin's'" He then sips at another spoon. "Very good, but not as good as my Natashka's." He smiles a warm, but rather sad smile.
Bernard steps into the Deli with a little jingle from the door and he makes his way across towards the Deli Counter, "Could I try one of your famous sandwiches?" he asks the deli worker on duty, his voice oddly accented, but his English is impeccable.
Again, the sous chef who is working on cleaning the display case slams his head against the top of it. "Ouch." He says and shakes his head, again, then looks to the new arrival, "Da, da. Would you like roast beef, ham, turkey, venison, or perhaps salami?"
In between sips of soup, Gabriel asks an even more invasive question than about details and notes. "Yest? Li u vas zhena? Maybe a nice young woman from a quiet village in Siberia?" Once again he notes to Rasputin, "Good soup."
"The one with the five meats. Whatever comes on that." Bernard replies to the sous chef. "If you've got what you need for it that is." He adds with a slight nod to the man, "And a glass of water as well."
The sous chef nods and smiles, "One Yakov with da works, right aways." He comes to town making a massive sandwich using all softs of fine, thinly cut meats. He says over his shoulder, "Would you like chips with that? Or crisps? Pickle?" He keeps working, "And we have water of course, but wouldn't a nice glass of tea go better?" He keeps working, trying not to mess up this huge sandwich.
Rasputin shrugs, "I am net knowink why, just he had to leave soonish. Perhaps dis was a woman, perhapsink net." He smiles and flips another page, as he eats some more sandwich.
Gabriel pauses at that. Just rather looks at the very short man across from him with a quirked eyebrow. Then, in that Kentucky drawl, "Uh... yeah." The sound of a man just letting something wrong slide and go away. The other man up at the counter is noted, certainly, but being a complete stranger, the older man doesn't do much to acknowledge him beyond a simple head-dip. His attention then returns to Rasputin. "If you don't mind me asking, what kind of notes, Rasputin? For the deli?" The awkward response to his question and complete dismissal of his question about naming it 'Yakov's' is just put away.
Bernard laughs, "Water's just fine. But I will take chips, and a pickle." He adds. "If you'll just bring it all out together, I'm going to go and find a seat." He says, giving a nod towards the Sous chef before he turns to go and find himself an empty seat in the near empty diner.
The sous chef continues making the sandwich. As the other sous chef works on some sort of kabab thing. He seems to be doing alright at it, but the short stocky figure keeps looking at him to make sure he is doing it correctly. The same figure says, "Da, da. Dis cookink notes on various receipies as well da magiks spells, and rituals." He chuckles, "All da samink think to me, da." He grins and takes another bite out of his sandwich.
The older man smiles again. A two-sided, one-sided conversation where nothing is flowing any direction. For a long while, he simply enjoys his hot soup, but then asks, "Magic? You make your own fire or something? Conjure meat out thin air?" Gabriel seems amused at the concept, as well as clearly not really even understanding what he's asking about.
Bernard decides, after a moment to take a seat up at the lunch counter, rather then one of the few booths, adjusting his cape a little as he settles down and begins to people watch.
The sous chef brings out a large glass of water, with an equally large sandwich to Bernard. It has chips (thought they look like thick cut french fries) and a pickle spear. He smiles and then goes back to his cleaning. The other sous chef brings over a large plate of meat on sticks to the table with the two gentleman.
Rasputin belly laughs, "Net net." another chuckle, "Dhen I am workink on a new receipie often times I think of a magikal formula. So mink scrible it down. Dhen I go back." He tugs his beard, "Or how are you sayink, versa visa? Da? Buttink, I have never beenk thinkink of combink both. Magik meat balls, dhich feed you after crushing you." He chuckles loudly, "Da? da?" He shakes his head and eats more sandwich.
"Fashion trends sure have changed," Gabriel points out, nudging his spoon in the direction of the man out the counter. "Only kings and other assholes like the Pope wore capes where I'm from." Gabriel then pays thorough attention to Rasputin's heavily broken English. Unfortunately, it isn't entirely clear to him. "So... like a normal magical formula that Natashka might have said, or a 'magical' formula like people around here do with their minds?" After another sip off of his spoon, "Meat balls. Like kotlety?"
Bernard's attention shifts over towards the two at their table, though he doesn't show any reaction to having heard Gabriel's comment, but he does shift his cape a little flipping it back off of his shoulder as he reaches for one of the chips on his plate, taking a bite from it.
Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, da. Dis magik." He reaches out his hand and whispers a few words and a small ball of fire appears. "Nowink, if I could be makink it a ball of meat, it would be a goodink joke, da?" He chuckles and waves the fire ball away, "You are mentionink Natashka, izvini please, buttink have you been mentionink her befores?"
"Spokoinoi nochi Rasputin, za pitanie spasibo." Gabriel empties his bowl and glass, and rises to his feet. "No need, Rasputin, yes, I've spoken of her before. If you're still interested I'll tell you all about her later. Even bore you with tales of my family. Or even my past. You want to hear new stories?" The older man raises his hands, palms up. "I have them in bushels. But I'm heading out. I just got back from some serious combat. Now I've eaten, and now, in the finest tradition of soldiers everywhere, I'm going to take this downtime to sleep before some motherfucker tries to kill me again." He offers just a short bow from the waist as he begins to walk away. Approaching and passing the other man, a simple, "Sir."
Bernard's hand finds another one of the chips on his plate and he brings it up to his mouth, taking a big bite from it. He gives Gabriel a slight nod of his head as he passes in return, though he doesn't offer any words. Instead his attention shifts back towards the big sandwich.
Rasputin nods and says after Gabriel begins to leave, "Da, da. I will be doink dhat." He chuckles and goes back to eating his sandwich. Every now and then he looks to the only other non-worker in here, but lets him eat in private. He just turns a page of his notebook, and goes back to his eating.
The man from ancient Kentucky calls back to everyone in the establishment, "Do svidaniya!" then disappears into the descending later-part of the afternoon, presumably to seek out his forest clearing to grab some much needed sleep.
