“Right, Boss,” we reply, and I give myself a final once-over. We walk out of the room and pass the kitchen when we hear a high, clear laugh.
“Damn, girl, that is some grade-A pussy tonight. Looking fine.”
If it had been from anyone else, I’d be in their face in a hot second. But this is from Devin James, Stella’s cook, culinary wizard, and good luck charm.
Or at least he claims that he’s a good luck charm, since he’s the ‘good luck fairy.’ His words, not mine. With green eyes and spiked dark hair, he’s a short little ball of energy who can outwork any two regular short-order cooks I know.
“You trying to get hit over the head with one of those pans?” I shoot back, coming into the kitchen.
Devin turns, his grin widening as he looks me up and down. “Oh, stop it, you know I was just playing. You look good. What’s the occasion?”
“The occasion is, I’m gonna whoop your ass for talking shit,” Tiffany chirps. “And you wish your ass looked this good.”
Devin snorts, smacking the ass of his pristine black work jeans. “Honey, do you smell what I’m cooking in this kitchen? It’s so good I have these chicken hawks begging for more. As for my ass . . . I could give you some lessons on how to work yours.”
Devin turns, dropping his ass and popping it left and right. He nearly smacks into the stove, making me laugh. “Don’t hurt yourself. Or burn the place down.”
Devin turns back around, grinning, but I hold up a hand. “I’d love to sit here and chat, but we need to hit the floor.” I punch my ID into the timeclock. “Heard it’s hot tonight.”
“You damn right. On that note, watch out for that broad Ms. Crabtree at table nine,” Devin warns. “She’s downing them tonight. She’s just staring at the drinks and then slamming ‘em down Viking-style.”
“I’ll keep a look out,” I promise Devin. Ms. Crabtree is flirting the line between being a heavy drinker and being a full-blown alcoholic since her husband passed. We all keep an eye on her, feeling sorry for her situation but not really able to do much about it besides listen when she gets weepy.
Heading through the double doors to the restaurant, I see that Stella was right. The place is packed.
It’s hard to really fit Stella’s into a simple category. The food’s too good to call it a bar, but we’re too much of a dance and hangout joint to call it a gastropub. It’s just Bane’s longest-running authentic night hangout, and the ambiance is just as unique as the rest of the place. There’s a lot of wood on the floor, but before anyone starts thinking it looks like a redone Hooters, Stella has some real country and rock shit going on the walls. There’s a guitar that’s signed by Johnny Cash, along with one of Prince’s feathered hats he wore for the When Doves Cry video. Both are in protective plexiglass cases so any rough-housing doesn’t damage them.
Overall, I’d call Stella’s one of a kind, and either you get it or you don’t. If you don’t . . . well, Stella’s got enough customers that she doesn’t really give a shit. She’s got bankers drinking right next to auto mechanics, and like the old show said, it’s where everybody knows your name.
“Thought you’d never get your ass out here,” growls Carl Wilson, Stella’s son and early-shift bartender. Tall and actually decent-looking when he cleans up and spends a little time grooming, Carl’s always been a fuckup, despite Stella’s repeated attempts to make something of the man.
The hardest part about dealing with Carl is that he’s about as useful as a bikini in Antarctica. He’s often an ass, thinking he knows a lot more than he actually does, which is why Stella has me work the taps anytime there are more than twenty people in the place. I roll my eyes at his commentary, not caring enough about his opinion to correct it.
Carl doesn’t notice, though, as he cracks his neck like some sort of pro-wrestler and starts cashing out the register. “You know, if I had to serve up one more fruity-ass girly drink, I was going to lose it. Who the fuck in this town wants appletinis?”
“People drink what they drink,” I reply, checking the mix station and fixing two mistakes without saying anything. “Our job’s to give ‘em what they want.”