Description: When you haven't eaten all day thanks to a particularly bad day at work, there are fewer places better to go than the Genhanten... and yet there are fewer great chefs than the enigmatic old man, Gen. Though the two lead different lifestyles and come from different backgrounds, there is at least one thing they find common ground on.
The Southtown iteration of Gen's restaurant, the Genhanten, has only been open for a short time. Once ownership of the place was secured, it had been remodeled to his satisfaction, and secured in the other sense... well. It started to develop quite the reputation. Everyone who works in the restaurant has -some- measure of kung-fu training, whether from Gen or one of his other apprentices. It makes the cooking quite a show, to say the least, and the one fellow who tried to rob it the week it opened.. well. Poor man.
Tonight, the dinner crowd has come and gone, and night draws on in Chinatown. Still, the place is open late, more or less till someone feels like closing it. Tonight, it's Gen himself working wok and bbq at the central, well-appointed and visible prep station. The restaurant's cuisine varies from a number of asian choices- the more local Japanese sushi and a number of vegetarian or fish dishes, Sezchuan and Cantonese fare, as well as a few selections that would be equally at home in Thailand. (Spicy He Fun with thai basil and chicken, for instance). Right now, an order of lo mein is swirled and swept across the well-oiled bbq, various ingredients flying through the air to be added to it as a young couple watches. An egg whips up, tossed behind Gen's back and over his shoulder and cracked perfectly with a quick motion of his hand, yolk and white falling into the dish, while the shell lands, both sides spinning on still-intact edges.
There are a handful of fairly late-night visitors - Pacific teachers - to the Genhanten having themselves an extremely late dinner after a particularly grueling meeting with some overly rich parents expressing unhappiness about their child's time and education in Southtown. It sucks when you're one of the few people to draw the short straw in /dealing/ with them, missing two whole meals in the process. It sucks even more when you are the respective student's homeroom teacher, as is the case of one Howard Rust.
He's still picking away at some exotic dish or another that requires chopsticks, something he has no shortage of difficulty with given the little problems he has with his right hand. The others around him are significantly better off with their own food. The food tastes great, sure! But maybe he'd have been better off getting like three whole sub sandwiches at the local Subway's or some such instead.
He looks up from his dish when Gen starts putting on a little show with an order. Pointing his co-workers over in that direction, there's a bit of applause across the group for the great show.
Southtown's teachers are a curious lot, to Gen. Not unlike his own staff, though some of them don't seem to have a lick of potential in them to begin with. Still, the number who practically scream 'kung-fu practitioner' to the elder assassin is high enough, especially given the location... and some of their students. Still, the small flock of Pacific employees look mostly boring. Worn down, apathetic after a long day. Yaaaawn. Then there's Rust, fiddling with his chopsticks. Gen's dark eyes - not currently their empowered, blank white - take in the rest of the restaurant fairly regularly even as he works, veggies sizzling on the grill before being joined by noodles and sauce, along with ample spices. Once he's served up the couple at the counter's to-go order, a swift wax-on, wax-off clears off the hot bbq, which now hisses at the moisture as it's wiped clean.
Bowing politely for the applause, Gen exits the station smoothly, the diminutive little Chinese man hardly looking particularly imposing at a glance. It's in how he carries himself, how he moves, that his prowess is even mentioned, whatever muscle the elderly man may have hidden beneath baggy purple-and-white martial arts robes. He approaches Rust's table, and seemingly from nowhere, produces a shiny fork, setting it down without a word next to the shop teacher, "Everything is alright, yes? Anything else? Some sake, pork buns perhaps?" White brows waggle, the unusual propreitor considering the new patrons. "I don't think I've seen you in here before. I am Gen, welcome to my establishment."
'From nowhere' is exactly right in so far as the shop teacher's perception is concerned, lifting his head up with a start at the sudden appearance of a nearby fork. It may instead be more of a small wonder he even noticed its presence there, turning his head at the check-in with the whole group.
"I am fine. Thank you." So answers a particularly obese man with a completely unreal moustache.
"Sake, please." Raises the hand of a very young-looking man, probably a new arrival to the staff who can't wait to drink away the events of the day.
"I, uh... huh." The one with the bad combover (and, dare one say, an actual name worth remembering in the grand scheme of things) considers the fork for a bit, bowing his head briefly. "Thanks."
Introductions come around the table. Guess who gets stuck having to do the majority of the narration about their time here as the others are digging into their food and drink? That's right, that dumpy forty-year-old man who can't seem to properly handle chopsticks.
"Thanks, Gen. 's... good to be here." He says as he faces his food, now entirely at his mercy with a fork in hand! ...Once he's not talking. He holds the fork with a certain amount of anticipation. "Hadn't... hadn't eaten all day. Rough day at work... ah, we're teachers over at, at Pacific."
The moustached man almost rolls his eyes at the use of the word 'we' when used by one Howard Rust, something he doesn't pick up on which is probably for the good of all involved.
It's all about having the right tools for the job. Difficult to fix a leaky pipe without a wrench, difficult to eat a plate of food without a usable utensil. At least, in polite company. Rather than fetching the order himself, Gen claps his hands once, drawing the attention of a young looking Japanese man working behind the bar. A quick motion from the white haired chef draws the fellow over quickly with a small carafe of the rice liquor, and a small ceramic cup in which to enjoy it. Gen and the server share a brief bow, and as the elder assassin turns to face the table once more, a hand strokes absentmindedly through his long, stark white beard.
Unlike Rust, Gen does notice the initial displeasure from his compatriot, but doesn't comment on it or otherwise draw attention, either. "No food all day, hmph." Gen shakes his head, "Certainly a problem we can fix. Pacific, hmm? Don't know many from there, but I suspect they're as bothersome to deal with as most youths. Hard to teach these kids a sense of responsibility and self." The sympathetic, dour note is offset with a quiet little chuckle. "I ah, teach martial arts, as well. Not quite as bothersome in some ways as forcing the young to understand academics, but..." The shadow boss shrugs slightly, dismissive of the problem. It's their lot in life, after all.
The youngest of the lot bows his head and gives thanks for this rice liquor. This rice liquor is the best thing that will happen to them tonight, for whatever good it may be to get piss drunk anywhere in Southtown.
"...No kiddin'," the one with the especially bad hair continues, his fatigue occasionally making his gravelly voice a bit hard to hear or understand in some cases. He nods along at mention about teaching. "'s hard stuff, yeah, I teach shop. Woodworking... sometimes, just a bit of electronics... stuff like that. It's not a, a focus subject, but. Most of 'em, they aren't used to the idea of... of doing anything with their own hands, y'know? I got some good ones... 'scuse me a sec."
He clears his throat by patting his chest with his left hand closed into a tight fist, elbow popping at the sudden movement. He pats it a little harder than most people generally would to themselves. To some it may even appear as self-injury. "Sorry," he apologizes, voice a bit more clear, "throat just... gets dry a lot."
"And even those who -do- want to learn, and -are- used to hard work, often don't have the first idea of the meaning of what they're learning to do!" Gen appends, clearly concurring with Rust's concerns. Though whether they're still talking about shop class is anyone's guess. But hey - good sake does have the tendency to ease a difficult day, even if only until the next. That, and being able to eat one's food. Gen looks from Rust's injured hand, to the efforts to clear his throat, the elder assassin's own head canting to the head slightly, apparently curious at the gesture, or perhaps not quite sold by the explanation. "Problems abound as age increases." Gen sagely observes, even if he himself seems to be doing rather well. "Not related to your injury, I hope?" The hand. A nod indicates it.
Of course, it's fairly poor business for the proprietor to stand out on the floor interfering with one group's dinner for too long, so Gen does offer, "I suppose I should let the lot of you enjoy your meals, however. If we can do anything else... just let me know. The bar will be open late tonight, if anyone cares to stick around past the late dinner."
"Injury? Uh... oh. This?" The shop teacher holds up his right hand, occasionally flexing a few fingers. It's currently gloved - as his hands usually are as part of the typical fighter leans towards bizarre costumes befitting their personalities - but this was a fact that was publicized following his short run in the Neo League. "Yeah, got that... back when this town got run over." It's not pleasant to think about, getting mobbed by a NESTS squadron and damn near losing his right hand getting it ripped open by Igniz's chain whip and then trying to hold molten metal with, effectively, a bare hand.
To say nothing of the events that followed shortly after involving mysterious help and what said mysterious help wanted out of him... and everything in between.
When Gen does mention it might be good to get back to enjoying his meal, he looks down at it... yeah, if he doesn't hurry up and eat this thing it's gonna get cold.
"Sure, sure. Thanks." Rust says as he decides to begin enjoying the newfound freedom this acquired fork grants him! His stomach craves it. This craving is to be answered. His two compatriots more or less continue along with their own food and drink without saying much of anything else. They're dying of hunger over there too! These three men did not have the finest of days.
"Ah. Nasty business, that." Gen nods, sympathetically. "I was in China at the time. Pity what happened, though. Always is, when the strong try to prey on the weaker, and everyone gets caught in the crossfire. Such feuds should be between warriors, not soldiers and civilians." The timeless audacity of it brings a deep frown to the aged assassin's features, "But yes, yes. Eat and drink to better times, and easier days. Welcome to Genhanten." A polite inclination of his head, and Gen turns away.
Not far off, he begins to more harshly instruct the fellow sizzling spare ribs behind the bar in Chinese, "No, no, it's just like flipping an opponent, feel the momentum, the flow of what's already in motion..." apparently, if the resulting guided motions are any indication, he's teaching the fellow to toss things up and catch them in a pan.
The food is great. The drink, looking at that younger guy there, is even greater! The trio are mostly going about their food and drink until the lecturing reaches at least one of their ears.
"It sounds some new hires are not catching on." Says the gentlemen with the moustache. "Why, that reminds me of when you somehow got hired."
"Somehow?" Rust asks with a tone of offense - if maybe a little blunted only from weathering that sort of dialogue and treatment from the more well-to-do sorts at Pacific.
"Ohhh, yeah, I heard about the time you got in a fight at that... that dance club or something, the Duck Pond, right?" The young teacher lets slip. Maybe the alcohol is already loosening his lips. "Heard they almost sacked you for that--"
"Don't... don't even remind me." Rust grouses as he has himself another bite of his food.
"The front yard's gotten unruly! Why, that's a sure lack of diligence right there. Weren't you supposed to mow i--"
A fork is pointed in the gentleman's direction from the ex-construction worker. "Am I... am I on the god damn payroll as a groundskeeper? Just, just answer me. Am I? That job contract I filled... y'know, I had to renew it some days back, says... says shit all 'bout that."
"Hey. Hey. Howard. Whoa. Howard." The young guy lifts up his hands. "I hear you're into fighting and all but... c'mon, don't take it out on us. Let's just eat, drink... drink some more, yeah?"
Always got to have the last word, don't they, just like those kids. Not wanting to chance his job over some sort of altercation with his own co-workers, Rust continues to eat in mild irritation. But the food's still great.
He raises a hand to the nearest server to get himself some sake, not feeling especially up to sharing the bottle the younger cohort has.
Log created on 22:11:21 10/20/2010 by Rust, and last modified on 05:16:41 10/21/2010.