He ducked under the service bar and went into the kitchen, flicking on lights as he went. From my angle, I could see most of the kitchen, which gave me an opportunity to watch him while I worked on my second big ol’ glass of tasty scotch.
He turned on the grill, the kind with a flat metal top used in short order restaurants, turned on a deep fryer, pulled out a tray of hand-shaped burger patties and tossed four of them onto the grill, then opened a freezer and poured a few handfuls of French fries into the now-crackling deep fryer. He did all this with casual familiarity, moving with grace and ease around the kitchen. He set the handle-press thingy onto the patties to flatten them and make them cook faster, tossed two buns onto the grill to toast them, then set up two platters with tomatoes, onions, lettuce, and a side of mayo, all done expertly and neatly, with an eye for presentation. A few more minutes and the fries were done, so he lifted the basket out to drain, flipped the burgers, and then shook salt onto the fries, shaking the basket so the salt distributed evenly.
Next came a cardboard Miller High Life six-pack holder filled with silverware rolls, ketchup, mustard, vinegar, and A-1. There were no wasted motions, no idle moments spent just waiting for the food to cook. He laid a slice of cheddar on each burger, and then a slice of pepper-jack, and then slid his spatula beneath two patties at a time and set them in a top-down heater to melt the cheese, which only took a few seconds, then he laid two patties each on a bun bottom, set the top bun on them at an angle, and then shook half the fries onto one plate and half onto the other.
He shut off the grill and fryer, wiped down all the surfaces he’d used, and carried both plates in one hand and the condiments in the other, and even managed to shut off the kitchen lights with his elbow. He set one plate in front of me and the other next to me then, leaning over the bar from the customer side, poured us each a pint of some local amber beer.
Fifteen minutes after I’d said I was hungry, I’d finished my quadruple scotch and had a thick, juicy double cheeseburger in front of me, complete with still-steaming golden-brown fries and a pint of cold beer.
I liked this guy.
Just, you know…not too much.
And then, after a liberal slathering of mayo, I sank my teeth into the burger…
The man was a short order god, I tell you.
“Oh my god,” I said, still chewing, “this burger is fucking amazing. I’m sorry I called you an orc.”
He finished a bite of his own and grinned at me. “Hey, I’ve been called worse. Glad you like it.”
I’m not sure I even paused to breathe, after that. The burger was the most incredible thing I’d ever tasted, which may have partially been due to extreme hunger on top of being hung over and on my way toward getting re-buzzed. But it was also just a damn good cheeseburger. I knew I’d have to find a gym at some point to work off the calories, but right then I didn’t even remotely give a shit. Not even half a shit.
If I can’t indulge without guilt on what was supposed to be my wedding night, which had turned into the worst night of my life, then when can I?
When I finished the burger, I got busy on the fries and the beer, finally willing myself to slow down and take a breath. Embarrassingly, I noticed the gorgeous tatted-up bear-dude wasn’t even halfway through his burger, yet.
I stared at him, silently daring him to say something about my table manners.
He just popped a fry into his mouth and washed it down with beer. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. A chick who can dig into a cheeseburger like that is all right in my book. Plus, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you’re sporting a wicked hangover, and nothing cures that like good, greasy bar food.”
“I’m not sure if I’m still drunk, or drunk again,” I admitted. “Both, probably. And yeah, the food is doing wonders for my mother of all bitch hangover headaches.”
“Finish the beer and I’ll pour you another. No sense wavering between hung over or drunk, right?”
“As long as you know somewhere I can crash when I need to pass out, then keep pouring them.”
“Gotcha covered, angel,” he said, a sly look on his face.
I shot him a glare. “Angel?” Then the smirk on his lips registered, and I shot to my feet, knocking the stool over, and got in his handsome, rugged face. “Listen here, motherfucker, if you think you’re getting me out of this dress just ’cause you make a decent cheeseburger, you’d better think again. You do not want any of this, and it’s not on offer, so back the fuck off.”
He raised his hands and eyebrows. “Whoa, lady, chill. Not what I meant.” He tipped his head to one side, that smirk on his face again. “I mean, yeah, I ain’t gonna lie, I’d love to see you out of that dress. But it’s obvious that you’re drinking to forget, and I may be an asshole, but I’m not that asshole. There are a couple of hotels not too far from here. I can drop you off, if you want. ’Course, it’s tourist season, and even in this shitty weather, I’m guessing they’ll be mostly booked by this point. And I’ve been drinking, so driving may not be the best option.”