2013.08.31 - A couple of Relics

Although the dinner hour never really seems to end in New York, with people still looking for sustenance well into the night, it usually slows down at Anita Bella after eight. Since it's not a 'trendy' restaurant, the customer base tends toward regulars and the older crowd who like a quieter atmosphere and simple, good food. Still, word of mouth about the quality is getting out, especially after being one of the stands participating in the Stark Expo. There have been more new faces, old friends have been returning, but still, you can almost set your watch by the slowing of customers as night advances.

Fern is down to two tables in her section, and one of those is finishing up dessert and coffee, with their check already on the table. The usual hostess, Tiffany, is off tonight, and Anita is already back in the kitchen, readying things for tomorrow's bread baking, so Fern is keeping her eye on the door and her ear out for the bell as she wipes down an already clean table.

There's a nearly silent woosh somewhere off in an alleyway not far from Anita's.

A moment or two later, a mild-mannered man in a crumpled grey suit makes his way out from the space in between the two buildings, pausing only to push his glasses up farther upon his nose. Oh, those glasses. So thick they give him an owlish look below his messy black hair. His cover story is that he's coming from working late. That's only mostly true.

The door bells clang softly on each other announcing his presence. Clark Kent has heard about this place via Perry White and decided he'd give it a try before heading out again on more rounds.

SUPERMAN's work is never finished, of course.

"Table for one, please." His voice is weak compared to his large frame. Meek almost, and definitely awkward.

When she spotted the unmistakable shadow of someone reaching for the door, Fern immediately started folding her cloth, stuffing one end into her skirt pocket as she squeaks lightly toward the hostess stand. By the time the rumpled reporter comes in she's waiting, a warm smile on her face and a menu waiting in her hands. "Evening, sir, welcome. I've got the best table in the house for you, follow me." The man's demeanor brings out the mother hen in her almost immediately, despite that the man looks not only older than her, but well muscled enough to take care of himself. The little redhead leads the way to a table, setting the menu down and moving aside to he can sit. "Can I start you out with something to drink?"

"That'd be great," Clark says as he unbuttons his coat and slides into the seat. A hand brushes some of the hair from over the top of his glasses and he turns to smile at Fern. "That'd be great, ma'am. Do you serve chocolate milk?" It is Saturday night, of course. Time for Clark to live on the wild side.

The request only serves to widen Fern's smile, and she nods her head. "Indeed we do. Go for the large tonight?" While it's a tease, to be sure, it's friendly and light, said without harshness. "Tonight's special is the cheese ravioli in a meat sauce, and we also have a meat ravioli in a cream sauce. Both are delicious, but I personally think the cream sauce is a nice change-up." Her eyes stay fixed on Clark, almost studying him, as she speaks, and she only pauses a second before continuing. "If you don't mind me saying, you look awfully familiar, but I can't seem to recall from where. I don't believe I've waited on you before." She does have an aptitude for remembering, and makes a special effort to do so with 'her' patrons.

"Ravioli? I was planning on going with a meatloaf, but if you recommend the meat ravioli, I'll have to go with that." Clark's head shakes slowly at her as she inspects him. He smiles at her and shrugs his shoulders. "I guess I must just have one of those faces." No, no he doesn't. Certainly folks would remember those glasses anywhere. "No, this is my first time. My boss highly recommends this place so I thought I would give it a try after work here to see if he was right." He smiles sheepishly, unintentionally questioning how good the food is is probably not the most polite move, but it's clear it wasn't on purpose.

Hans enters from: Brooklyn.

There's a light frown, but a shrug lifts the corners back up into a smile. It'll occur to her, sooner or later, that she's seen his face in the pages of the Daily Planet. She doesn't subscribe to the paper, but she sometimes flips through copies that get left here. "I will certainly try not to disappoint," Fern promises, "Especially on a high recommendation. That would be a disservice to your thoughtful boss." She takes a step backwards, "I'll get your order in, and your chocolate milk, sir." There's a light squeak of her tennis shoes as she turns, and the little waitress in mustard yellow moves off, taking her pad out of her other pocket to quickly scribble the order down before she disappears into the kitchen. It's only a couple minutes before she's on her way back over, calling a goodnight to the couple leaving from another table as she moves. When she gets back to Clark's table, she lowers the tray she's carrying. A large glass of cold chocolate milk is set before him, along with a plate of warm rolls and butter. The silverware is already on the table, wrapped in a napkin, as is the bread plate. Sadly, there's no rosemary bread left, but the rolls are fresh and soft. "Here ya go," she says, but doesn't move away yet.

Who says print is dead? Clark isn't used to being recognized for his work, although his reputation has been growing over the past year or so. Indeed, the thought would never occur to him that he might be recognized for his writing and not for his, well, flying.

As Fern disappears back into the kitchen, Clark fiddles with his napkin and stares out the window. Something grabs his interest and, turning his back on the others in the diner, he slides his glasses down slightly. Though no one can see it, his eyes turn a faint whitish grey for a moment until he seems satisfied, and pushes his glasses back up upon his nose.

"Thank you," he says quietly as the glass is set before him. "Has it been a quiet night here?" he asks, making small talk.

Fern grins at Clark, "It was pretty busy earlier, but things tend to taper off around now. I like when it gets quiet again, and I can actually pass a few minutes with the folks that come in." There are only a couple other tables occupied, and one of the other waitresses has been making noises about cutting out early, which Fern doesn't mind. They cover for each other when the need arises, it'll all come out even in the end. There's no one at the hostess stand, so Fern keeps an ear out for the bell over the door to jangle.

Hans enters the establishment, seeming to be speaking German on the phone. <> He says before hanging up the phone before looking to the table with the man. "Excuse me, May I sit with you?" He asks the man calmly.

"Sure," Clark says, looking somewhat surprised. "Absolutely." He pulls his chocolate milk closer to himself in order to avoid encroaching on Hans' space. It just so happens that Clark speaks German, so he's able to decipher the man's words but they have little meaning to him.

She turned when the bell rang, but the man coming over and asking to sit with the reporter is a surprise to Fern as well. It only takes her a second, though, to place the new arrival, and cover the surprise with another smile. "Herr Gunsche, it's a pleasure to see you again. May I bring you something to drink?"

"Thank you." He says, the man having a thick german accent and he gives a sigh. "Ugh. My family has collected german artifacts since the revolutionary war and now, my people are having problems with getting the artifacts my family recovered during World War 2, specifically relics from the third reich. The war has been over for a long time." He says and when the woman asks him, he smiles, looking about and then to Clark. "How about what this gentleman asked for, been a while since I treated myself." He says as he offers a hand to Clark. "Hans Gunsche, my family descended from minor nobility and trying to bring some relics from home to put on display in one of the museums here."

Clark's hand comes up over the table to shake Hans', though his grip is weak and comes up just a bit short. "Relics from the Third Reich? I'd thought those were illegal to have in Germany and to export or import." Clark guesses he must be confused, he surmises. "I imagine shipping that sort of thing might be difficult." Clark realizes he's being somewhat rude, "My name is Clark Kent. My family descended from farmers." He chuckles a bit, before taking a drink of chocolate milk.

"Absolutely, sir," Fern says agreeably. She's turned and is walking away when Clark introduces himself. She stops, turns, and looks at the man a moment, her smile wide. That's where she's seen him. She doesn't say anything, he's got a companion now, but Fern is satisfied knowing the man is a reporter for a newspaper. After a second she's on her way again, veering toward the table that was recently emptied to pick up the check, then for a quick stop at another table to see how their meal is.

"Farmers are good people, they tend the land and help bring food to the nation. It is a good healthy way to live, infact I think a few people need the lessons learned being on a farm." Hans says with a firm shake of his hand. "Clark Kent, yes you write for the daily planet, I read a few of your articles." He says with a smile to the man and he sighs. "It is illegal to export or import them but my family has had them for a while now and I rather something good comes from them and help remind future generations of the cost it took to stop a monster." He says with a nod. "My father was a quartermaster for the third reich, so sometimes he would bring things home for us, hence how we got them. I spoke with a few museums about possibly adding them to their world war two exhibits and after dealing with so many laws and customs and procedures, makes one's head hurt." He says with a sigh.

Clark nods to Hans, "Yes, I've been writing for the Planet for about four years. I'm surprised you were able to place that? I'm not often pegged for more work." He sits back in his seat, "Your father was a member of the Third Reich? You hardly seem old enough..."

A light squeak of her shoes heralds Fern's return to the table, with more rolls and butter, a large chocolate milk for Hans, and a menu. She waits for a lull in their conversation, before informing Hans of the specials tonight (cheese ravioli with meat sauce, or meat ravioli with a cream sauce), again suggesting the latter as she had to Clark. "Mr. Kent decided to put his trust in me," she adds with a smile at the reporter.

"To be truthful all I do is read. Television is annoying, if I watch any television I put on some form of captioning so I know for a fact what is being said. As for my father, well I guess I am simply blessed with a boyish look, I can explain that. I am one of those gifted, I forget the word you americans use, you know those born with gifts in their blood? My gift is a sort of longevity, I simply age slower physically then most." Hans tries to explain to Clark.

Clark smiles, "The jury is still out, but I'm sure this young lady will ensure that our culinary experience is a fantastic one." Clark steals a glance at Fern's nametag, which is impossible to hide given his glasses. "Oh," Clark says to Hans with a knowing nod, immediately understanding him to be a mutant. "New York has a large mutant and meta population and folks seem very open minded, as opposed to more rural parts of our country."

The nametag insistently declares her name as FREN, despite that the young woman has asked for a new one several times. But she's stopped asking lately, finding the misspelling a good opportunity at times to start a conversation and make some connection with a customer. "I'll give you another minute to make your decision," she says to Hans with a warm smile, leaving a menu for him. The light *squeaksqueaksqueak* trails her into the kitchen.

"Is that why you came to the city from the farmlands? To be a reporter? I confess, in this modern world, many think working at a newspaper is a lost cause but truthfully, I think it is a noble calling. You bring to the attention things most would not know about." He says calmly with a sip of his chocolate milk.

Clark seems to get over the odd name, Fren, on the woman's nametag. Fern isn't a normal name either, of course. "I've always wanted to be a journalist and the Daily Planet was kind of a dream of mine from my time in high school. Learning to get used to the city has been an adjustment, but I go home a lot to visit family."

"That is good. Most who come to cities usually try to make their origin so little known. And of course, life in the city is quite an adjustment, so many people with so many different ideals and beliefs and even morals. I honestly cant say what it is I wish to be. For so long I have lived with some wealth, and a life of privilege, I never gave any thought to what I should aspire for. I would like to say what I aspire for is to train myself to be as strong as I can and as smart as I can be." He says with a nod./

Clark shakes his head, the reporter in him coming out. "So, with wealth, what is it you choose to do? Do you have an occupation? Why the move to America?"

Fern returns from the kitchen, busying herself for a moment delivering refills on soda to the lingering table, before she heads over to Clark and Hans. Again, she waits for a momentary lull, before asking Hans, "Have you decided what you would like yet, sir?" She's still perfectly pleasant, but there's a measure less warmth in her demeanor as her eyes linger on the German.

"I would like the meat ravioli with cream sauce." Hans says to the woman and then shakes his head to Clark. "I am afraid I do not have an occupation though I should probably do so. You see, I came over to America when I had heard that Captain America had come back. I hope to meet him. My father died before I was born and I hope that the man met my father so I know what he was like. I want to know if my father was like the other monsters, or if he was different. I like to think he was different, but I have no confirmed proof."

Clark gulps and nods. He too knows exactly what it's like to hope that a father you've never known is or was, in fact, a good person. Luckily for Clark, his biological father was indeed a good man. "I hope for your sake that he was different." Clark looks as though he's about to add something when his phone goes off. Clark frowns at the phone. Arthur Curry. This cannot be good. "I'm receiving a call I've been dreading. Unfortunately, I'm going to need to go." He takes some cash from his wallet and sets it upon the table to pa for the meal he's not going to be able to eat.

Fern nods to Hans' order, noting it in her head, and only just makes it a few steps before Clark has to excuse himself. She turns back, seeing him leave the money, and speaks up. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Kent," she assures him. "Since Mr. Gunsche placed the same order, nothing will go to waste, and he'll get his meal a little faster. Please do come back, though, we still have to impress you." There's a smile for the reporter, before she turns and goes on her way to see how the order is coming along.

"I hope your call goes well, Herr Kent. I wish you good fortune in your days." Hans says to Kent with a friendly smile. "I look forward to more of your work." Hans says before he nods to Fern when he hears her and chuckles.