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New Yorkers, after the battle, woke up the next morning and got right to the job of cleaning up. People used to joke that if aliens landed in Central Park, city dwellers wouldn’t even blink, just keep talking on their phone. At the most they might post some pics on facebook and tweet their disgust at the traffic jam the spaceship caused. Then aliens came through a hole in the sky and the city collectively flipped their middle finger at the attempted invasion and got on with the business of life.
Oh, some things happened; stores went out of business, but then there was a revolving door for startups in the Big Apple. More scaffolding covered sidewalks and block access, but, hey, that was life in the city. Superheros moved into what used to be Stark Tower, but plenty of celebrities and famous people lived in New York, so it wasn’t really any different. What’s a quasi-god in comparison with Neil Patrick Harris or the Clintons? Nothing really changed in the end. People still complained about the subway and the taxis, ate at hotdog carts and bitched about the price of coffee, got run down by bike messengers and rolled their eyes at tourists.
Callahan’s bore the marks of the battle -- a long black singed spot on one end that needed to be sandblasted and repainted -- but inside the food was still good and the company entertaining. If anything, they were more like family than before. And those customers who made such a splash on the news? Well, they were welcomed with a nod and a cup of coffee and a friendly smile.
Nobody cares at Callahan’s if you can fly. They’re pretty immune to weird.
KAYLA PARK
First time Tony Stark came in after the battle, he brought a new guy with him. I was busy with the Delgado’s order which was up; they were the family that had stayed to help, and they’d shown up for a late afternoon ice cream treat because Andy has a friend who has a cousin who makes the most delicious homemade stuff in all kinds of interesting flavors. I mean weird, like jalapeno and black pepper. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. Anyway, Ally, the mom, had gotten the kumquat gold, Rick went for the maple bacon, and the kids had the mexican chocolate (which was to die for, honestly). So by the time I got to Stark’s table, the new guy had his menu out and Stark was lounging, his arm thrown across the back of the booth.
“Soooooooo,” he drawled. “Tell me what I want.”
“Tony?” the guy looked up, surprise in his dark brown eyes. Okay, he was cute. Messy brown curls, glasses perched on his nose, a wrinkled purple button down oxford, and khakis that hadn’t seen an iron in a while. Too old for me, damn it, but there was something sweet about his face. Like his inner kid wasn’t that far under the surface.
“It’s okay. Kayla here is batting a thousand; she’s great at picking out food to suit your mood. So hit me. What will it be today?”
Dipping into a mind is easy enough when they’re thinking about what they want, and Stark broadcast loudly on all frequencies. I didn’t even have to try at all. “Easy Lover Club. Rye bread stacked three high with serrano ham, chorizo, lomo enchumado, and manchego cheese with olive oil mayo and thin sliced fried eggplant. A side of sweet potato fries and a red velvet milkshake. It helps that you always order a burger or a sandwich when you come in.”
“Okay, okay. What about Bruce over there?” He laughed and I could see why people thought he was handsome. Not my type … I tended to go for bad boys -- but, yeah, I could see what Pepper saw in him. If Clint wasn’t in deep lust with Phil, I’d be on him like white on rice.
Strangest thing. I got a very strong impression of our salad special, the Separate Ways Oil & Vinegar Thai. But just as strong was a craving for the dinner portion of Andy’s Rock of Ages Bangers and Mash. Huh. This had never happened to me; it was like Bruce was of two minds on the subject. Well, best I could do was hit a happy medium.
“Start with a cup of Der Kommissar soup -- cabbage and vegetables in a savory broth with a hint of heat from red chilis. Then the Rock the Casbah burger -- 100% grass fed beef flavored with moroccan spices, topped with an olive tapenade and a side of tartouka slaw. Oh, and we have a lovely mint tea that would pair nicely.”
“Sounds perfect” Bruce answered with a quick look at Tony.
“And you’ll have dessert,” I continued, more sure of the answer. “A La Bamba Split -- vanilla, mexican chocolate and dulce de leche ice cream between caramelized plantains with peach cream, cinnamon sugar and churro crumbs.”
“Oh, wow. Yes. That’s a definite yes.” Bruce had the loveliest blue eyes.
“Told you,” Tony said, as smug as ever. “Wait until you taste the coffee. Best ever. No, the milkshakes are the best. Or maybe the pancakes.”
I left them there, Tony changing his mind and Bruce rolling his eyes. Roy was already getting their drinks ready as I put the order on the clip and spun it around to where Rena was putting up Joy’s sweet potato fries. On a roll today, Joy’s head was down over her table, keys of her laptop clacking away as she sipped her tea. New customers gave her strange looks, but we were all used to her writing away on her novel.
“Hey,” Rena said. “Tell Stark we’re getting a delivery from our organic farm tomorrow. We’ll have the Respect Yourself Ensalada as a special. Andy can have one boxed up and sent over for Pepper.”
“I heard that,” Stark called. “Put something in for Bruce and me and you’ve got a deal. Kayla can order for us.”
I shook my head. “Now I’m his event planner,” I groused. I wasn’t really upset; there were worse things than being on Tony Stark’s good side.
ROY EDWARDS
I didn’t set out to serve coffee all day. Honestly, I had a plan and everything when I left Bama and moved to the Big Apple. There was this girl -- Gloria -- and she was a real firecracker, full of energy, going to take on the world. Decided our senior year in high school that she was going to be the next Barbara Walters; sweet talked me into applying to NYU along with her. Tiny apartment, stars in her eye, going to be the next big thing, she had more than enough faith in the world to make me start to believe it. Lasted two glorious semesters of me in forensics before she hitched her wagon to the editor of the school newspaper and left me high and dry with rent payments too expensive for me to afford on my own.
Still, I’d discovered that I liked the city; big surprise for a country boy like me to find that I missed the little Greek place around the corner and the music scene when I went home for visits. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Bama boy, through and through. But New York had it hooks into me, and I’m still not ready to give it up.
So I got two jobs, went through a long string of terrible roommates (one guy hollowed out the toaster to stash drugs and another girl ‘redesigned’ my clothes. Just came home one day and they were all artfully slashed up with paint splatters). College, it turned out, wasn’t my cup of tea either; seems they didn’t really want my opinion on matters, just for me to parrot back what they said. Didn’t matter Daddy worked at the federal penitentiary and my brother was a State Trooper. Nope, the professor with fancy degrees and no experience knew better than they did.
At some point, and I honestly don’t remember when, I wandered down 4th Avenue and saw the help wanted sign in the window. I’d like to say it was fate, that the first time I blended Columbian beans with special spices Andy knew I was a perfect fit, but I started as a busboy and worked my way up to the counter. I’d been at the diner for eight months before I realized that the recipes my Mamaw taught me were more than just good coffee and that Andy didn’t think it was odd when people felt better after drinking them.
So here I was, not quite four years later, making a decent salary thanks to Andy’s policy of paying all of us above minimum wage (none of that wait staff can be paid next to nothing shit) and my tips. People can be pretty generous when their migraine is gone after a cup. I’d gotten to where I recognized what customers needed which was especially helpful when Clint slouched in during the afternoon lull around 2:30 looking like he’d been rode hard and put up wet. His clothes were wrinkled from being slept in, hair greasy and hanging in hanks around his forehead, shaggy and in need of a cut. The scraggly beard that adorned his chin hadn’t been trimmed; dirt smudged his cheek and his smell was anything but pleasant. All that was nothing compared to the darkness that haunted his red rimmed eyes, sunken into their sockets and surrounded by a web of deep wrinkles. He shuffled to a stool at the end of the counter, barely picking up his feet. The business man sitting closest side-eyed Clint who looked for the world like a homeless man. Once seated, Clint rested his hands on the counter and just stared at the grey formica top.
Kris glanced at me and Kayla shook her head at us both. She’d take care of food like always; I needed to get started. I pulled out my cache of Robusta and mixed it with Blue Jamaican. Nothing fancy on the spicing, just some steamed goat’s milk and a touch of lavender syrup. Going through the process of grinding and steeping the dark beans activated my gift; I’d grown strong enough to brew whole pots of my hangover remedy at a time.
When it was ready, I slid the white porcelain cup across the counter, leaving it between Clint’s half-clenched fists. I didn’t say a word, just went back to work on other orders. As I made a cup of hot chocolate for the fussy, tired toddler in the booth with his parents then a white caramel mocha latte stress relief for his mom and a pay attention double shot of espresso for the father, Clint sat and stared at the coffee, his only reaction a slight flare of nostrils at the rich scent. Halfway through a slow down red velvet shake for the harried secretary with her cell phone glued to her ear, Clint reached out and curled his fingers around the warmth of the cup. Two pours of headache brew for the tourists at the counter, and Clint managed to lift his drink and take the first sip.
We all knew what was upsetting Clint; Jasper had been in a few months after the battle. He’d brought a dark haired petite woman and an older man with greying hair, taking one of the larger booths. Then a downright scary pirate looking fellow joined them, tall and dark skinned with a long leather coat and a patch over one eye. A wake, they told us, for Phil Coulson, not with alcohol but with the best pancakes in the city. They sat and ate plates piled high with all kinds of pancakes and drank cup after cup of coffee, the whole while telling stories about donuts and bags of flour and paper clips and Captain America figures. Hit us all pretty hard; Phil had been a steady customer who fit Callahan’s perfectly with his dry sense of humor and nerd creds. Hell, we all knew he and Jasper worked for some alphabet agency and after the alien invasion we figured out it was SHIELD. Phil had been part of the family, so we mourned his loss; Andy evened named a dish in his honor … the God Bless America Tall Stack, buttermilk pancakes with strawberries, blueberries and white chocolate cream.
Kris nudged me and I saw that Clint had almost finished his cup while I’d been working. I changed the mix on the second one, more Blue Jamaican and less Robusto; I handed it off to Kris who switched the mugs, touching Clint’s fingers lightly as he did. Clint’s eyes flicked up as Kris jerked back and inhaled quickly; a rueful smile curled one edge of Clint’s mouth up.
“Not worth the effort,” Clint mumbled. “But thanks anyway.”
The second cup disappeared more quickly and some focus came back into Clint’s eyes. He sat up straighter and breathed in more easily the scents of the diner. Just as he took the last sip, Kris put a loaded plate in front of him. An omelet spilled over the edges, fluffy yellow eggs folded over diced asparagus, chanterelle mushrooms, crispy prosciutto, and asiago cheese. Andy’s omelets are things of beauty, real works of art. This one wasn’t on today’s menu; he’d used leftovers from yesterday’s Call Me stir fry. Piled high on the side were home fries, golden brown, with bravas sauce in a plastic cup.
“I didn’t …” Clint started, but Kayla cut him off.
“You need it. Eat up,” she told him in her no-nonsense voice. “And drink some juice.”
Clint snorted. “Yes, ma’am. And tell Andy he doesn’t need to make any calls. One of my babysitters will be here soon.”
We left him to eat. The man didn’t need people poking a fresh wound. Good enough to just be with others; sometimes a quiet meal is the best therapist. Besides, he was right; not five minutes later the door opened and Steve wandered in, trying to look all casual in his plaid shirt and khaki pants and failing miserably. Making a beeline to Clint, he slipped onto the stool next to him, his gaze on Clint’s food rather than his face. Steve liked a manchada, so I poured some steamed milk into a cup and added just a dash of stress relief coffee. He nodded his thanks when I sat it down.
“That looks good,” Steve said, swiping an extra fork from the bin behind the counter and taking a bite of Clint’s food.
“Get your own, Rogers,” Clint said, guarding his plate with his hand. “These are mine.”
“You going to eat all of that?” Steve joked, relief evident on his face at hearing Clint’s reply. “We’ll have to hit the gym this afternoon. I think Natasha got a couple hours blocked out.”
“Probably a good idea,” Clint agreed, savoring another forkful of potatoes. “After you have something to eat.”
“I can do that.” Steve picked up a menu. I could have told him that Kayla had already put in an order for the Panama muffaletta sandwich for him, but why spoil her moment? At least Clint was eating and talking; that was the important thing.
AMRITA RAY
Stepping back to give Antoine room to put on his jacket, I reached out a hand and held the door as it was about to hit the coat rack. Twisting, I caught the wallet that tumbled out of the businessman’s pocket as he entered.
“Excuse me sir, you dropped this.” I handed it over; he looked confused, patted his pants then sheepishly took the folded leather.
“Thanks,” he said, brushing on by leaving me holding the door as he maneuvered between full tables to a single stool at the bar.
“Take it easy, Tony,” Ms. Potts said, her hand splayed on the glass pane as Tony Stark hobbled in. Mr. Stark looked terrible, mottled bruises peeping from under his t-shirt’s collar and an ashen pallor on his face. His right arm was in a tight sling, held immobile across his chest. “The doctor said …”
“Screw the doctors. I want a burger.” Mr. Stark caught his toe on the door sill, and Ms. Potts steadied him.
“The corner booth’s open,” I told Ms. Potts. “Mal will get that cleaned right off.”
It was the busy lunch rush, and today was one of those days, the kind that proved Murphy’s law to be right. The deep fryer had broken down, Kayla’s son woke up with a fever and rash, and we ran out of jalapeno cornbread by noon. Half the precinct had decided to come in for Andy’s Heart Attack chili, and a sea of blue uniforms filled the counter stools.
Mr. Stark used his hand to steady himself as he wove through the tables, cloaking the moves with friendly gestures and pats on the cops as he passed. He eased into the booth, careful not to disturb his arm or brush his chest against the edge of the table. No one needed to ask what had happened; Mr. Stark’s death and return to life was covered extensively by the media, every outlet from CNN to Page Six. The challenge to the Mandarin and Ms. Potts’s kidnapping were still being rehashed on those talking head shows my father liked to watch. But this was the first we’d seen of Mr. Stark since then.
By the time I got back to their table, after delivering three more bowls of chili and a Cold Hearted Club sandwich, Ms. Potts’ perfect nails were tapping on the formica table top, her eyes snapping at Mr. Stark.
“Ah, there she is, Miss Johnny-on-the-Spot. Bring me your greasiest burger, Milady. With a cone of those salty parmesan fries and a chocolate milkshake,” Tony ordered, flashing me a saucy grin. I could have told him to save it -- he’s far too old for me and the opposite of my type -- but Mr. Stark liked to flirt and he was one of those harmless types who left you alone if you asked them to. Mostly, he made fun of my ability, using all sorts of different names for it, most of them only mildly funny.
“Oh no, Tony,” Ms. Potts said. “You’re on a strict diet. We had a deal; I bring you here, you eat healthy. What do you have that’s low fat and organic? More vegetables than meat?” She aimed that last question at me.
Too bad Kayla wasn’t here; she’d know immediately what to order. I could only suggest options. “There’s the We Got the Beat salad with quinoa, sundried tomatoes, grilled free range chicken, onions, and carrots all in a fresh beet juice dressing. The grilled chicken’s also in the Around Your Finger Wrap with diced daikon, a low fat tzatziki sauce, kalamata olives and brown rice. Comes with a fruit salad on the side.”
“Aw, Pep, no. Burger. Red meat with cheese and bacon. I need it.” Mr. Stark turned his pouting puppy dog eyes on Ms. Potts; his elbow swung out in the sling knocked his silverware bundle off the table. I caught it before it hit the floor, having just tucked my pen in my apron pocket, my hand right where it needed to be. “Okay. Tell me how you do that. Be in the right place at the right time?”
“It’s a mystery,” Roy said from behind the counter. A number of customers laughed; it was the standard answer we all gave when anyone asked about the odd occurrences in the diner.
“No seriously, you should come up to the lab and let me run some tests …” Mr. Stark began.
“The chicken wrap,” Ms. Potts said, cutting him off.
“Pepper,” Mr. Stark whined.
“And if you eat that and are good, maybe, just maybe, a chocolate milkshake to go.” Ms. Potts smiled at him then and I could tell that the gossip mags had it all wrong. That was the smile of a woman in love.
“Chicken wrap it is,” Mr. Stark agreed. “And then we talk about a visit to the Tower.”
I heard him start singing as I went to put in their orders. “Devil and the deep blue sea behind me, vanish in the air you’ll never find me ...”
Wrapped around her finger indeed.
RENA KENNITT
They say time flies when you’re having fun; well, it speeds by whether you are or not. I hate to say I was wallowing in self-pity but I’d just passed my 36th birthday and I couldn’t help but notice that I am single, working as a short order cook and sou chef, living in a tiny but nice apartment in NYC and nowhere near attaining the goals I’d set for myself when I was 22. I mean, I have a great life, don’t get me wrong -- good friends who make up for my asshole family, a curvy body and fast enough metabolism that I can still eat french fries on occasion, and a boss who cares about everyone who works for him -- but I just had these plans, ya’ know? Culinary school, maybe the Cordon Bleu, executive chef at an established restaurant and maybe, eventually, my own little place that specialized in Canadian cuisine. Yes, Canada is more than poutine and maple syrup. Fresh seafood, organic berries, a mix between French and English and Scottish; I have menus stored on my computer for all the courses.
Turns out, I’m not good at running a kitchen. Every job after graduation, I would work my way up to sou chef, sometimes associate or even night cook, but that was it. The day-to-day details just escaped me. Tell me to chop a hundred carrots or saute onions for a rue and I’m your woman. Just don’t ask me to order people around and shout at them really loudly. Until I started working with Andy Callahan, I thought those were required traits of a head chef.
“Your Never Surrender Stew is selling well,” Andy said, interrupting my train of thought. “The venison’s a big hit; I’ll see if we can get a steady supply for the fall menu.”
I admit I preened a bit at that; Andy’d let me add a few things to the daily specials and it was nice to know people enjoyed them. “Esposito’s is pretty reasonable,” I suggested. “Good people.”
“Hey, Andy, the lady at 5C wants to know if you sell the remoulade sauce by the jar,” Kris asked. “She says, and I quote, it’s better than sex with her husband.”
Wasn’t the first time someone had wondered if we sold Andy’s special mixtures; his curry BBQ sauce was the most often requested followed closely by his bravas seasoning. There’d even been one of those Food Network guys who got a hold of an order of Andy’s ribs and tried to recreate it when Andy wouldn’t sell the rights. Not only did the he never get it right, one of his crew said he refused to come back because of he was jealous. No big loss.
“As flattering as the comparison is, we’re running low because of the special. Tell her we’ll have it again on Saturday,” Andy replied, all diplomatic. I snorted a little as I started boxing up the order we were working on, a big one with six different entrees. Mostly burgers and sandwiches, there was a salad and an order of pancakes. I put each carefully into containers and added the sauces in plastic cups, popping on their lids before adding them to the big paper bag.
“Takeout for Charles Martin,” I told Kris as I lifted it up into the delivery window.
“That’s me,” the woman with the long brown hair at the counter said. She pulled the phone away from her ear and hit save on her laptop. Stickers decorated the lid of the computer; she closed it and stowed into an oversized messenger bag. She slid some twenties over, enough to cover the tab plus a healthy tip. “Keep the change and thanks. Smells great.” She jumped off the stool and went back to her conversation as she left. “Tell A.C. I’m on my way. Yeah, well, if you don’t, I just might eat your fries on the ride there.”
Kayla put four orders up, and I went back to my chopping block to start the home fries. Life could be much worse, I reminded myself as I took some purple potatoes out of the bin. At least I had this place. Not everyone was as lucky.