THE ADVENTURES OF FRANK AND RYAN

6

"FRANCIS, THERE'S AN old woman at table three complaining that her tea is too hot," says Benji, as they pass each other by in Li Wei's Tea Parlor, each of them carrying trays of almond cookies and deep fried dumplings.

Francis stops in his tracks. "What."

"Her tea," says Benji, "is too hot."

"She ordered tea," Francis says, gaping at Benji. "She ordered hot jasmine tea."

Benji just shrugs, and in a way, Francis envies him his nonchalance. Maybe it comes with working at this place for three months. Maybe it comes with being Benji. Benji and his soft pudgy little body, Benji and his way of singlehandedly dismantling Asian stereotypes by being God-awful with numbers and academics and being so well-liked that even now, Francis can't bring himself to be angry at Benji's lack of concern.

"Listen," says Benji, leaning in, all conspirator-like. "This is what you do. You take the cup of tea. Keep it somewhere. Give it two minutes. You let it cool. And then you return it. Simple."

"Right," says Francis. "I think I'll just spit in it. Like every normal waiter. Instead of doing that."

"Please," says Benji, and he adjusts the tray to balance it on his fingertips like a fancy waiter. "At Li Wei's we take great care of our customers." He bows. "Even if they're senile old women."

"Alright. Fuck this. I'm going to deal with old lady. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," says Benji.

Francis does deal with the old woman. It turns out she ordered iced jasmine tea, despite Francis and three other customers who overheard her being completely and utterly sure that she did, in fact, order hot jasmine tea. But the old woman is resolute. Francis points at the receipt on her table. The old woman says that it is Francis's mistake. Francis sighs, relents—he needs the tip, and the day's gone long enough already—and brings the woman her iced jasmine tea, but not before spitting in it.

"Good job," Benji says, when Francis walks away from the table, muttering to himself. "You handled it better than I thought you would."

"I don't know how you manage to do this for three months. I think I'm going to quit," Francis says, morosely. "I hate working here."

"Grow a pair," says Benji. "We can declaim the vices of capitalism after you've served tables 12, 20 and 30. Chop-chop, Frankie." He makes a vague gesture. "Those tables aren't going to wait themselves."

Frankie waits those tables. Frankie takes their orders with a smile plastered across his face. Frankie sends those orders back to the kitchen. Frankie flits from table to table, taking orders and serving dishes and thoroughly despising every second of it.

It isn't until the lunch rush comes to a stop that Francis has a minute to breathe. There are few diners in, now, and the influx of customers has slowed down to a trickle.

And just when Francis thinks he's going to catch a break, Shani and David walk in.

"Hail and well met!" exclaims David, drawing some curious glances from customers.

"Christ," says Francis.

"Table for two please," says Shani, a smug grin playing at her lips.

"Christ," says Francis. "Right this way, you assholes."

When Shani and David are seated, and Francis hands them the menus, and for two whole solid minutes, Francis deludes himself into thinking that these two assholes are here just to be normal, just to eat, and not just to annoy the living shit out of Francis. Well, Shani won't be a problem. David, however, is a different case. Always something to say, always somewhere to be, always something to do. But for all of that activity, David still lounges and lazes around like a cat. He's as much of a nuisance as one, too.