|2046-09-25 Thai'd Up|
|Location||Wild Ginger Thai - Lower East Side|
|Summary||Sunday means Thai. It also means waiting to get that Thai for Vega and Alistair.|
| White tablecloths and straight-backed black leather chairs might make Wild Ginger feel upscale, if they weren't paired with accent walls in blinding orange and waitstaff in dressed-down casual. It strikes a balance that seems to be pleasing to just about everyone. The restaurant is often busy, packed with tourists taking advantage of the nearby browsable shops and locals craving the best green curry for blocks. The place is filled with the sounds of bustling patrons and shouts from the kitchen over the latest C-pop tunes, and the air smells pleasantly of the sharp spice of its namesake.|
| It is a fall evening. The weather is warm and raining.|
Fall has been creeping into New York, and at its heels--rain. Lots of rain, still warmish, but pattering at the pavement. The Wild Ginger is packed, late on Sunday, full of tourists seeking both shelter from the rain and spicy food.
Alistair has just blown in from the rain, clad in a long trench coat drizzled with rain, and appears to be negotiating with the hostess for a table. Apparently he is capable of some degree of charm when he tries, but to little avail at the moment.
The door blows open behind Alistair sending a chill creeping into the warmth of the restaurant as Vega enters. Her grey hoodie is freckled with drops of rain that cling to the light leather jacket over it, dark boots faring well in the gathering puddings and damp streets. The print on her white t-shirt can just be seen through the unzipped from of her jacket, obscurely reading 'DTFZ' in a stacked block of letters. Pulling down her hood to reveal her pink pontytail, she flashes the greeter a smile and mouth's 'Takeout.'
"Probably a wise choice," notes Alistair, voice dry, as he steps aside. Apparently he can read lips.
Glancing over at Alaistair, Vega offers the host her last name so they can collect her order when it's ready. "It's under Zhang." Then she turns towards him with an arch of a brow, moving out of the way and dropping into a chair left for those waiting to be seated. "I know better than to try to get a table here on a weekend."
"Ah," says Alistair, voice mild, moving back to lean against the wall. "Local knowledge. I simply analysed the traffic, studied the crowds, and came to the conclusion this was the only restaurant in the Lower East Side serving edible food."
"That seems a little harsh of a judgement on the local restaurant," Vega counters, casually stretching out her legs with her feet hooked at the ankles. "It is the best Thai in the area though. Did you finish your casual surveillance before or after the rain started?"
"Believe it or not," notes Alistair, "accent notwithstanding, I spent most of my teens in New York. I clearly recall my mother's opinion on most of the restaurants outside one very small clearly defined area." He arches an eyebrow. "Most of it. My notes, however, are somewhat sadly lacking."
Brows lifting mildly, Vega inclines her head to glance up at him. "And you still remember that?" There is a hint of soft amusement in her voice although the exact reason for it isn't verbalized.
Alistair thrusts his hands into the pocket of his coat and considers Vega for a moment, that one stubborn eyebrow still quirked. "I am only moderately ancient," he informs her, voice still dry. Although, let's be honest, Alistair's voice is generally dry by default.
That hint of amusement works its way into her dark eyes, glinting as she looks up at him from beneath the pink fringe of her bangs and the dark edges of her lashes. "That does explain the lack of a plaque," Vega offers just as dryly.
Alistair glances down to her, watching her face, that one eyebrow only raising a further fraction of an inch. "The plaque has been ordered and is on hold for some truly notable anniversary," he tells her (dryly). "In the meantime, most of my parts are original and still in working order."
"Congratulations on your upcoming notability then," Vega offers easily, breath blowing her bangs back from her face. Snorting a laugh, she leans her head back against the wall. "More than I can say there." She strums a hand against her thigh, scanning the room and people passing the door.
"Granted," says Alistair easily, "neither have I been upgraded." He leans his ruddy head against the wall, but keeps an eye on her. "I'll have to invite you to the unveiling of the plaque. Possibly there will be refreshments."
"My acceptance of that invitation depends /entirely/ on where you plan to hang the plaque," Vega says dryly. He can /hear/ the arched brow that isn't visible beneath her bangs. Almost entirely.
Alistair's mouth twists a little, as if holding back a smile. "Oh? Do you have any particular preferences, then? I feel as if I should take input into consideration, for the sake of not having to drink all the wine myself."
Vega's answer is terribly helpful. "Just get embroidered into the back of a jacket. It'll serve as a warning and save us all from embarrassing situations. Maybe a tie pin?"
Alistair tilts his head to one side, considering Vega for a moment. "And what, exactly, do you think should be embroidered in the back of my jacket to serve as a warning to others? What is it that other people need to be warned about?"
"Historical monument." Vega supplies after a moment, tipping her head back enough to look up at Alistair. "They generally have warning signs on them. I feel like if you require a plaque, it comes with the usual caveats. I suppose it could always say something like 'ask me about a topical subject' as well."
"Most of the ones I have seen, I admit," says Alistair, with a little shrug, "say something to the effect of 'Climb at your own risk.'"
Shaking her head with a slight quirk of her lips, Vega reaches up to untie her hair so the closure doesn't press against the wall while she waits. "A decent enough warning." In many scenarios.
"Quite possibly," replies Alistair. He continues to watch Vega, face largely impassive. "At least the risk of falling masonry is minimal."
"Mhmm." The sound is agreeable if non-committal. For several moments, Vega just watches the atmosphere of the restaurant before checking something on her eyes. A ring of pink envelopes her iris, but it only has her attention of a moment. "Do I have something on my face?"
Alistair looks away, toward the bustle in the kitchen. "Only your hair," he says mildly. "And I am quite certain you are aware of that."
Flicking a lock of said hair over her shoulder, Vega glances over at him. "My hair hasn't changed since the last time you saw me," she points out. "You keep watching me like a hawk. I'm not certain what you're looking to find..." Her words trail off as her order is called, causing her to rise from her seat.
"I apologize if I have unsettled you," Alistair says, voice still mild. He glances back to the wall. "Enjoy your meal.""I don't think you could unsettle me if you tried," Vega says mildly, flashing him a quick smile. "Enjoy yours when you manage it." Bag slung over her arm, she ties her hair up in a quick tail and slips out the door.