Scrambled
Sunday morning, and a fresh breeze from the river sent a shiver down Roderich’s spine. He should’ve worn a thicker scarf, or perhaps a different jacket. He refused to wear a knitted hat, no matter how much Elizaveta had insisted he’d look ‘cute’ in it. It would ruin his hair.
Despite all his internal moaning about the cold, however, it was quite a pleasant September morning and as he strolled along the street he felt quite content for once. Perhaps it was because he’d for the first time in a while had some alone time. Elizaveta was working late hours and often stayed at a friend’s place instead of coming home some nights since she worked across town. Roderich didn’t really mind. It gave him a break from the crazy charade that his life felt like it was becoming. Alone on the weekends, he could read a book, drink his wine, and occasionally play a tune on the piano or violin without worrying about keeping Elizaveta company. He could leave his dishes wherever he pleased around the apartment without bothering to hide them, and he could sleep long in the mornings without being woken by his early-bird of a fiancée. It’s not that he didn’t like being around her. It just all felt a bit… contrived.
In any case, they were meeting for breakfast this morning, at that very same Waffle House they’d been at a week ago. Elizaveta had sounded questioning when Roderich suggested it over the phone last night when she called to let him know she wouldn’t be home, but he insisted. He was a big believer in second chances, and hoped that the frustrating chef would see the error of his ways and prepare his eggs right this time.
As he got closer to the location he spotted her, waiting for him outside of the building, and she lit up and waved at him when he came into sight. He waved back meekly and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek when he was close enough, and so they went in together. The same waitress as last time approached after they had been seated, and she gave Roderich a peculiar smile. He told himself she probably didn’t remember them.
“Good morning, what can I get for you both today?”
“A regular omelet and coffee for me, please,” Elizaveta replied with only a quick glance at the menu, flashing the waitress a dazzling smile.
“Grilled chicken and fried eggs, please. With a runny yolk.” he hoped the extra clarification would serve to avoid a repeat of last time.
“Got it, I’ll bring your coffee out to you in a sec,” Laura replied, shoving her notebook into the pocket of her apron and disappearing behind into the kitchen. Roderich relaxed a little in his seat. No remarks, no funny faces. Perhaps he’d finally get to enjoy his breakfast.
“So how is work going? Have you found a replacement for that actress that dropped out?”
“No, and the understudy is beyond hopeless. Next time, I am definitely in charge of casting, this has been a disaster.” Elizaveta rubbed her eyes which had deep shadows underneath them, and drank the coffee once it was put in front of her as if it was water.
“Hm, sorry to hear that,” Roderich mumbled as he took a sip of his own coffee. It tasted like tar. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Well, no, unless you know of any young, up-and-coming, charismatic, actress who can also sing like a goddess,” Elizaveta shrugged, placing her hand over Roderich’s which was resting on the table. “Thanks, though.”
He gave her a half-hearted smile, which she returned, before they both went back to their coffee cups. They sat in a non entirely comfortable silence for a few minutes, before the waitress finally arrived with their meals. Roderich glanced at his plate as it was approaching. Finally, a fried egg. Oh, how he had longed for this moment. The plate was set down in front of him, and he picked up his utensils without realising something was off. It was only once he had begun to cut off a piece of his egg that it dawned on him. It was over-hard.
“I beg your pardon?” he hissed, to no one in particular, laying down his fork slowly, deliberately onto the plate. No need to make a scene.
“Soomething wrong?” the waitress asked carefully, dragging out the first word awkwardly. He looked up at her with the most polite face he could muster.
“May I speak with the chef please?”
“Eh, sure.” she hurried off to the kitchen, and Elizaveta buried her face in her hands. Roderich crossed his arms while he waited, giving his plate a dirty look. This had got to be just a misunderstanding. No way this chef was going to mess with him again. And for what exactly? So that they could laugh at him behind his back? Such low-lives. He really did not need this stress right now.
Soon enough, the grinning chef approached his table, arms confidently crossed, and just the sauntering tempo of his walk annoyed Roderich. Nevertheless, he kept himself composed. He was going to be the bigger man in this.
“What seems to be the issue?”
“Well, it appears you’ve made a mistake with my eggs, and I wanted to ask you personally to fix them.”
“Well, I am personally telling you that there ain’t nothing wrong with them,” the chef replied, his grin still beaming at Roderich. Roderich furrowed his brows defiantly and looked the chef square in his eyes.
“Yes, there absolutely is! I ordered them with a runny yolk, and there is nothing runny about this!” he had picked up his fork to gesture at the hard-fried egg at his plate.
“Well one man’s runny is another man’s hard-fried,” the chef shrugged and stretched his arms out behind him to lean onto a table. Roderich was momentarily distracted by how nice his arms looked in the t-shirt he was wearing, but quickly brought himself back on track by throwing his fork back onto his plate with a clatter and pointed his finger at the chef accusingly.
“Listen here, I am not interested in messing around! All I want is my eggs done right, so I suggest you get back into that kitchen, and do your job.”
The whole restaurant had gone quiet, and Elizaveta had slid so far down into her chair that you almost couldn’t see her anymore. The chef pushed himself off of the table he was leaning on and got close, a little too close to Roderich’s face, leaning on one hand on his table and the other on the back of his chair.
“As you wish,” he finally said in a low voice his eyes changed from amused to annoyed. Roderich, glaring back at him, found himself involuntarily leaning back in his chair, and when the chef stood up and left for the kitchen, he found himself letting out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. He straightened up in his chair, a little befuddled, yet still incredibly annoyed, and had to take a drink of water to steady himself. Before he knew it, the chef returned from the kitchen with a new plate, which, when placed in front of Roderich, just made him snap.
“This is not even close!” he yelled, and before he knew it, he had stood up from his chair, grabbed the egg, now fried into a holed-out piece of toast, and tossed it in the direction of the chef. It landed onto his chest, and stuck immediately to his white t-shirt. Roderich’s hand flew to his mouth, surprised at both the accuracy of his aim and the insanity of what he had just done. There was a moment’s silence as the chef peeled off the toast from his shirt, where it had left a round, yellow, stain. He stared at the stain, then at the egg-toast, then at Roderich, then the toast again, before narrowing his eyes at him and tossing the egg-toast back at him. Roderich tried to duck, but had never been good at determining distance or velocity in ball-sports, so the runny egg-toast bounced off the sleeve of his underarm. He let out a gasp when he saw the size of the egg-stain.
“Oh my god, do you have any idea what kind of jacket this is?!”
“O-M-G, I don’t care, you tossed first!” the chef replied, mockingly.
“All I wanted was my eggs done right!” Roderich bent down to pick up the toast again from the floor, and tossed it back at the chef. This time he too was hit on the arm as he tried to duck from it.
“Well, if you had bothered to look, this egg is actually runny!” the chef gestured at his t-shirt. “Just the way you like it, you brat!”
“Oh no, now that’s it!”
What ensued was a fight that can only be described as messy, weird, and awfully uncoordinated. Neither seemed to know what to do with their hands, so after the initial pushes, which Rodrich was sure he didn’t initiate, they just ended up rolling around on the floor, wrestling with absolutely zero grace or flexibility. In the end they were both just tousled, dirty, and angry. As they sat opposite each other on the floor, panting for air, Roderich inspected his jacket, which he suspected was ruined. He caught the gleaming red eyes of the chef, who had gotten back that annoying grin on his face as he grabbed the side of the table to pull himself off of the floor.
“Truce?” he suggested, a hand stretched out to help Roderich off of the floor. Ignoring it, Roderich stumbled to his feet on his own, looking defiantly back at the chef. Truce? How dare he?
“This is preposterous!”
Roderich gave one last glare, which he hoped looked more intimidating than he felt, before he stormed out toward the exit, not even remembering to pay the tab or to bring Elizaveta with him. He had never been this angry.