'Big' Pete
Enter into 'Big' Pete's adventures in a coffee house somewhere.
Cinnamon French Toast
"That's Roswell."
"Roswell?"
"That means 'unidentified' Sweetheart, cute aren't they. He doesn't know if it's yours or not, is what he's telling you in his own stupid little way." Debra explained to Stacey the new server.
"Stupid?!" ingenious if you ask me." 'Big' Pete retorted
"No, just stupid my friend, just stupid." Debra returned to 'Big' Pete.
'Big' Pete was the opening cook and Sunday wheelman. He was hazing the new girl just a dose, but he was professional about his job and wouldn't take it as far as some of the others were capable of.
"What are you looking for Stacey?" He asked.
"Um, Cinnamon French Toast."
"Alright, it'll be up in a minute or you can just put cinnamon on that one." 'Big' Pete told her, referring to the plain French toast Stacey had just asked about.
"But aren't they different?" She said.
"What's different?" 'Big' Pete asked sheepishly.
He knew what she meant. The cinnamon she had on the server station was dry like the stuff most people have in their own homes for toast. The cooks had Cinn-A-Flakes. They were quite different. They were small chips of cinnamon, and you wouldn't sprinkle them on regular toast. They were specifically for making French toast. 'Big' Pete knew that, but it wasn't a cook's style to go down easily.
"You workin' Sundays." He asked unexpectedly.
"Yaa; Why?"
"Well, it's just that we've spent a lot of time talkin' about the difference between you're cinnamon and my cinnamon. Come Sunday we won't have time to be discussin' cinnamon." 'Big' Pete said with a grin.
"Sugar, I'll just take your cinnamon, if you're Sellin' it." Stacey replied as if she'd been managing stereotypical truckers in her last job.
Smiling broad enough know to conceal his blush, 'Big' Pete responded as quickly as he could.
"Oh, I'm selling, I'm definitely selling." With a pause to think... he continued on, "It's expensive though." His innuendoes trailing off beyond his own understanding.
Adam the other cook on the line smirked at the twosome's volleys. It was followed by a brief period of awkward silence as Pete's quick hands were sprinkling the Cinn-A-Flakes into the second side of Stacey's French toast.
"It'll be up in a minute." He said. "Go ahead and bring the rest out to the table and when you come back it'll be ready."
"Alright. Thank you, Hun'" She said in her best Southern Bell.
"You're welcome."
Stacey trayed up table fifty-two's order less the Cinnamon French Toast, and was on her way.
Debra was back to the pass bar.
"'Big' Pete you giving Stacey a hard time"
"Just getting her in line."
"Yaa, I know your line. Hey is that plain French toast dead?"
"Yaa, you can eat it."
"Thanks."
"That's Roswell."
"Roswell?"
"That means 'unidentified' Sweetheart, cute aren't they. He doesn't know if it's yours or not, is what he's telling you in his own stupid little way." Debra explained to Stacey the new server.
"Stupid?!" ingenious if you ask me." 'Big' Pete retorted
"No, just stupid my friend, just stupid." Debra returned to 'Big' Pete.
'Big' Pete was the opening cook and Sunday wheelman. He was hazing the new girl just a dose, but he was professional about his job and wouldn't take it as far as some of the others were capable of.
"What are you looking for Stacey?" He asked.
"Um, Cinnamon French Toast."
"Alright, it'll be up in a minute or you can just put cinnamon on that one." 'Big' Pete told her, referring to the plain French toast Stacey had just asked about.
"But aren't they different?" She said.
"What's different?" 'Big' Pete asked sheepishly.
He knew what she meant. The cinnamon she had on the server station was dry like the stuff most people have in their own homes for toast. The cooks had Cinn-A-Flakes. They were quite different. They were small chips of cinnamon, and you wouldn't sprinkle them on regular toast. They were specifically for making French toast. 'Big' Pete knew that, but it wasn't a cook's style to go down easily.
"You workin' Sundays." He asked unexpectedly.
"Yaa; Why?"
"Well, it's just that we've spent a lot of time talkin' about the difference between you're cinnamon and my cinnamon. Come Sunday we won't have time to be discussin' cinnamon." 'Big' Pete said with a grin.
"Sugar, I'll just take your cinnamon, if you're Sellin' it." Stacey replied as if she'd been managing stereotypical truckers in her last job.
Smiling broad enough know to conceal his blush, 'Big' Pete responded as quickly as he could.
"Oh, I'm selling, I'm definitely selling." With a pause to think... he continued on, "It's expensive though." His innuendoes trailing off beyond his own understanding.
Adam the other cook on the line smirked at the twosome's volleys. It was followed by a brief period of awkward silence as Pete's quick hands were sprinkling the Cinn-A-Flakes into the second side of Stacey's French toast.
"It'll be up in a minute." He said. "Go ahead and bring the rest out to the table and when you come back it'll be ready."
"Alright. Thank you, Hun'" She said in her best Southern Bell.
"You're welcome."
Stacey trayed up table fifty-two's order less the Cinnamon French Toast, and was on her way.
Debra was back to the pass bar.
"'Big' Pete you giving Stacey a hard time"
"Just getting her in line."
"Yaa, I know your line. Hey is that plain French toast dead?"
"Yaa, you can eat it."
"Thanks."
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