Sam Merlotte (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shifting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2017-02-06 04:06 pm
shifting) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-02-06 04:06 pm
Pretend all the good things for you
WHO: Sam Merlotte, OPEN
WHERE: De Chima & other places
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHAT: February catch-all with open starters for his bar. Action or prose welcome!
WARNINGS: TBA
Morning
[given the recent whirlwind of blackout and bullshit (the least of which involved a guard dog role he got more grief than reward for, and the most a body to hide), Sam's downright ecstatic to lose himself in work for a few days. Even with the week's worth of lost revenue, Merlotte's is doing well. Word travels fast in De Chima, and at least for now the good food and imPort novelty has meant steady business.
Sam tends to reserve the mornings for interviews he may have scheduled, happy to chat with a potential hire in a booth or in his office, whichever they prefer. Each applicant gets a handshake, a grin, and the offer of a cup of coffee on the house. This early in the restaurant's life (and with a long memory for the high-turnover troubles at his place in Bon Temps), Sam hardly turns anyone away before he's had the chance to chat with them first. He's got his fingers crossed for more imPort hires in particular, but the ads he's placed online are careful not to mention that. He wouldn't want to look discriminatory.]
Afternoon
[De Chima's a place of businessmen and tech innovators, which means a swarm of quick customers for the lunch hour. So Sam already has both hands full when a weasel-eyed journalist for some sensational periodical strolls in to try and goad the shifter into an impromptu interview. Every time Sam crosses within earshot, here's this little asshole flashing a slick smile and the ugliest gator-skin loafers Sam's ever seen in his life, tossing out boisterous questions: How's Sam's love life? Anybody warming the sheets lately? The papers know he gets around. Guess he's giving the word 'dog' a new meaning, right? And hey, since he let the cat out of the bag - excuse the pun - on that shapeshifting thing, does he mind going into detail on that? Give the people a little taste? And is that a health concern, a guy who turns into animals working in a restaurant? Why hide it for so long in the first place? Or himself, for that matter? Good-looking guy hoping to run his own business, poster boy for a vineyard, and then that run for Ambassador even, and he's never reached out to a single media branch. Does Sam have any answer for people thinking that's kind've weird? You know, they say it's the quiet ones for a reason; they say they're the folks with something to hide. Those are the sorts of rumors people start, he wouldn't believe the shit that gets published these days, and if he'd just sit for a quick interview, they could jump in front of them...
Sam ignores the bastard until the exact moment he can't anymore. He whirls around in the middle of the restaurant to step into the other man's space, barely-leashed anger cording up his forearms and into the set of plaid-dressed shoulders.]
You want some words for your article? Huh? You really want some goddamn words from me?
[the journalist's unperturbed, shit-eating smirk suggests maybe that's exactly what he wants.]
Evening
[the closer the restaurant gets to closing time, the less hustle and bustle left to slog through. Tonight's seen mercifully smooth dinner service, guests coming and going in easy streams. Sam splits his time between his little back-office and the bar, mixing cocktails to get away from inventory orders and sales numbers.]
Get you somethin' cold? [is the little greeting he chooses for the next body to sidle up to a stool, offering a beverage napkin and a friendly smile.]
Or hot, if that's more to your tastes. No judgement. I mix a pretty damn good hot toddy.
WHERE: De Chima & other places
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHAT: February catch-all with open starters for his bar. Action or prose welcome!
WARNINGS: TBA
Morning
[given the recent whirlwind of blackout and bullshit (the least of which involved a guard dog role he got more grief than reward for, and the most a body to hide), Sam's downright ecstatic to lose himself in work for a few days. Even with the week's worth of lost revenue, Merlotte's is doing well. Word travels fast in De Chima, and at least for now the good food and imPort novelty has meant steady business.
Sam tends to reserve the mornings for interviews he may have scheduled, happy to chat with a potential hire in a booth or in his office, whichever they prefer. Each applicant gets a handshake, a grin, and the offer of a cup of coffee on the house. This early in the restaurant's life (and with a long memory for the high-turnover troubles at his place in Bon Temps), Sam hardly turns anyone away before he's had the chance to chat with them first. He's got his fingers crossed for more imPort hires in particular, but the ads he's placed online are careful not to mention that. He wouldn't want to look discriminatory.]
Afternoon
[De Chima's a place of businessmen and tech innovators, which means a swarm of quick customers for the lunch hour. So Sam already has both hands full when a weasel-eyed journalist for some sensational periodical strolls in to try and goad the shifter into an impromptu interview. Every time Sam crosses within earshot, here's this little asshole flashing a slick smile and the ugliest gator-skin loafers Sam's ever seen in his life, tossing out boisterous questions: How's Sam's love life? Anybody warming the sheets lately? The papers know he gets around. Guess he's giving the word 'dog' a new meaning, right? And hey, since he let the cat out of the bag - excuse the pun - on that shapeshifting thing, does he mind going into detail on that? Give the people a little taste? And is that a health concern, a guy who turns into animals working in a restaurant? Why hide it for so long in the first place? Or himself, for that matter? Good-looking guy hoping to run his own business, poster boy for a vineyard, and then that run for Ambassador even, and he's never reached out to a single media branch. Does Sam have any answer for people thinking that's kind've weird? You know, they say it's the quiet ones for a reason; they say they're the folks with something to hide. Those are the sorts of rumors people start, he wouldn't believe the shit that gets published these days, and if he'd just sit for a quick interview, they could jump in front of them...
Sam ignores the bastard until the exact moment he can't anymore. He whirls around in the middle of the restaurant to step into the other man's space, barely-leashed anger cording up his forearms and into the set of plaid-dressed shoulders.]
You want some words for your article? Huh? You really want some goddamn words from me?
[the journalist's unperturbed, shit-eating smirk suggests maybe that's exactly what he wants.]
Evening
[the closer the restaurant gets to closing time, the less hustle and bustle left to slog through. Tonight's seen mercifully smooth dinner service, guests coming and going in easy streams. Sam splits his time between his little back-office and the bar, mixing cocktails to get away from inventory orders and sales numbers.]
Get you somethin' cold? [is the little greeting he chooses for the next body to sidle up to a stool, offering a beverage napkin and a friendly smile.]
Or hot, if that's more to your tastes. No judgement. I mix a pretty damn good hot toddy.
no subject
[ Huh. He sits back in his seat, his intense discomfort with anything and everything romantic taking a backseat to his desire to make money. ]
How full are you expecting the place to be?
no subject
...Which is not somethin' the Merlotte's back home ever dealt with. [this is all definitely a huge leap in class for Sam.]
If you don't have other plans, you could always eat here that night. Hang out at the bar. There's bound to be some other singles you could mingle with.
no subject
[ He stares a moment, uncertain what Sam means - and then he realizes. The look that flashes across his face is one of genuine terror. Bone-deep terror. He ducks his head to hide that. ]
Uh...Better to give that seat to a paying customer. I think. Uh. Are we running a special? Something...expensive? We should run something expensive.
no subject
...I'm featurin' wine bottles and offerin' a special dessert. Did you have an idea past that?
no subject
[ He's recovering, swallowing against his dry mouth. He hopes that Sam didn't notice. He works up the courage to look up, and...yeah, Sam's staring at him like he's a total nutjob. He noticed.
Damn it all. ]
I saw that some places are doing fondue stuff. They're charging an arm and a leg to make people cook food themselves. That's, uh, pretty smart...But I don't know if we have the equipment for it here.
no subject
[personally he thinks fondue is a pain in the ass. But to be fair, it is an idea, and he had asked for one. It's also moving them from the topic of Mark And Girls, which was apparently a hidden, conversational landmine.]
I could look into pricin' them for the next holiday. Mother's Day, maybe. That's another big day for people to eat out on. [he taps his fingers on the bar, tilting his head.] I do appreciate gettin' ideas from you. You're always welcome to send 'em my way.
[a dangerous door to leave open, he might realize later.]
no subject
Really? Because I have a couple.
no subject
[Sam feels a distinct prickle of discomfort.]
Like what?
no subject
[ Mark frowns. ]
They could be better.
no subject
For now, he forces it down.]
Like how? They feel pretty classic to me. Down to earth.