Alfred Jones had been lucky to find a job really, or at least one that didn't involve having to repeat the phrase, 'Would you like fries with that?' constantly. Not that he would have minded that but his friend, Toris, reminded him that Fast Food pay is cheap and College tuition is not.
Therefor, he had ended up here. where exactly was here again? Oh yeah the restaurant 'By The Bay'(quite literally named), owned exclusively by the town's Yacht Club. It was a place that anyone with social climbing ambitions would sue to get into.
So finding himself standing in the kitchen that would have put any and every burger place to shame, with it's shining silver stove tops and white marble counters, was a little exciting.
He beamed at his new surrounding work place wearing an expression of triumph for being hired nearly on the spot. Despite this he couldn't help but feel a tiny knot gnawing at his insides. He'd never been somewhere that seemed so, for utter lack of a better word, perfect. Inside and out of what he had been introduced to was spotless.
He was busy admiring the expensive looking deep blue wallpaper when something was shoved into his hands. Looking down he had been given what appeared to be his uniform by the head chef who had been showing him around.
"Do you want me to put it on?" He asked, thinking later that it had been a stupid question.
"but of course, Dinner starts in an hour and you certainly aren't going around looking like...that." The chef, who had a french accent, gestured at his blue jeans and sneakers then extravagantly pointed towards a room where he could change.
Twenty Minutes later he walked back into the kitchen feeling slightly uncomfortable in a white button up shirt under a neat black waiter's vest, black slacks and a tie. To top it all off, he had a black half apron tied around his waist. His sneakers remained, he had not been given any other shoes so he guessed they would do for now. No one would be looking at his feet anyway.
The first thing he noticed was that the kitchen was occupied by a number of people now. All focused on whatever task they had before them, only a few looked up when he came in.
He spotting the blond Frenchman, who was the only one he knew, giving out order's while stirring something in a big silver bowl. Alfred approached him with a grin on his face ready to do his best.
"Ah, you look much better." The chef said without looking up from his work. "Now, take one of the note pads by the dining room door and get out there. I'm sure taking order's won't be too hard for you, non?"
"Right! Hero on the job!" He said energetically, turning on his heels and heading through the double doors into the dining area. Pad and pen in hand.
What he didn't see was the head chef glancing after him, shaking his head with a small grin on his face as he watched Alfred go.
Taking order was indeed quite easy for the most part. He could flash that charming grin he was known for and people would feel at ease. Even when he was asked to recommend something he could glance down at the menu and retort with whatever item his eyes fell upon. He figured a place this fancy everything had to be tasty right?
Everything was going swimmingly. He was thinking that he could really get used to this, as he was bringing some empty dishes back into the kitchen when a loud shout punctuated his bubble of contentment.
"WHY IS MY BLOODY FLOOR DIRTY!" The shout was accented in a way that was very clearly British. It seemed odd to Alfred, who was still getting used to the head chef's French accent.
He looked at the source of the voice and saw a man facing away from him, bent over inspecting a smudge on the floor. Alfred was caught off guard by his eyes focusing immediately on the man's ass. Mentally face facepalming he forced himself to look away and turned towards his destination of the sink instead.
Distracted by his thoughts Alfred didn't realize that half the kitchen had paused at the voice before quickly returning to their work with double the concentration. Only the head chef had bothered himself to look up with a exasperated expression at the noisy person.
"eh, mon ami, technically it is OUR floor and..." the Frenchman was cut off.
"Francis, this is a respectable business we can't have dirty floors!" the British man snapped ignoring all other comments from the other as his eyes scanned the floor again, settling on a pair of sneakers attached to a teenager he had never seen before.
Alfred looked up just in time to see the man making a beeline for him. He flashed his signature smile, if he had been worried it didn't show.
"You there, you little twit. What gave you the idea you could wear such messy shoes in my restaurant!"
Alfred's grin was cemented to his face, he was at a loss for words and determined not to opening his mouth and blow his job by saying something wrong, because he didn't think a single thing he said would have been a good enough excuse for the steamed Brit.
He was saved by the head chef, Francis was his name apparently, who had seen what was about to occur and rushed after his fellow business partner to grasp him on the shoulders.
"Now, Arthur, I just hired him. It's his first day. He was not aware of your dress codes."
The Englishman named Arthur looked over his shoulder at Francis. "Oh, so this is your fault as usual is it?" He toke a long sigh and looked calmer now. He crossed his arms over his chest before looking back at Alfred as if inspecting him.
"Next time I expect you to have a decent pair of dress shoes, and comb your hair...and for queen's sake straighten your tie boy!"
Alfred grin warmed quite a bit as Arthur turn his attention away to some poor Spanish man who was minding his own business chopping tomatoes.
Later that evening when everyone was leaving, Alfred got stuck with a mop in hand making him one of the last people left in the building.