And so here he is again, throwing up behind a Michelin-star restaurant at eleven o'clock at night, one hand on a dumpster to keep from falling over, bringing up very little but bile.
"Are you working the food truck by necessity, or by choice?"
"As opposed to...what?"
"Would you prefer a restaurant job, or are you happiest as your own head chef?"
He thinks about it.
"...I was a prep cook for a little while. But I'm kinda...bad...at hierarchy. And – even if I work my way up — somebody else is still directing, you know? I...like the art part. The weird experiments part. Where you get to point at something and say 'look, that was my idea'."
"So — I guess...I like being my own thing."
"I won't insult you with a job offer, then."
With that apparently settled, he returns to working on his creme brulee.
That's a way better result than he expected.
He tries not to point the grin directly at peach guy while he struggles to retrieve his professional face.
"You should get a better dairy supplier, though," Peach Guy adds. "Where did you buy this, Costco?"
(The word "Costco" has never been uttered with such disdain.)
“...maybe,” he says, unsure if this is something he should be ashamed of and getting halfway there just in case.
"Find somewhere better. It's crème brûlée, it should showcase the crème."
He's still eating it, though.
“My fruit person might know a guy.”
...slowly, a possibility begins to occur to him.
“Have you just been fucking with me?”
“Buying my loan? Offering me a job?”
"I'm not offering you a job, I told you that."
“Just the other thing, then.”
"Oh. No, I'm not fucking with you."
“...this is probably gonna take me a second to process. But, uh — thank you. Like — really — fuck, I don’t even know what to say about this, I’m just gonna ramble like an idiot...”
Mr. Peaches waves his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. It's in my own interest to have more places I can eat."
“...I’ve gotta open this thing soon, but, uh...what happens now?”
Shrug. "I'll let my money people know. I imagine you'll get a phone call, or a letter, or something. I don't handle that end of things myself."
“I should...give you a card or something?”
This is so weird.
He rifles through his pockets until he finds a rubber-banded bundle of business cards, one of which he offers to peach guy.
Peach Man accepts it gracefully.
"Excellent, thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, you have food to prep, and I have a hotel to find."
“—what’s your name, anyway? Pretty sure I didn’t ask.”
"Jean," says Mr. Peach, leaving open the possibility that his last name is in fact Peach, before disappearing into the night.