Knight rode slowly through downtown center, passing slowly by restaurants, cafe’s and hotels. He put in a couple of applications for a cook, but most of them took one look at him, long hair, built like a small Peterbuilt, and wearing biker leathers, and said they’d call him. Even O’Reilly’s, the franchised “Irish pub” didn’t take him.
He wondered what they expected. He knew he looked more like a bouncer than a cook. He had no papers to show that he could cook, no prior experience other than tailgating with the SCA and the gourmet meals at home. Depressed, he stopped at a small Irish pub named O’Keefe’s, near the City Hall.
Inside was lit by amber light from the yellow tint of the windows, hi lighting the dark woods of the bar. A few people were gathered at one end of the bar, and Knight sat one seat away from them. The dark-haired bartender stopped his conversation and said, “What’ll it be, laddie?”
“Guinness.”
“Good choice.” The bartender poured him one of the dark ales from the tap and handed it to him.
“And a whiskey.”
“Rough day?”
“Y’ could say tha’.”
The man pulled down a top shelf whiskey named Bushmill and poured him a shot. Knight drank it down fast, and set the glass back down. The bartender went to refill it, but Knight shook his head, “No, I’m riding.”
“What’s yer trouble, laddie? Girl trouble?”
Knight chuckled a bit, “Tha’, an’ I’m lookin’ f’r a job, an’ nobody wants t’ gimme a chance.”
“A job doin’ what?”
“Short order cook.”
Said a guy on the end of the table, “You don’t look the type.”
Knight sighed, “I know. I dunno wha’ the type is.”
The bartender watched Knight for a minute, then said, “How’s abou’ this: If you can make an Irish dish like my dear ol’ ma, I’ll hire you tomorrow.”
“Are you the owner?” Knight asked.
“Paulie O’Keefe, at your service.”
“Knight,” he said, stretching his hand across the bar and shaking Paulie’s. “And it’s a deal.”