2020-08-28 - Bartending Lessons

It's early on Friday night at Two if By Sea. The partying, drinking crowd won't be in for a few hours yet, and the wait staff takes care of the food orders for those who select TiBS as a dining spot. That means it's a good time to learn a bit about mixing drinks from a most dubious sort of teacher. Vic is behind the bar, with her apron around her waist, a bar towel slung over one shoulder, and her hair back in a braid to keep it out of the drinks. Normally that last bit isn't something she gives a hot damn about, but she'll need to sample her student's attempts at mixology so for the moment, it's important to her.

She's in jeans, a white tank top, and an unbuttoned blue chambray workshirt as she begins setting out the tools of the trade on a section of the bartop. Different types of glasses, cocktail shakers, strainers, various jiggers, bottle opener, muddler, corkscrew, pourer bottle toppers, and even a fancy citrus wedge squeezer so he doesn't have to use his hands to deliver juice.

She looks to Ravn with her cool blue eyes and gives him a faint smile. "You ready for this?"

"No?" The blue-grey eyes of her student sparkle with amusement. It's no surprise to anyone that Ravn's turned up for work yet again wearing black from top to toe -- though at least it's a t-shirt and not a turtleneck. Still no print, no jewellery besides the wristwatch. Most boring Steve Jobs clone on the planet, and now he's not even wearing the hot pink or sunshine yellow rubber gloves that comes with the privilege of cleaning tables; replaced by his regular black kidskin ditto, Ravn looks disappointingly respectable. "Only one way to learn, right? Do I get extra points for patrons who are rushed off to the ER?"

At least he's good-natured about his own lacking abilities.

Vic snorts at the Danish man and rolls her eyes to the ceiling, as if asking for patience. "Yes, I'm a terrible bartender. But I'm a special case for working here. Everyone else needs to actually do this shit right." She beckons Ravn to move down to the section with a whole pile of different glasses.

"All right. Today's lesson, grasshopper, shall begin with barware. Most people don't know a snifter from their asshole, but a good bartender knows what drinks get served in what types of barware. Over here we have what TiBS uses for beer. They don't get too fancy, so it's just pint glasses and wheat glasses. The easiest way to remember which to use is, if the beer has a big old head of foam, then it needs more room at the top for it, so you would use the wheat glass." She picks up the glass which is narrower on the bottom half, then opens up into a bit of a bowl shape.

"Otherwise, it goes in the pint glass, along with the dark stuff like stouts. Make sense?" The pint glass is the standard glass that tapers very gently towards the bottom. "Once in a while we'll use good old mugs or tankards for special events, like Oktoberfest or something."

"Oh good lord, please don't tell me even Americans celebrate Oktoberfest." Ravn winces; some customs need to bloody well stay in Bavaria. Or at least not turn into the absolutely drunken mass orgy of pretzels and draft beer and casual puking on street corners that Danish cities promote to German tourists because come to another country and see how your own culture works, indeed.

Oddly enough, the Dane does seem to know a brandy snifter from his own backside. "So how picky are we on wine glasses? Are we at 'if it's got a bulb it can be used for wine', or do we differentiate between red house, white house, red import, white import, bubbly, rose, and please just leave the damn Chianti bottle on the table and go away? I've been partial to the latter every now and then."

"This is America. It's a goddamned melting pot of cultures, provided those cultures give people an excuse to drink a lot of beer," Vic quips with a smirk.

"They aren't too picky on the wine glasses. You know a red glass from a white one, and you'll be fine. I mean we do have champagne flutes but we don't use then much except on special occasions and then they'll probably be plastic because it'll be New Years Eve and no one wants a lot of breakable glass in the hands of uber drunk people." She sets the glasses they've already discussed back into their spots under the bar. "Are you versed in cocktail glasses then?" she asks, since he knows the wine ones.

Ravn shakes his head. "Not in the slightest. This is why I told Bennie I don't know my way around a bar. I've been subjected to many a wine tasting but I've always pretty much steered clear of mixed drinks. Not sure I trust something that colourful, and I've got this silly prejudice that if you need to sugar up your alcohol to make it taste like a lollipop, maybe you should stay with the lollipops. Don't know about here, but back home, selling alcohol soda to a teen audience is very much a thing. So's teens ending up in the ER after chugging down eight in an hour."

"Ok then," Vic murmurs as she moves to the next section. "The cone shaped cocktail glass is for most cocktails that are primarily booze with very little non-booze mixers in it, and no ice. Looks a lot like a martini glass, but smaller." She holds up the pair for comparison. "Cocktail gets stuff like Cosmos, Kamikazes, Manhattans, Lemon Drops. If it has Martini in the name, it goes in the bigger one." She sets those aside.

"Highball and Lowball glasses. The highball is for drinks that have a lot of non-booze mixer in them, and are on ice. Mojitos, Tom Collins, Screwdrivers, etc. Lowball is for straight booze type stuff on or off ice, and drinks that you have to muddle the ingredients, like an Old Fashioned or a White Russian." She gestures down the bar to the door. "If the Acting Chief of Police comes in, he gets one of the lowballs with tequila, no ice." She waves towards the corner stool at the bar itself. "Joe Cavanaugh sitting at the end of the bar, either a Cuba Libre in a highball, or a whiskey straight up in a lowball. The one exception to the 'not a lot of mixers' rule is the oft consumed and rarely a good idea Long Island Iced Tea."

"I did recognise a few of those names," Ravn murmurs. "Screwdriver and White Russian, primarily. My fiancee used to have a thing for Margharitas. Who's the Acting Chief of Police, and am I expected to recognise him?" The realisation dawns upon him, in all its terror -- the idea that a man can walk into a bar and say 'the usual' is a thing outside of Hollywood movies. Whelp. No problem. 18,000 people in Grey Harbor. About three quarters of them of legal drinking age. Shouldn't be a problem, memorising their favourite drinks, not at all. A few of them are probably too posh for the Twofer, he reassures himself.

Vic chuckles. "Javier de la Vega is tough to miss. Surly middle-aged Mexican with an assload of tattoos. He dresses like he hasn't bought clothes in a decade to blend in, which he never does. He'll Spanish at you often, but only when he is saying something he really means." She moves on to the last two glasses. "Plus he'll be the one glaring daggers at me from afar. We used to work together a long time ago."

"Brandy snifters will come out about as often as Mount St. Helens erupts, but like the name says, they're for Brandy. Daquiri slash margarita glasses are only used when we have them on offer, typically for events. Easton didn't seem to give a flying fuck about any other specialty glasses except I think I may have seen a couple of those Irish Coffee ones in a dusty corner. Any questions?"

"Lucky me. The only Spanish I know is dos cuervos. Saw him around a few times. Also, I thought he was no longer acting chief." Ravn leans against the counter and nods. "Please. Please tell me we have a book somewhere, or a list detailing what goes into these drinks. Because if we don't, it's going to go something like -- Ravn goes home, Ravn looks it all up on Wikipedia, Ravn comes back to work, Ravn gives everyone food poisoning and probably causes a number of shoot-outs when people blame each other for the horrific messes they end up drinking. Although knowing this town I just might get away with it because it'll be so terrible that everyone blames the bloody Veil and not me."

Vic chuckles and she reaches under the bar to pull up a book, which she slides over to him. "What do you think they do when most of the tenders can't be here? This is the bartender's bible. You can get a copy in most stores and online. And they even make pocket sized ones so you can keep one in your apron to look stuff up."

"Oh thank the powers that be. Then there's hope yet for humanity's continued survival." Ravn flips through a few pages, satisfying himself that there is an index and indeed, the corresponding recipe pages actually detail all the ingredients -- no 'just add tequila to a whatever' nonsense here that requires you to go back through eight other recipes until you have some kind of idea what you're doing. "How do we feel about admitting to having to look it up? I've been to places where confessing to not knowing every single wine in the modern history of man would mean an immediate pink slip. I think I can pretty much guarantee that even if I sleep with a copy of this under my pillow, I'm still going to have to look up ingredients every so often."

"I think we can manage to print out a Bartender-In-Training nametag for you. People don't like it? They can ask for another bartender. Everyone has to learn somewhere, right?" Vic notes with a faint smile and a glint in her eyes that seems to say if they ask for another tender and she's there? They're getting the wrong drink, fuckers. Don't be mean to her trainee. She gestures at the rest of the equipment. She plucks up one of the pourers. "These go on the well bottles. This is the well down here," she notes the 'speed rail' where the most basic brands of basic liquors are kept, vodka, whiskey, gin, rum, tequila, bourbon, triple sec, and vermouth. "If someone doesn't specify a brand, this is what they get. If they're buying a 'well drink' which is what a lot of specials are, this is what they get."

She gestures to the other bottles behind the bar on shelves. "If they specify a brand, like Patron for tequila, or a Jack and Coke, for Jack Daniels, that's a call drink, and a little pricier. And way up top are the top-shelf liquors which are expensive as shit and I find it silly that people even care. But like if they want a Macallan scotch, there's a price list on the shelf itself. Make sure they know what they're paying before you pour it."

Ravn glances up at tge top shelf and, quietly realising that in another life he'd absolutely have ordered from the top shelf without asking the price first, and nods. "Makes sense. Don't want anyone making a fuss about feeling scammed. Why do I feel that if there's going to be trouble of that nature, it's most likely to come from some yachter in a white captain's cap and a navy blue blazer? I assume that something like that happens every now and then anyhow -- what's the procedure? It's been pretty quiet while I've been here so far, but I haven't honestly been paying a whole lot of attention to customers grumbling at the bartenders. Not counting those blokes you glare to death. I watch those. Blue is an interesting shade on a man's face."

Vic chuckles. "I don't seem to have that problem. They get uppity at me, I just stare them down until they can either piss themselves in terror, or walk away." She shrugs. "Benefit of formerly being a cop, I have the stare down in my back pocket for most situations. But in your case, note to them that it's bar policy, and offer to let them speak to your supervisor. Either Bennie will charm them to death with her sunshine and rainbows, or I'll stare at them til they apologize to you."

She checks her phone, frowning at a text. "Gimme a few, I have to go in the back and make a call. Look over that bartender bible while I'm out?"

Ravn settles on a bar stool with the Holy Scripture of Bar Jockeys, quietly grateful that at the moment no one is ordering; if they do decide to try their luck before Vic gets back, they better not blame him for their subsequent death from acute poisoning. They probably will. Die from acute poisoning, that is.

Margharita -- silver tequila, Cointreau, lime juice, salt. Yep, that one's familiar. All too familiar. As is the Cosmopolitan -- she liked that one too.

Mojito, right. I like that one. Hold the soda. Mimosa -- okay, that's simple. I think even I can do that. Who knows? Maybe Grey Harbor will actually survive the idea of me behind a bar. Maybe.

Charming people with sunshine and rainbows doesn't seem to be an apt description of Bennie today as she comes out of the back office. She nearly runs into a customer, and it's not with a cheery 'whoopsiedoodle' or whatever strange amalgamation of words she normally would stick together, but a bit of an exasperated gesture with her hands up in capitulation to let the other person slide by first. It's one of those days. Stepping into the u-shaped bar, she doesn't even pause and pay homage to the mini shrine to Easton's abs picture, just beelining for the giant jar of maraschino cherries that is meant to refill the garnish trays.

Well, that's unusual. Ravn wisely decides to not get in the way of a sugar deprived woman on a direct collission course with, well, sugar; while not married, he's been in enough stable relationships (one) to know that there is a time to crack jokes and lay on the charm, and a time to either shut up or say something supportive. He closes the bartender bible, and gives the bar owner a thoughtful look. "Everything all right, Lady Sunshine?"

Bennie plants one foot on a shelf and hops up on the bar, pulling the jar into her lap and wedging it between the thighs of her shorts. They are god awful and gaudy orange on their own, but she might just manage to pull them off with a white tank top and giant hoop earrings, hair piled up on her head and held at bay with a floral scarf that picks up the same orange tones. At being asked if things are alright, it's like calling her out on the fact that she looks upset, and instinctually she plasters a big ole smile on her face. "Super great. Pass me that bottle of vodka will you? The one with the birdie on it." Grey Goose.

Ravn reaches up for the bottle and indeed, hands it over. The other lesson learned from his lifetime experience with long term relationships (still one) is, if she doesn't want to tell you, she's not going to tell you. He's pretty certain that whatever it is, he's not the problem -- no incoming you know what you did and if you don't, you ought to -- and hence, simply fishes out a shotglass as well, sliding it across the counter. Not that he'd particularly care, but that group of tourists over there might leave a few bad Yelp reviews if they saw the bar owner drinking straight from the bottle. "Vic's around somewhere. Had to go take a call. Trusted me to not burn down the place while her back was turned."

"Mmm!" Her mouth is already full of cherries, and thus can't speak when he's reaching for a shot glass, motioning instead to a pint glass with similar little nonverbal squeaks of direction. Bennie munches quickly, then swallows her mouthful down, realizing he might need some sort of actual answer about Vic. "Oh yeah, she does that all the time. I think she's secretly a sex phone operator." Bottle of vodka in hand, she works to unscrew the pour spout, twisting it a little and giving it a pull.

"Hey, whatever pays her bills. As long as she's happy doing it." Ravn grins and swaps the shot glass for the pint glass. He watches with some anticipation; is this going to be the dunking of cherries in vodka -- which would make sense -- or the drinking of vodka by the pint, in which case he figures he may have to dial 911 fairly shortly. He doesn't offer to open the bottle for her; mostly because on some level he figures that that would be terribly presumptious. Instead, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms across his chest and watches the demolition of innocent cherries with a crooked smile -- absolutely and pointedly ignoring the two yachters over there, staring and whispering among themselves and no doubt expecting the celebrity chef to say something about sugar destroying alcohol, or whatever other nonsense they picked up from watching too much daytime TV.

Vic does emerge from the back a few minutes later. Clearly the call didn't require her to up and leave, as so many calls seem to. The idea of her as a phone sex operator is kind of hilarious, considering how she reacts to patrons who stare at her tits rather than look her in the eye. Her phone is slid into her back pocket as she returns, wiping her hands off on the bar towel on her shoulder. Bennie's presence gets a half smile from the bartender. "Boss lady, is it a 'whole jar of cherries' kind of day? Ravn here has been a quick study so far. I don't think he'll poison anyone. On purpose."

"Hello, this is Vickie, and you've been a baaaad boooy." Bennie uses her best assumed sex phone operator voice, though surely she has no experience with that first hand! Indeed, boozy cherries seem to be the order of the day, but not before she's pouring a glug of vodka in the glass and downing it. Her tongue sticks out and she makes a GUH! sound, but seems intent on her mission. Now, the question of how to get the cherries out of the jar without just sticking her hand in to grab a handful. This is what occupies her attention as Vic comes back, no guilt registering on the blonde's face for that little joke she just spouted. Face bent over the opening of the jar, she responds to the bartender without looking up. "It's an 'it's either that or I curl up in a fetal position beneath the desk' kind of day." Then as an aside, "Not poisoning people is good."

"No promises," Ravn murmurs though judging by the glitter of amusement in his grey eyes, he doesn't actually expect to have to call an ambulance for whatever naive tourist asks him for a Mimosa. "Also, why does she get to call you boss and I don't?" Very seryious complaint there. Yes. Oh so serious.

Vic hands a pair of tongs over to Ravn to hand off to Bennie, before she just shoves a hand in the jar and they end up on the noon news tomorrow for health code violations. "Who made your day bad?" she asks the boss casually, but there is something behind her eyes that seems to indicate she may make the perpetrator pay dearly for it. To Ravn she deadpans, "It's a boobs thing, you wouldn't understand."

"What makes you think I don't get this is a girl thing, shush?" Ravn passes the tongs along down the line -- indeed, those Yelp reviews, better avoid them. Even if some level he could absolutely see the humour of headlines involving certain celebrity chefs getting implicated in health code violations because screw that guy, whoever he is. "Lady Sunshine it is. But don't expect me to stop whining about it. Also, use the tongs before you accidentally stick yourself to the bar and we have to go get a crowbar, Lady Sunshine."

So, let's face it. Joe in retirement is very much a barfly. Oh, he's a yachter, but he doesn't go for the blazer and fancy cap like he thinks he's the captain of the Love Boat. No, at the moment, the hat he wears is a black mesh trucker cap with a velcro swatch on the front. Which swatch currently bears an embroidered patch with the image of a clenched fist, a rocket, and a black and yellow checkered border, with the legend 'Soviet Space Taxi Service' over a little hammer and sickle.

He heads precisely for the corner Vic indicated, settles down with the gingerly hipshot that means his implants are giving him grief, and gives her a grin. He has manners enough to take off his cap and run his hand through his hair, which takes it from 'hat head' to a windblown tumble. "Hey, y'all. Jack and Coke, please."

"Because I'm pretty sure I can't take her in a fight." Bennie supplies another reasoning, "Jury is still out on you." She beams another smile to Ravn, even if her eyes are still that cloudy shade of blue, like a storm is brewing off the shoreline and it looks like there's going to be rain. She takes the tongs without so much as a hitch in her giddyup at being called Lady Sunshine, much more simple than pulling them out stem by stem from the red liquid. Before she plunges them in though, she's snapping the ends in Joe's direction for what passes as a wave, and then they get tipped at Easton's image in vague explanation along with a, "Three months." To Vic.

Vic snorts at the Lady Sunshine moniker Ravn has chosen for Bennie. "You call me anything like that and I'll drown you in Bennie's cherry jar, got it?" Then Joe is there and for a moment, she almost, kind of, sort of, blushes. Then she shakes it off and clears her throat. "Hey Cavanaugh. How's it going? Ravn, want to try your hand at Joe's order?" She asides to Joe, "Bartender in training, no poisonings yet."

Bennie's explanation for her mood has Vic grimacing and nodding at her. She gives the boss a tight smile and even reaches around the Dane to squeeze the woman's shoulder gently. She gets it.

"Whatever happened to Cuba Libre or straight-up whiskey," Ravn murmurs in Vic's general direction, proving that he was in fact paying attention when she was outlining the drinking habits of some of the Twofer's regular patrons. He doesn't need to ask to know what Bennie is indicating and tactfully keeping his mouth shut on that; everyone and their mum in Gray Harbor's told him about the missing bar owner when he mentioned getting a job there.

Instead, he glances at Joe and doffs an imaginary forelock in greeting, flashing a brilliant used-car-salesman smile full of self irony. "No poisonings yet because I haven't served anyone yet. You have been officially warned, neighbour."

Joe grins back at him, unashamed, setting his hat on his knee. He may have hearing damage from his career, but that he caught. "Those're my usuals," he concedes, with no shame at all. "Now, there's a mixed drink I tend to order called a Four Horsemen. There're conflicting recipes given in books and out on the 'net. The version I like does not have tequila in it - it's got Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, and Jameson's."

Bennie's greeting gets a little salute, fingertips to temple, in lieu of hello....and then he turns that lazy grin on Vic. "Hey there."

Bennie feels it's prudent to warn, "No killing Joe," as she fishes out several cherries at a time using the tongues of the tongs until the pint glass is near brimming with the sugary syruped fruit. Her smile turns tight at Vic's little shoulder squeeze, but it's best not to dwell on these things. That's certainly not what Bennie is doing as she starts pouring vodka into the pint glass, right? "I like your hat." Bennie says down at her concoction. "Very 'stick it to the man'." Her gaze flicks up in time to see that weird expression cross Vic's face. Weird, because...well. It's weird. She glances from the bartender to the barfly. "Did you guys do the horizontal mambo or something?"

Vic smirks at Ravn, "The man likes variety. Besides I was just telling you different options for the different types of glasses, remember?" She lets Joe explain it from there, however, as she suddenly seems very busy wiping down the bar in front of the man. Her eyes do flit up to take in the trucker cap. "You are really playing into that Russian spy thing, aren't you? Better be careful, some one might be crazy enough to go all MAGA on you." Pause. "Wait, then they might love you. Just say Putin a lot and they might..."

Then Bennie says THAT and her eyes go wide. "What?! No!" Not yet. Maybe not ever. She totally hasn't fantasized about it. At all. Ever. Nope. Fucking drunk texts to Javier goddamit.

Jack on Coke isn't exactly a culinary challenge worthy of a Swedish master chef and even Ravn proves himself capable of filling a glass with ice, pouring in the whiskey and then, more gently, the Coke. What he hasn't got in drink mixing experience he makes up for in manual dexterity and showmanship, easily spinning the tumbler on one finger without losing a drop, before setting it down in front of the older man. "Here's hoping you don't die. She'll probably fire me if you do."

Aaaaaand not commenting on that one. As long as he's not suspected of being involved in any dance-offs of that particular nature he's a happy man. Complications. Bad. It's hard to not grin slightly, though, mostly at the expression on Vic's face.

"Thank you," Joe says. Then he demonstrates by peeling the patch off. It's got velcro loops on the back. "I liked it, 'cause honestly, that's how I feel about my last launch. There's somethin' kind of....not ironic, I guess, that the only place you can currently leave the planet from is the same one where it all started. From the same pad that Gagarin launched from, since we don't have human launch capability here. We been hitchin' rides from the Russians since the Shuttle program ended," he explains.

Then he's glancing over at Vic. "Well, hell," he says, with a shrug. "I mean, I got Russian tattooed on my arm, that's not goin' away. So long as I don't get lynched or shot......nothin' I can do, you know?" He snorts. "Jesus, yeah." A look flickered between them. "Nah," he says, gently. A pause, and he forebears to explain the current odd situation. Then he lifts the glass that Ravn just put down to him, intones, "Za vas," and takes a swig.

Bennie's new prized possession in hand, and the surplus jar abandoned, her legs now swing side to side like a pendulum, feet hooked together at the ankle. "Uuuuh-huh." She drawls simply, before lifting a cherry by its stem and angling her face underneath it to catch a drop of liquor as it wells off the rounded bottom. Snicking it off with her teeth, she pitches the stem at Vic. "Just not on the office couch. I know where that thing has been." She watches Ravn prepare that drink, for a moment her delighted smile is genuine as he pulls that little trick. Then something occurs to her and she's craning back to Joe. "Is that also where they launched the doggie from? And did they ever get him back, or is some poor pooch just...floating forever in orbit?"

Vic clears her throat and pulls her composure back together by sheer force of will. She watches Ravn mix the drink and nods at him, a brow arching at the sleight of hand. "You might have a future as a bartender. You know they have like, worldwide competitions for that flair stuff." Anything to detour the conversation from her and Joe not having banged.

She smirks at Joe's words. "That's nothing. Apparently, according to the very twisted rumor mill in town, I'm in Witness Protection hiding out from my ex-fiance, who is a serial killer on the loose. Which is hilarious to anyone who knew my ex-fiance. He was basically Captain America. Total boyscout. Ask Javier about him sometime.

Goddammit Bennie, now she's looking exasperated and there is a tinge of redness to her face. She looks towards the ceiling, as if begging the Heavens to save her from this.

"Thanks for the reminder to not do stuff like that where anyone might notice," Ravn murmurs and returns the bottle of whiskey to its designated shelf space. "Those stories are getting out of hand, though. I met a woman yesterday who's been made out to be one of the Hiltons, secretly here to invest in the city. It's getting a little... starting to creep me out a bit, to be honest. All fun and games until you have to kick some idiot with a high-end camera off your boat at 3 am, wearing nothing but boxers. Me, not the camera. That, I believe, went swimming in the buff."

"Laika," Joe says, gently. "That is where Sputnik 2 launched from, yeah. No, she's not still in orbit. Sputnik 2 deorbited after a few months, the debris mostly burned up. After that they launched more dogs, but most of 'em they succeeded in bringin' back alive."

Vic's recounting of her story makes him blink at her. "That....how did you know Javier? I'm curious," he says, bluntly. "I lost track of him after I went to Houston, and there's a lot of time he won't talk about."

Then he's nodding at Ravn. "I don't get it. It's gotta be somethin' Veil or shine related, but....what and how, I dunno. I mean, the general object for the Dark Men is to cause grief and pain, but....a lot of this crap is more ludicrous than immediately harmful."

Bennie's shoulders slump, "Oh Em Gee, that's so sad." Great, now she's going to be thinking about dead flaming dogs. So much for not curling up in the office. Instead of hopping down from her perch on the bar, she just sort of sliiiides off of it.

Vic blinks at Ravn's retelling of his story and shakes her head. "I'm gonna start sitting out on the dock in a lawn chair in front of your boat like a pissed off bodyguard if they keep pestering you." Joe's question has her grimacing though. "De la Vega and I worked together a while back, in Portland." Which would mean either she was a cop of some stripe, or an informant. She watches Bennie with concern, making a cutting motion with her hand to tell the guys to change the subject.

"I got this feeling that Røn and his lady aren't laughing about this whole identity mix-up affair," the tall Dane notes and resumes leaning against the bar with one hip, arms crossed over his chest in a posture of relaxation combined with availability in case anyone actually needs to be served or someone spills another milkshake on the floor. "Having everyone think you ditched your fiancee for some teenage web guru can't be all that fun. Or that you got ditched for a much younger woman, for that matter."

He considers reaching out to -- pat Bennie's shoulder, squeeze it, do something, say something, you know, be a decent human being -- but eventually decides to just throw her a sympathetic glance. Women are complicated, people are complicated, and the way things have been lately, even a friendly hug is likely going to end up on the front page of some glossy gossip magazine in Sweden. Better to shake his head and throw a small grin Vic's way. "Might be easier to just climb aboard, I got chairs -- and a fridge with beer in, now."

"You a cop too, eh?" he wonders. Happy to be diverted from that mournful thought. His expression is musing, as he sips from his drink. "How'd you end up down here?" A beat and Joe wonders, sheepishly, "I haven't asked you this stuff bfeore, have I? I got bad TBI in the crash, and I don't remember things so well as I used to."

Then he notes to the Dane, rueful, "Don't say that, I'mma be showin' up at your boat at all hours. You're only a little ways down from where Surprise is moored, after all. Don't you know real sailors are incorrigible mooches?"

Bennie gives them all a pleasant enough smile, taking her glass of cherries with her as she slips out of the bar area and meanders back to the office.

Vic snorts at Ravn. "You really shouldn't tell me stuff like that. I will happily drink your fridge dry. Not being able to smoke is downright turning me into an alcoholic instead."

She frowns when Joe pegs her for law enforcement. "I used to be a cop. Narcotics detective. Shit happened though, and I left the force about four or five years ago." Yeah, left. She would have been fired if she hadn't resigned. How she wound up in Gray Harbor though? She shrugs. "Employment opportunity brought me here." Surely not the Twofer. Bartending can be done anywhere. The fact it doesn't seem Ruiz has explained to his boyfriend who Vic really works for is interesting though. Unless that memory issue of his is the cause. "TBI?" she asks, curiously. "How did you get a brain injury?"

She watches Bennie go into the back room and sighs. "Poor kid."

"Keep the paparazzi from suggesting I make out with Itzhak Rosencrantz in front of a camera, and I'll keep you afloat in beer," Ravn shoots back to his near-neighbour on the pier. From the expression on his face he can see the humour of his ridiculous position, but at the same time, the situation is bloody exasperating to a man who very highly values his privacy. Also, self-deprecating jokes are by far preferable to talk of dead astronaut dogs. "And that goes for both of you. Anytime. My cat doesn't bite if you don't try to touch her."

He too glances after Bennie as she leaves, though. Then shakes his head to himself, nods at Vic and says nothing further on that matter.

There's a worried purse to Joe's lips at Bennie's departure. But then he shakes his head with the air of a man dismissing a given worry for the moment. He slants a look at Vic that's the mute equivalent of calling 'bullshit' but doesn't decide to press it. "I crashed," he says, simply. "More accurately, I was part of a crash. When I returned from the station, the Soyuz malfunctioned. See, a Soyuz leaving the station has three parts. Only one of those returns humans to earth - it separates in orbit, and the other two parts burn up. But...separation didn't go right, so we were thrown out of the proper orientation until the relevant part finally got yanked off during re-entry. We didn't burn up or crash into a crater 'cause the guy flying us down was basically a miracle worker, but we landed hard enough to have some bad injuries. Bones are real weak after six months in micro-gravity."

Ravn gets a sly look. "Hell, I'd pay to see that," he says, teasingly. Yes, he's ragging the newest bartender, just because he can.

"What, you don't believe I was a cop? Ask Javier. He'll tell you," Vic retorts at Joe, now cranky. Her crush is here, doubting her while she invokes the name of his boyfriend. Ugh! "I need to head out. Shift is over and I have errands to run." Neither is true, but she needs out of here right now. Before she could just go for a smoke, now she needs to go for a run instead. She tosses the bar towel into a bin for them under the counter, removes her apron, and heads back to the employees only area.

"So would they," Ravn mumbles. He offers no commentary on the space crash story besides listening to it with interest. Of the things Ravn Abildgaard does not know jack all about, space travel is definitely in the top ten.

And then Vic storms out as well. Ravn glances after her and then, with a laugh that's sort of half hah, mine and half we're all screwed now picks up the apron. "I guess that means I'm the bartender on duty. This place better hope I'm a fast learner."