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It’s three in the morning and Pl’i is leaning on the steering wheel. Her eyes are squinted at the bumpy road in front of her. Zaheer is dozing in the passengers’ seat with his face pressed against the glass of the window. Behind her she hears the murmurs of baritone and tenor voices. Ming Hua must be asleep. She wishes she was too. P’li stifles a yawn and tries to keep her eyes on the road. Instead, she spots a lit sign advertising ‘Breakfast 24/7’.
“I need some Ginseng Tea if I’m going to keep going.” She says.
Zaheer jerks awake and rubs at the red spot on his cheek. He stretches and pops as the van pulls into the parking lot. It’s still very rural and there are more ostrich-horses than cars. The big parking spaces are filled with two large delivery trucks. P’li huffs a laugh. She’s not the only one who gets tired of driving a van in the wee hours.
Ming Hua is putting her long sleeved robe on as she tumbles out of the back. Ghazan pauses, talking to the prisoners on his way out. He jogs a little to catch up. P’li stands with her arm on the door, holding it open for him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Inside is much brighter than expected and it leaves them blinking as their pupils adjust. A sign tells them to wait to be seated. Ming Hua rests her head against Zaheer’s shoulder. They watch who they assume is the host speaking in a strained, but polite voice to an employee.
“Until the currency situation is rectified we ask that spirit customers pay us in human money. I don’t care if they told you they’d bless your family’s crops for the next year.”
P’li makes eye contact with the others and they all try to stifle laughs. Ming Hua fails and is bent at the waist giggling. She’s at that state of tired where everything is hilarious.
The host hears noise and turns to see them all slumped in the waiting area. He speedwalks towards them with his hands flapping at the wrists. His forehead is high and dotted with sweat.
“So sorry to keep you waiting folks. Follow me.” He grabs a handful of menus and leads them to a booth. P’li plops into the window seat and scoots down to make room for Zaheer.
“Welcome to Deni’s where we serve breakfast twenty-four hours a day.”
They all look at the host but say nothing.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
Ghazan spreads his and Ming Hua’s menus out on the table so she can see all the pages.
The waiter is still nervous after being chewed out. She fumbles with her notepad and drops her pen on the floor. Her face goes red as she drops to grab it. Poor thing can’t be older than sixteen.
“Can I get you started with any drinks?”
“A round of waters.” Says Zaheer.
“Does your fruit juice come with free refills?” Ming Hua says.
“Uh, no. It’s about a yuan for refills.”
She looks across to P’li, who nods.
“I’ll have the coconut mango juice. And can I get it with a straw?”
The waitress scribbles down and looks to Ghazan.
“I’ll have a ‘Chi Enhancer’ please.”
“Make that two.” P’li says.
“Coming right up.”
The waitress scurries off.
“Didn’t we eat at a restaurant called Deni’s just outside of Republic City?” Zaheer says.
“Mmhm. And another one near Zaofu.”
“I guess that’s another thing we missed while in prison. The world getting a love for all day breakfast restaurants.” Ghazan says.
He’s stacking the condiments on the table into a tower. Ming Hua looks like she wants to join in, but can’t without enough water nearby.
“It is an overindulgence, but I have seen all types at these places. Rich, poor, the middle class. All are held equal in the eyes of Deni.” Zaheer says.
P’li presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. She feels a lecture and a migraine coming on.
“At the same time, it’s clearly a capitalist venture. I’m not sure if I approve. It was Guru Nanat* who said, ‘May our plates always be hot and our stomachs full.’ Since then it has been the Air Nomads culture to feed hungry guests regardless of age, nation, or class.”
Met with silence, Zaheer looks a little flustered, “I’m repeating myself aren’t I?”
P’li’s about to retort when their waitress reappears with a tray full of drinks balancing on one hand and a pitcher of water in the other.
“The coconut mango juice,” In front of Ming Hua, “Two Chi Enhancers,” for Ghazan and P’li, “and just a water.” Zaheer.
She leaves the pitcher on the table for refills.
“Have we all decided what we’re having?”
“I have a question about ‘The Grand Slam Croquette’. What is it exactly?” Ghazan says.
“It’s everything you’ll find in our Grand Slam inside of a croquette. So, that’s boiled eggs, duck sausage, curried pork, red bean paste, and sticky rice.”
Ghazan makes a sickened face.
“I’ll have the skewers and rice. Uh, number four, I mean.” He says.
She looks to Ming Hua.
“Congee please.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the porridge.”
Zaheer, of course, still hasn’t decided so she turns to P’li.
“I’ll have number nine. The Dim Sum.”
The waitress bites her lip, “To share? That’s from our family value menu. It’s a lot of food.”
P’li stares at her, “I have a long drive.”
“Number nine it is then.”
Zaheer finds them waiting for him to decide once again.
“Alright. I will have the salty peanut noodles with a side order of fruit congee and sweet potato.” He folds up his menu and hands it to her.
She nods to all of them and goes to give their orders to the cook. There’s a clang and clatter as Ghazan’s tower of condiments falls. He snickers and puts them back up.
“Shove a bum, Ming, I have to make brown.”
“That is lovely, Ghazan, thank you for sharing with everyone.”
In his absence, Zaheer makes a tiny tornado on his water. Then he says,
“Speaking of food babies,” P’li makes a noise in the back of her throat, “Didn’t someone get diarrhea last time we ate here?”
Ming Hua blushes and ducks her head with a grimace.
“Yeah, that’s why I ordered congee this time. It’s pretty hard to fuck up porridge.”
“We shall see.” Zaheer says.
P’li definitely has nausea to accompany that headache. Wonderful. She rubs at her temples and looks out the window. Ghazan is half inside the van and keeps glancing around suspiciously. She bites her lip into a frown, but doesn’t say anything.
When he returns she confronts him.
“Long time in the bathroom?”
“Yeah, I really had to get down and squat.”
“And then take a detour to the van?”
Ghazan pauses in his sliding into the booth. Zaheer gets a dangerous look.
“Hey, it’s not what you think. I was just giving the boys some Baozi. Bolin asked because they’re his favourite.”
Zaheer doesn’t look any less menacing.
“When I was imprisoned, any time the guards had compassion and brought me some fresh fruit or a nice tea really brightened my day. I just wanted to be the same kind of guy, you know?”
Everyone around the table is tense. It’s all dependent on how Zaheer reacts. Ming Hua is already looking conflicted. She’s worried she’s going to have to pick sides.
“Dim sum.” There’s an extra waitress arriving to carry all of P’li’s order. She plops down plate after plate of food in front of her, unaware of the moment she walked in on.
Their regular waitress brings the others their orders and hovers for a second.
“Anything else I can get you guys? Top up your fruit juice?”
“...Yes please.”
The waitress leaves and Zaheer relaxes.
“That was very considerate Ghazan. It’s like Guru Nanat said. However, next time, I would prefer if you consulted the whole group beforehand.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He ducks his head and tucks into a kebab. P’li keeps her expression mild as she sucks the marrow out of a pighen’s foot.
“So blessed we are to have good company and good food--”
Everyone at the table gives Zaheer a skeptical look. He wiggles his shoulders in a half shrug.
“Warm food for our cause.”
“Zaheer, just eat your peanuts.”
“Yes, Dear.”
They sit in a comfortable tired and hungry silence. P’li pushes aside another empty plate and puts it on the stack. The truckers on the other side of the restaurant are eating fruit tarts and staring open mouthed as she packs away a party platter single handed.
Ghazan is using one of his skewer sticks as a toothpick and playing footsie with Ming Hua under the table. She’s getting increasingly flustered as it blocks her concentration and she really needs it to waterbend her porridge into her mouth. Zaheer keeps opening his mouth to talk, but thinking better of it.
“So, how’re we gonna pay the bill?” Ghazan brings up the obvious elephantkoi in the room.
“We could offer to bless their crops for two years.” Ming Hua says.
P’li snorts into her drink.
“Money is not but an illusion, like death.”
“We aren’t seriously planning on dining and dashing when we’ve had such good service?”
“I wouldn’t call a history of food poisoning good service.”
“Hang on, I have an idea.”
Ghazan pushes Ming Hua out of the booth and runs back to the van. He returns, triumphant, with a wallet.
“Mako hasn’t spent any money since he left Ba Sing Se.”
“We’re buying breakfast with money from the guy we kidnapped.” Ming Hua deadpans.
“Sounds pretty chaotic to me.” P’li shrugs.
Zaheer nods sagely.
Their waitress comes around to clear their plates. She calls for back up for P’li’ stack.
“So how will we be paying tonight?”
“You take Yuans, right?”
Ghazan pulls the wallet out like its his.
“Well, money is money.”
He leaves a generous tip on the table and they all slide out of the booth. The sweaty manager bows to them as they exit. Zaheer stands on tip toe to kiss P’li.
“I’ll drive.” He says.
“Are you sure? I am buzzing from that energy drink.”
“It’s easier when we all share the burden.”
He whistles ‘It’s a Long Way to Ba Sing Se’ as they all pile into the truck.
It looks like the start of a pretty good day.
...Until they have to pull over ten minutes later because of food poisoning.
“We are never going to Deni’s again.” Ghazan groans.
“I don’t think one ever intends to go to Deni’s. One merely, arrives there.”
They want to tell Zaheer to shut up, but he has a pretty good point.