Chance Encounter
Dec. 20th, 2009 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nomorekaraokeAny given Sunday around this time of day (or night, as the case may be, sometimes) will find Lorne seeking the familiar comforts of his favourite tea house. Francis', named after its owner and proprietor, is a very hush hush place most readily accessible from smack dab in the middle of Manhattan's China Town. Or rather, the tea house itself can be accessed from China Town in various locations, should you know enough to gain entrance.
One needs only find the right door, knock on it twice, and speak the demonic pass word to be let in. Inside, the lone bouncer will gruffily jab a thumb at the wrought metal staircase winding its way down, down, down to the tea house proper. The moment one sets foot on the first step, the scents of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries will seize one's olfactory sense and urge one down the may twists of the staircase. There are three floors made available for guests and patrons alike, full of tables and plush armchairs and couches of varying shapes and sizes and color that blend into a warmth one seldom finds above ground. At the very bottom of the stairs is a polished wooden floor, coated with several layers of protective magic for those unfortunate demons to whom oak is toxic. To the side, a massive counter with all manner of treats available for inspection, all of which - rare though it may be for such establishments - are safe for human consumption.
Behind the counter stands Francis himself, rivalling the counter with his own gigantic, infectiously exuberant bulk, ever ready to take one's order.
In the far corner, blanketed by the warmth emanating from the nearby kitchens, sits Lorne enjoying his usual treat of very, very green tea and very, very scrumptious red bean pastries.
One needs only find the right door, knock on it twice, and speak the demonic pass word to be let in. Inside, the lone bouncer will gruffily jab a thumb at the wrought metal staircase winding its way down, down, down to the tea house proper. The moment one sets foot on the first step, the scents of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries will seize one's olfactory sense and urge one down the may twists of the staircase. There are three floors made available for guests and patrons alike, full of tables and plush armchairs and couches of varying shapes and sizes and color that blend into a warmth one seldom finds above ground. At the very bottom of the stairs is a polished wooden floor, coated with several layers of protective magic for those unfortunate demons to whom oak is toxic. To the side, a massive counter with all manner of treats available for inspection, all of which - rare though it may be for such establishments - are safe for human consumption.
Behind the counter stands Francis himself, rivalling the counter with his own gigantic, infectiously exuberant bulk, ever ready to take one's order.
In the far corner, blanketed by the warmth emanating from the nearby kitchens, sits Lorne enjoying his usual treat of very, very green tea and very, very scrumptious red bean pastries.
