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The kitchen was a domain that he really couldn't picture Charlie lingering in. And since Jonesy was hungry and probably ought to avoid Charlie for a little bit (to allow the urge to nab a feather or two to die down some) the kitchen seemed like a good idea. The club hadn't quite opened yet, so he had about an hour and some before he had to be back at the front table to coat check.

And to feed Me'Shell the awful things people left behind, of course.

But first, the kitchen. And considering how weird some people and their auspices were (Owen's fangy cranky self and the bar came to mind immediately), Jonesy kind of wanted to meet the Master of the Kitchen. After a perfunctory sort of knock, he oozed through the door -- whether it had been locked or not, it was open now.

"Hello?"

Ovens were girls? --actually, on second thought, yeah, he could see that. Wonder if she had a name. Brunhilda might work. She was a mighty sort of oven-- like one of those opera ladies with the heaving bosoms and the big horned helmet bling going on.

"Uh. Hi. Yeah. I mostly stick to the coat room, but uh." Jonesy blinked at the kitchen-man, and his stomach growled audibly, making further discussion sort of moot. "--kinda hungry, wondered if I could get a snack, maybe, before we open? I'm Jones." He offered a hand in a bright arm warmer and some kind of glove underneath.

Jonesy didn't ask about the latex, but he'd find a safe place to lean and watch what Leslie did. "Fries sound great. Do you and --" He'd been about to say Brunhilda, but the blinked. "--and the ovens do all the cooking?" How did one person keep up with everything?

It was kind of awesome.

Jonesy watched, enthralled. It was brilliant -- he took the fries carefully and tried one, eyes narrow. And then he grinned. "Brilliant." He meant it; it was just about the second coolest thing here, just under Charlie's impressive wingspan and gorgeous feathers.

"Do they have names?" If they didn't, they were probably going to get names. Jonesy was very, very like that.

"That one should be Brunhilda." He tipped his chin at her, the lovely french fry dispenser that she was. His fries were disappearing at a respectable rate for someone Jonesy's size, weight, and age, but without the usual mess. He ate like a high school kid, or a college one.

But he stopped, fry held delicately between his fingers, watching Leslie yawn with big, round eyes. "Wow." He meant it. That was amazingly cool.

"I can probably find nametags. I don't know if they'd like them, though. I can do one like I made for Me'Shell, maybe." He considered. Charlie hadn't been too happy about that, but the ovens might be happier.

"And hats. Me'Shell has a mohawk, but I think that might get messy."

Coat boy. It makes his nose wrinkle, and his eyes narrow. "Not really. I like to think of myself as the coat collection officer." Maybe he should make a badge or something. Someone had to have a cop hat around here.

"Actually, I think the modern mythology is that snakes are really hairless amputee cats. All that hissing, you know." He gestured with a french fry and then, realizing what he was doing, he ate it and offered the basket to Leslie so he could take more.

Sharpie? Ugh. "Just because they can't see doesn't mean they won't mind. Nice nametags make things happy. When Me'Shell's happy, he doesn't break the skin." Happy ovens would probably be cool.

"Nah, it's okay. Charlie visits a lot." And Jonesy liked Charlie a lot; not even just the wings, which were amazing, but just Charlie himself. "And I'd call you an Edibility Engineer."

It just made him grin, finishing off the second to last french fry and offering Leslie the last. It was only fair.

Jonesy probably didn't know what he ate on a normal day, to be honest. It wasn't like he remembered. "I dunno." He finished the fry and considered the basket.

"Kinda forever, if that makes any sense?"