Baratie — East Blue
Small waves crashed against the lips of the fish head attached to the front of the floating restaurant, Baratie. The smell of fresh food and smoke wafted from portholes sitting ajar—portholes leading to the kitchen, which presented a cozy atmosphere of professionalism and camaraderie.
The dining area of the restaurant, however, was not so peaceful. A single waiter dashed around the room at breakneck speed, setting plate after plate and drawing the attention of the entire restaurant. They weren't drawn in by his work ethic or service—just confused as to why he wasn't wearing a shirt.
After passing out the last dish, Zain stood shirtless, shoeless, and shameless outside the double doors leading to the kitchen, grinning with satisfaction. The sous-chef creeping up behind him, however, didn't seem so satisfied.
Sanji kicked Zain in the back of the head and barked, "What did I say about wearing a uniform, jungle boy?"
Zain whipped around, the slits in his glowing yellow eyes narrowing. "Gee, I dunno. All I seem to remember was that stick being so far up your ass it came out your mouth. Kinda hard to understand you, you know?"
"The hell did you just say, jungle boy?" Sanji's snail-like eyebrows seemed to curl even tighter with rage.
Their bickering escalated into shoving, both of them grabbing each other by the collar. The whole restaurant stared at the scene in awkward silence.
Noticing the glares, both turned their heads in unison and shouted, "What're you all looking at? Please continue enjoying your delicious meals."
Though their words were polite, their expressions were anything but. Every customer suddenly found something very interesting in their soup.
Behind them, the kitchen doors exploded open—and out walked a menacing man, his tall hat somehow clearing the doorway unscathed.
It was Zeff, the owner of Baratie. And he looked pissed.
Both workers quickly turned toward him, unbothered. "Oh great, what do you want, old man?"
Zeff's intimidating aura flared as he raised his peg leg faster than the eye could see and brought it down in a sweeping arc, striking both Zain and Sanji at once.
With their heads now firmly planted through the floorboards, Zeff spoke, "Sanji, get your ass back in the kitchen—it's almost time for the lunch rush.
And Zain, put on a uniform or I'll make you work here for another year."
Sanji groaned in protest. Zain, however, yanked his head free from the floor and kowtowed, "Yes, chef! I'm sorry, chef! I promise to behave better next time—as long as Sanji stops being an asshole, chef."
He pointed at Sanji for emphasis.
"All I did was tell you to follow the damn health code, you feral fu—" Another kick sent their heads back through the floorboards.
Zeff, apparently the undisputed champion of reverse whack-a-mole, crossed his arms. "I don't give a damn who did what and why. Just do what I say!"
From beneath the floor, two muffled voices grumbled, "Yes, geezer. Sorry, geezer."
Zeff's glare sharpened like a cleaver. The hair on the back of their necks stood on end. Both heads sprang up from the floor as they stood at attention.
"YES, CHEF! SORRY, CHEF!"
Holding back terrified tears, they scrambled to their tasks. Zeff scoffed, "Damn brats."
---
On the second floor of the Baratie, Zain was getting dressed. His white uniform was a bit too tight—it being brand new and all. His old one had been stained red with blood. Not his blood, but not exactly something worth explaining.
He pulled on the white double-breasted vest and straightened it out. He still refused to wear the undershirt, but he settled for the buttoned vest and tie. He now wore black suit pants and a pair of sandals—about as close to obedience as he'd ever get.
Looking out the porthole beside his bunk, Zain watched sunlight scatter across the sea's surface, the glimmering rays reflecting off his iridescent white hair in soft pastels.
He sighed.
'Just one more week. Then I can set sail again.'
It wouldn't exactly be a hard goodbye, he'd basically been held here for a year against his will. In fact, he couldn't wait to give old man Zeff and that snail-browed perv Sanji the finger on his way out.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"You done in there? Customers are waiting," said a chef whose name Zain had never bothered to remember.
Zain said nothing and walked out. The chef, standing just outside, muttered to himself, "No undershirt again, huh? Guess we'll be getting complaints from the male customers.
He really doesn't get how much he looks like a damn stripper in just the vest…"
He sighed, "At least he buttoned it this time. Still remember the divorce we all had to witness 'cause of that incident…"
---
Back downstairs, Zain had just started catching up on orders. Rushing to a couple chatting over champagne, he plopped down their plates mid-conversation.
The woman blushed, clearly flustered by Zain's presence—her partner noticed immediately.
Grimacing, the man tried to hand his plate back to Zain with a smug look. His plan was to drop it on the floor and make a scene.
But before he could utter a word—
BOOM!
A deafening blast rocked the ship, sending plates and glasses clattering. The man nearly toppled from his chair but steadied himself—only to spill his entire entrée onto Zain's brand-new vest in the process.
Zain looked down at the steaming mess of pasta now painting his white uniform red.
His eye twitched.
"…Whoever did this," he growled, "is gonna die."
Hearing this—and seeing the dark look in Zain's eyes—the man panicked.
"Please don't hurt me, it was an accident, I swear! Do you want money? I'll give you money! I happen to be—"
Zain wasn't listening. His attention had shifted toward the Baratie's front entrance, something in the air felt ominous.
When he finally looked back at the table, he noticed the woman staring at her date with wide eyes.
Following her gaze, Zain spotted the man sprawled on the ground, rambling something about being a noble.
'Way to flex, bud', Zain thought.
He dusted himself off, then helped the man to his feet with a strange calm. In a rehearsed, almost robotic tone, he said, "I'm sorry, valued customer. It seems we've encountered a perilous situation. If you'd like to leave, please pay now and avoid any, ah... dine-and-dash behavior. If you'd prefer to stay—"
Zain continued the restaurant spiel for a few more moments, then suddenly lit up with excitement as he turned toward the entrance.
The anger vanished from his face, replaced with something wild.
"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, "I'm gonna go deal with the idiots that messed with our ship!"