1964-08-17 - Mr. Noodle
Summary: Offending the pasta is never a good idea!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
tigra jean-grey rosemarie wanda 


So, there's Joe's of Avenue U. A classic Italian joint in Brooklyn, it doesn't get more Sicilian than here. Brick walls face mirrors that reflect the abundance of red Naugahyde booths and formica tabletops defining the height of Sixties decor. Possibly the finest pinnacle of American interior design… right, no. Chairs accommodate diners out for Sicilian favourites and huge meatballs on seas of red sauce. The digs aren't fancy, but they're lavish in proportions. You want an octopus salad? They have that. Marinated olives and huge piles of rigatoni, ravioli, mostaccioli, and lots of -olis prepared to stuff someone's belly with a full carb experience.

Joe's is busy. It's a good night for dates and regulars know to show up early. Every table just about is full, and the men in white paper hats steadily move plates out of the kitchen to hungry bellies. The economy is moving along. No violent mafia battles wait. Lovers here, not fighters, unless the gentlemen forced to decide what on the menu to get count as pugilists. Is it the lasagna or the veal panelle worth getting tonight? Only fools pick at the Caesar salads, and red wines flow like blood.

Dating. It was Sarah's bright idea to set Jean up on a date. One of the many visits home had Jean sulking and quite possibly sitting in the corner so much that big sister decided that she needed to date a regular boy for a change. Why not? She asked. It's what you grew up with.


So there she was in a candlelit booth, the cousin of Sarah's husband, Richard, a man who worked in advertising who quite possibly helped sell Lucky Strikes to the believers. Quite possibly. He wasn't an artist, in fact, a quick scan of his mind told that he pushed paper. Jean didn't go any deeper than that.

The coverstaion seemed to go on well, Jean with her heaping plate of meatballs, and her other heaping plate of noodles, all meticulusly separated as she cuts into the meat, stabs it, then stabs into the noodles to twirl. It was like a meaty surprise outside of the noodle. Great, great stuff.

'Are you really going to eat all of that?' He asked, Jean could hear his thoughts. She's going to be a fat bride.

"Oh, absolutely. It's my goal to at least weigh three hundred pounds. I have an entire year to do it." It was then, that she could feel him become slowly grossed out.

Pity pasta. Yep, it's one of those nights. Joe's the best place for spinach-stuffed ricotta shells and Rosemarie's got a little table to herself — which is fine, truly. A rough day at work means a nice glass of a mixed red to go with the pasta and her mind is miles away given the lackadaisical attention she grants the plate before her. With chin resting on her palm and elbow on the table, the librarian is content to slowly working through the meal, sipping at her red now and then.

She runs the risk of getting attention that doesn't want, coming to a public place as Tigra, even though she downplays it by wearing a high collar, beyond knee length trench coat, high boots, wide brimmed hat and gloves, over a black sweater and red checked skirt. It's not that she's ashamed of her appearance, as much as sometimes it's…simpler to play it down. That said, there is -no- way in hell she is going to deny herself the experience of this food with out her heightened senses of smell and taste. With multiple plates loaded with pasta and other food, she digs in eagerly.

Date night at least brings the benefits of takeout in cardboard containers and foil, and realtively cheap bills by the end of the night. $2 for a veal? Sign someone up. Sandwiches never fail for those on a budget better constrained to hotdogs and fries. Italians, they know food.

One of those servers goes by carrying his huge round plate covered in equally large dishes and heaps of noodles. Angelhair is for the birds. Here proper spaghetti is golden, thick, and one sinuous pasta strand wrapped like a lasso under a few captured meatballs possibly big as a tennis ball. No lie, really. They're savory, too, liberally seasoned in cheese and handfuls of proper herbs by the sloths in the kitchen cursing out the government, the Yankees, and the Bugle for being a backwater bit of rubbish.

"'ey, you watch where you're going, Luigi!" says a guy in a leather jacket with slicked back hair, a little too loudly. His bottle dye blonde date titters. "You just about dumped that spaghetti crap all over me. Do I /look/ like I want the sauce? I don't need no stinkin' sauce on me!"

Still, it seemed that Richard tried to salvage the date. It was clear that Sarah's little sister was a looker, and if he tamed her just right, she'd be a blessing on his arms and he'd be the talk of the agency. Nice, young, and fit bride, as soon as he managed to figure out how to control..

"How's your ravioli?" Jean pipes up, catching those thoughts again with a raise of her brow. Just when he opens his mouth to speak, the outburst catches her attention, and a wave of her hand for a waiter to approach and she does so with a smile. "Would you mind? Ten extra meatballs?" Yes. They were the size of golfballs, but whatever was in them, it really was enough for Jean to stomach it.

And to keep it down.

As the waiter leaves to fulfill the order, Jean keeps eating, even adding a little bit of a smile with a bit of sauce tucked upon the corner of her lip.

'You uh…'

"Oh right!" Ignore the sauce. "So, I attended Columbia for a few years, that's when I realized the entire bliss of being a really rotund housewife. You see, I lack childbearing hips. And I at least want five of them. The age of many children is upon us and I think that as soon as I reach two-hundred and fifty pounds, it would be a great time for a first born. Babies need cushion, you see. Learned that in biology."

Damn this is good food," Tigra thinks to herself, taking her time with a meatball in an experience that's almost blissful in a way. She closes her eyes, smiles softly, savoring the experience. The smile turns to a frown at the outburst from the greaser. She opens her eyes and looks over that way. Tucked away, the tip of her tail still twitches in irritation, but she stays quiet, not wanting to inflame the situation. And then she blinks. And does a double take towards Jean and her date. No, Tigra wasn't eavesdropping, but it's easy to hear things, and -that- caught her attention.

To any woman in earshot, it's plain Jean requires some kind of rescue. Unfortunately, the Italian-dominated restaurant does not have many such sensitive, bold souls willing to interrupt their regularly scheduled programming on their behalf. Many might give her side-eye, anticipating some explosive outcome. They might need to batten those hatches down.

The server doesn't get more than a few strides before the guest accosting him shouts, "Hey, Luigi! I said I didn't want no sauce, but my girl? Yeah? She's waiting for her toast. Hurry up, you're takin' forever and this food already tastes like grease and sh —"

Luigi isn't a tall man. He isn't even that impressive a man, but he sure wheels around with a ferocious look in his eyes. "You shut your mouth about the food. You hear?"

"You mean this garbage? Bet the suit and his skinny girlfriend wouldn't even plow it down," the loudmouth gestures at Jean and her date. "You serve all kinda crap in here, you gonna get a name for it."

Bad idea. The noodles on Tigra's plate wiggle.

Richard's thoughts ran rampant with images of a rotund Jean Grey fussing over the stove while she eats out of the pot. Then back to the trophy wife who was skinny, daintily handling their future children while pushing a vacuum cleaner. At least Jean was close. Her eyes rolled a little as he cleared his throat to speak again, his voice a little bit shaky.

'You.. you seem to have your life planned out.'

Jean nods just a little, her nose wrinkling just a touch. And once again, the outburst has her quieting down just a touch, and yet, picking up on the strong feelings of pride as Jean is considered his.. skinny girlfriend. Richard was renewed! And yet, there was a little bit of bother, so much so that Richard boldly reaches out to gently touch Jean's wrist.

'I think I should get you home..'

"But I'm not done eating…" And yet? Could he be right? There was something strange in the air. Strange enough t.. MORE MEATBALLS!

The meaty goodness was placed next to her already two full plates and Jean was none the wiser. This.. this was great.

Okay, now it's reached a point where Tigra feels like she has to say something. "Knock it off, pal," she calls out in the greaser's direction. "The food here's great, and you know it. That's why you're here. So shut up, sit down, and try acting like a gentleman for once." She glances back down to her plate, lifting her fork again, only to freeze as she watches the noodles…wiggling. She gently puts a hand on the table next to the plate to see if something's making it shake to cause the wiggling.

The wiggling noodles are not exactly responding the way they ought to. They're on the move together, rolling and bunching, making a run for the end of the plate. Too much starch means they cling together and the red sauce provides ideal lubrication to literally leap off the edge and slither, at speed, for the tabletop and off. They shouldn't be halted too greatly by Tigra trying to prevent her dinner from being subject to earthquakes they don't have in New York often.

The other pasta on plates are rising, the wet sheets of lasagna and the narrower cannelloni rising of their own volition. Yelps and cries emanate from around the restaurant as those dishes come to life in a pretty broad swathe. And it's not plain telekinesis; not by a long shot.

More meatballs are rolling away as their beds are thrown, ricotta and spinach left in sad little puddles. But woe! They're flying!

'You tell'em missy!' Some old lady in the back cries out. All of this was met with amusement as Jean watches on, a thick meatball speared upon her fork and yet, the fork itself was bending. One could almost hear a critters chirp as it moves, but it was enough for the meatball to be ripped from the fork, which sends the saucy fork itself flying from her fingers, and smacked right onto the nice tie that Richard was wearing. And it was a really nice tie.

As the noodles and the meatballs begin to roll, rock and rumble, Jean reaches out to grip the edges of the table as if that too was going to fly upright. Richard, immediately goes stark white, and nearly sick to his stomach with fright!

Okay, this isn't a shaking table that's causing it. Tigra realizes this even before pasta begins to leap off other plates. The obvious thing to do, in event of animated pasta, would be to relocate to a different restaurant. Perhaps a good steakhouse. Of course, Tigra, being an Avenger, doesn't follow this prudent course of action, much as she wishes she could. "Get down, everyone!" she urges as she, herself, gets up, removing hat and coat. "Luigi, is this you?" she asks.

None of the tables intend to move. They might at best jiggle a little as the force around them. Threats really lie in the pasta, gouts of sauce splattered everywhere. Luigi doesn't say a word while he glares at the homeslice in his leather jacket, who is now raising his arms protectively and shouting while his date squeals and runs to hide behind a coat rack. Really, she doesn't get points. Sheets of lasagna follow her. Noodles fling here and there in the air have some degree of accuracy. Some.

Aerodynamic pasta really isn't, tossed at the women and men present. Those can take cover under the tables do, and some run for the door shrieking of ghosts. Tigra, brave Avenger, could snap the food out of the air. But hey, that's not happening either.

"They insult the food! It's good foo — "

He takes a bowl of alfredo-soaked pasta to the face. Probably not Luigi.

Lets be clear, this is something that Richard didn't expect. Most of the family knows that Jean is a mutant, and they know that their children could turn out to be one just by blood association alone. However, Richard wasn't in on this secret, he wasn't even apart of this life until .. well.. tonight. So naturally he freaked out, a shriek driving from the man as he backs himself away from the table to crawl underneath, his hands gripping Jean's tiny ankles to try to drag her under like a wet rag and easily movable. It was quite a subtle movement, the kick of her leg to his nose, and a loud 'SHHHH' which was hissed underneath the table followed by a *THUMP*.

Someone went to sleep.

Richard gone night night.

But, to watch everything was amusing and amazing all at once. Amusing because there was food flying, and a noddle was picked from the air and immediately plucked into her mouth. Amazing because.. -OHGODTHEREISANAVENGER!- Jean would point, point Tigra out if it weren't for the mass food hyster— *PLUCK!* *MUNCHMUNCH* She sighs, leaning an elbow upon the table as a meatball splatters against her arm, which was reached around and grabbed at, and palmed to her mouth to bite.

In reality, while everything was amazing and great, she still was a sad sack who used the chaos to revel in her own little misery. "This food really -is- good.." Oh god, she really is going to turn into a chubby lady. At least she'll be cute..

Certainly pasta and food could be slapped out of the air, but it seems less than efficient, really. Especially if it's some sort of mutant at the root of it. Probably telekinetic, 'cause, really, 'pastakinetic?' Tigra's thinking if she can get Luigi to calm down she can keep this from getting out of—well crap. There goes that plan. Instead, she tries to escort the jerk and girlfriend out of the restaurant. Not the sleeping jerk, the one who insulted the food. "Come on, let's get you people out of here!" And okay, now she'll slap and slice at food that passes nearby.

So much pasta, pasta everywhere. Even the smallest noodles, the orzo, is flung from a bowl and minestrone zuppa loses its precious haul of soft noodles to slap around. Waves of it slash around in soggy waves for the unprepared and undefended. It's slip-sliding madness as whole red sauce bombs burst in air, coating the ceiling and hitting the floor. Even the mirrors are soaked in it, anger prevalent in someone. Luigi doubles over and wipes his face off, cursing loudly in Italian. Don't translate, it'll scorch your ears. From the kitchen, a cook shouts, "What in the name of Mary's sweet heart is happening? Out! Out!"

It's a bit late to be shouting that considering they're all at great risk of tripping and falling. One victim in fact does, knocked out by smacking his face on a plate that happens to be on the ground. The pasta rage continues!

Perhaps the most amusing thing to an outsiders vantage point is Jean. The loan lady in the chair, munching on a meatball, being smacked by noodles and sauce and completely getting -wrecked- by it all. One meatball smacks and leaves it's 'carbon' footprint upon her chest, then rolls down in between the tables to rest helpfully upon her sleeping dates nose. Another glob of noodles tangle within her hair, and that dress that she borrowed from Team Redhead numero uno? Forgettaboutit!

She does use a hand to shield her eyes so that she could watch and see the others move and rush away, the expert way that Tigra bats at the meatballs and sah-getti like a kitten at work (which she is! And that's amazing to see!), her shoulders slowly lifting with a solid frump down as her hands were planted upon the table.

She wanted to say enough. People were getting hurt! But goddamn if she wasn't going to laugh til it hurts once she's in the shower.

"Alright alright!" She cries out, her hands waving akimbo in a surrendering motion. "The food is really great! You're going to let one guy get you upset because his mother didn't hug him as a child? I mean come on! Look at the numbers!" Her fingers soon press to her forehead, her mind scanning the workers in the back, surface thoughts, and those connected to the cash tills and receipts.

"There are close to five hundred dishes sold per night, that's quite possibly two per table at hour intervals, which is an upwards of at least twenty dollars per table. Lenny in the back knows the older couple who've come in since their first date always on the same day to eat this delicious food! Their children and grand children come in when they have enough money to spare on a night out! Take those figures and the vendors that are happy to sell to you guys and realize that this place is quite hip and totally awesome! You guys rake in close to a thousand a night because it's just gosh darn good and we're all fans of delicious flavor!"

There was a pause, then a stop in her speech to suffer a smack upon the cheek with a meatball, which was quickly plucked from it's altered path and smushed into her mouth.

"Mmfh.. guf foo! Payinf furb ub tub gub pafe!"

"This lasagna tastes like Bigfoot's dick!" shouts the much washed over jerk with a leather jacket, no doubt cursing his luck. "It's not my fault your garbage food is so terrible!" His efforts to cover his face fades a bit when quite a few meatballs splat him in the face. The forceful waves of unseen power come forth, slamming into him, shoving him back across the floor. Kicks and shoves knock him about, while no one else is interceding on that front.

The clattering noise in the kitchen is reduced and one of the cooks falls over, squawking slightly. "Dia! Enough, enough!"

Noise diminishes once Luigi's prone enemy is booted outside.

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