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Noon on a Thursday in New York is hardly the quietest time. East Village is a bit off the beaten path, as far as diplomats, envoys, and political sorts embroiled in a growing fight at the United Nations go. It's more than a few stops into areas of ethnic diversity parallel to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. All the more reason for T'Challa to venture in. The segregation apparent in the whitewashed parts of the city is less of a concern here, though he certainly doesn't make himself more of a target than he is by coming with a full entourage. Just himself for the day. He isn't interested in briefing papers or anything more than grilled meat, done properly, smelling as heavenly as it should. The cloying body odors and reek of fear and wrath, and his skull doesn't pound with raised heartbeats and voices. He slouches in, which for him means standing fractionally less straight. The menus aren't even consulted as he approaches the staff on hand. Arabic coming from his mouth is not the greatest surprise in the world, but he makes his order quick. «And a Coke.» Added as an afterthought. Terrible choice, really. But it's been a day and a saucer of milk is not in the damn cards.
Off the beaten path is a selling point for a curious feline like Tigra. Two roads diverged, and she's happy to take the one less travelled by, which in this case brings her to Shawarma Palace. She doesn't know what shawarma -is- but has heard this is something to try out. The chill in the air doesn't bother her, especially not compared to Jotunheim, but it's an excuse to wear a broad brimmed hat and long coat, giving concealment without hiding as she goes out in feline form. No way will she limit herself when trying a new food to human senses. She pauses just inside the door, inhaling deeply before stepping to the ocunter to see what the staff recommends.
T'Challa's understanding of the fine points of doner is fairly advanced, as are many things. Rotating spindle of goodness? He's all over that, especially when the promise of a fresh cut off the large chunk rotating around like a paper towel roll awaits him. A few coins and bills drop into the hand of the cashier, and he moves aside to allow the next person to order. No doubt they'll be uncomfortable with him no matter what happens; he is not a small man. His hands go into his pockets, and he watches the woman's appearance. No mistaking a cat for a cat; even if there aren't whiskers or an eared helm in question. "The chicken is a fine choice," he says when the cook staff are consulted; that's a broad, general inquiry, right? He apparently thinks so.
Well. Well, well, well. Isn't this an interesitng looking fellow. His size and presence would be intimidating to her, despite his cultured air, were it not for her own capabilities. Tigra tilts her head slightly at his suggestion, considering it, and then looks to the staff. "I'll try the chicken," she says. "Thanks for the suggestion," she says with a quick smile for the gentleman.
"You are welcome." The sign on the wall declares proudly that it's the city's best shawarma. At least it smells good in the restaurant. Whether or not the food backs up the claim remains to be seen as the two counter staff take up knives and saw off thin shreds to capture in a cradle of fluffy flatbread. The first comes over to ask what T'Challa would like for his additions. Lettuce, of course, lots of vegetables are on display. He considers them, briefly, then back to the woman. "Customary to add fattoush, the mixed greens and tomatoes there, or tabbouleh, which has mint, onion, parsley, and bulgur. If you do not like lemon joice, not the best of choices."
Not for the first time is Tigra grateful to not be as much a pure carnivore as her four legged cousins. "Well, I'll go with fattoush, then. I'm a touch sensitive to mint, and it might overwhelm the other flavors for me. Wouldn't want that for my first taste of this." She then offers her hand in greeting. "Tigra," she offers.
Carnivore T'Challa is not, either. He can appreciate garlic, and once you've had that in an olive oil splash with heat, forget ever going back to raw bloody scraps of meat. He's not actually a cat, merely possessed by the divine energies of one. He pauses as Tigra offers her hand. Not an unknown convention, but still. His own hand is firm, solid, that of someone who works in manual labour of a kind. Strong, solid. The only point of interest perhaps is the metal ring worn on his left hand, smooth and warm. "Strong name. T'Challa." Hausa, it bounces off the tongue.
If cats could learn to cook, the world might be in serious trouble. Tigra's cognizant that she's offering her hand to a black man, and is self-aware enough to know once upon a time she would have been hesitant. Her own grip is warm and friendly. Slight pressure, not the firm grip that a guy gives to a guy, even if memories of Gareth briefly surge to try to influence that. She finds herself surprised at how the hand seems at odds with his very elegant suit. "Unusual name," she responds with a small smile. "Here, at least."
If cats could cook, let's not consider the implications. The cogent theory of cats not having thumbs to give humanity a fighting chance is not entirely without basis. He shakes the woman's hand, and withdraws again. The fine balance between familiar and unfamiliar he must respect, and he does, not about to cause a social incident even if a few other diners in the place are probably uncomfortable mildly with it. "Yes. It would be unusual to find something not based on Latin or German." The King of Wakanda isn't above downplaying certain things. "I'm not American, as you may guess."
Tigra's a human-feline hybrid who normally runs around dressed barely legally. Social incidents are not a significant factor to her. "Unusual, but not completely impossible, of course." Her smile twitches briefly towards a grin, or perhaps a smirk. "You're not? I was certain you had to be. Had you down from Jersey."
Clothing optional is a few years in the future yet. Hippies aren't a common term. Not a lot in the way of Woodstock goers. Poor them, T'Challa being a product of a society with far better dress sense than many. On the other hand, he sometimes wears a fur-lined coat in the middle of August. "Ah, your meal is up," he points out. His own is contained in a red basket, handed over. "Jersey Isle? A far cry." Fine, the accent is very mildly English in slant.
Tigra almost always wears a fur coat, August or April. Damn stylish one, too. "Ahha," she says, taking her meal eagerly, after asking for a Coke to go with it. "Join me?" she invites, moving to a table. "Joisey," she then says. "New Jersey, next state over."
It takes him a moment to do the mental calculation. "Ah, yes! The state across the river. It's not somewhere I have had much opportunity yet to explore." He shifts slightly, and he has no concern about joining a stranger to dine. Dining alone is a sin. He nods to one of the smaller tables instead of the six top. To be fair, there are basically five tables to pick from, so that might prove to be significant one way or another. He settles into a seat only after her, having some sense of manners.
A quick grin as it takes him a moment to get what she's talking about. Tigra slides gracefully into a seat, tail draped out of the way, and waits fo rhim to sit before eagerly taking a quick bite of her food. "Oh, that is good," she murmurs in approval, momentarily forgetting about whether he's from Jersey or not.
Settling into the chair, T'Challa pokes about at the tomatoes and aligns those that fell free of their flatbread blanket to their proper spots. Call it a necessity to properly experience the shawarma palace bliss he's come to be mildly addicted to. Not that the Panther will ever tell. He curls his fingers around the wrapped sandwich and takes a bite, the momentary bliss rolling over him. Something to be said when the stars align just so. "Mm. That's fantastic."