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One tick off the Last Supper. One has to wonder if the Apostles sat down to shawarma like a good team, would they have noticed Judas was acting shifty and had a full money pouch after the lot of them were dusty, ill-kempt travelers on the road? Might they have succored the local population? Questions never to be answered.
What can be said on this holiest of grim days, the staff and the Wakandan king have slightly less need to attend religious ceremonies. Neither do they fast. Friday, sure, but hand over that unleavened bread thick with chunks of seasoned meat. The animation comes surely from the fact T'Challa is a regular and speaks inflected Arabic — that of a southerly dialect, brought by traders to Zanzibar and the wealthy East African coast, rather than carried on Moorish winds or Berber camels through the desert climes.
«It's far too quiet for my liking.» This from the chef carving off thin shavings of beef. «You would think something will fall out of the sky any day. God be praised we haven't suffered a loss in business with riots or fires.»
«Things never remain quiet.» A truth spoken by T'Challa. His claws proverbially itch.
Curiosity hasn't killed this cat yet. On a recommendation from a fellow SHIELD member, in enters the posterboy of American freedom. Sidenote that he finds the concept especially trying, hence the civilian garb. Jeans and boots, a bomber jacket with shearling collar, he could be a construction worker just stopping by to sample the cuisine.
He pauses in the entryway only briefly, simply to scan the current crowd. One face in particular looks familiar and his eyes linger on the table seating the King of Wakanda and his staff. Is it…? Eidetic memory kicks in — it is, yes, he knows the face from SHIELD files at the very least. A nod, one that pauses in its dip to imply respect, is given towards their location. He continues to linger, hands in the pockets of his coat, until he decides on a seat at the neighboring table, one more than close enough to have a discussion if the royalty decides to address him.
T'Challa is an ambassador for his people, and that means subtle nods to his culture. A t-shirt? Never. A tunic distinctly embroidered from the standing collar to the hem in a vertical strip of the River Tribe's subtle iconography? Yes. The cufflinks hearken to the border shepherds. No doubt there's something worked into his shoes for the mountain-folk. Mostly he just wants that shawarma and the extra fluffy bread, the stuff of dreams. His heightened senses are bombarded and as long as the familiar spices assault him, he's a happy cat. No purring.
Almost no purring. The king over a fabulously unremarkable small nation in a forgettable corner of the world — believe the illusions, people — certainly knows the key figures of the landscape. One of those out of history standing right there. Sitting, given a bit of time. He drops down his red plastic basket at the table — the Dora Milaje who accompany him are wedged at a two-topper in the corner, away from their liege. A nod is given in return, those grave brown eyes concealing no doubt the real question of where is your partner and why haven't I chased him down the road screaming yet? The answer, the CCCP.
All of the sudden, the red basket is clicking down into place at Steve's table. He glances over from reading through the menu — or at least, attempting to, given that everything smells amazing and he's going by the descriptions of the food more than anything else.
Another brief nod and he smiles mildly. "Your majesty," he murmurs by way of greeting, not overly-loud as to not draw any unnecessary attention. That job belongs to the Dora Milaje, who do so likely as not deliberately, in their own sharp way. "Enjoying your stay?"
He gestures to the open tables, more with an elbow than his hand, for pointing is the height of rudeness. "Would you mind? The seats are few, and I would not take one for myself," T'Challa explains mildly. Some hint of his experience in Cambridge or Oxford carries through his even accent, but the suggestion Steve may not be permitted a similar option of being alone could be construed. Does he mean it? Good luck guessing. He has a cat's nobility, even now.
"T'Challa." His right hand carries the signet ring, and his manner is restrained even here. "It has been eventful."
The Captain looks about the restaurant and back to the other man after finding that no one else has joined them in attendance.
"I don't mind, no. T'Challa then," he echoes, and the pronounciation of the name has its little imperfections. That Brooklyn accent, rooted in the grasshopper-aged Irish, does its best regardless. He sets down the menu on the table, open before himself, and rests intertwined hands upon it, granting the King his full and utterly polite attention. "Eventful? How so?"
T'Challa seats himself opposite Steve. His fragrant flatbread wrapped around a core of largely protein — beef, in this case, and a helping of sauce — deserves proper attention. Pushing the wrapper back in a series of precise, neat folds, he continues the conversation. "Thank you." Manners, then, for all he helps himself in a sense to Steve's table. The assessment he makes is an open one, nothing concealed from mild regard. "The social unrest. This Mr. King leading his march, the protests. We live in interesting times, no?"
The counter back there holds the two men leaning against the wall, chatting casually in Arabic at one another. Are they goggling? Nope.
"Very interesting times, yes. It's honorable, what Doctor King is marching for. His speeches are inspiring. I've had the luck of reading them printed without the newspaper's edits. If there's any man who can reach across that divide…" Steve smiles, the cast of it almost to himself. "He's a pillar of strength in fragile times." The smiles seems to fade as he considers what weight must rest on the orator's shoulders.
His glance falls to the menu once again and he considers it in passing. "If you don't mind my asking, what are you eating there?" He doesn't point either, the flick of his eyes from food to T'Challa's face giving the direction.
"Joining him requires much bravery. Not everyone welcomes such open discussion," T'Challa approaches the matter in the quietest of tones, not the sort of talk meant to travel very far. Yet he isn't hiding his opinion either. Easy when the tapestry of his complexion carries overtones of a transatlantic trade and repression, oppression, and suppression along every breath. "He speaks with conviction. May he find many willing to listen. Not enough to hear."
He turns the wrap around to display it within that precise nest of origami folded wax paper. "What you might call pita bread, with pieces of marinated and grilled beef. They also have chicken on the other spindle." No pork, of course.