By Mia Hanuska
The wind rattles the trees, the rain hits the ground in fat drops. Bright headlights pierce the murkiness, splitting and illuminating the backs of the traffic backed up on the street. I step out of my car, my coat pulled tight around me as my heels click the sidewalk. My umbrella quickly expands, and I strut toward the smell of glazed chicken and egg drop soup. The illuminated sign above the building tells me I’m at the right place: P.F. Chang’s.
Entering the establishment, I approach the hostess.
“One table for four, please.” I request. “Don’t worry, my guests will be arriving soon.”
“Right this way, ma’am.”
I’m led to a circular booth, where I quickly shed my coat to reveal the outfit I selected specifically for this momentous event. A long ruby gown drapes down my legs; the bodice heavily structured yet still appropriate. My hair swings across my back, half tied back with a ruby ribbon matching my dress. My ears and neck shine in dainty gold jewelry—I dressed my best.
I’m handed a menu, and soon, my first guest arrives, a couple minutes early. Unable to stand, I remain seated and shake his gloved hand as he scoots into the booth on my left.
“Hey,” he grimaces, adjusting his vest and tie. He’s dressed in a sleek black double-breasted suit, his bright white shirt almost glowing green in the dim lighting. His tie is a dark scarlet, and his gloves look nearly molded to his hands. He looks, well, like what he is: a 17-year-old dark mob boss far too familiar with death.
“Hey, Kaz. Please tell me you kept most of your weapons at home,” I tease, nodding at his hands that had started drifting toward his coat. His cane leans up against the edge of the table, the red lights above the table glint on the shiny crow head adorning the top of the cane. To most, this cane looks fairly innocent—who would suspect someone with a limp?—but I knew better.
“Ah yes, I refrained this time. As per your invite’s request.” He surrenders his hands in the air, looking somewhat disappointed. “Although Inej is probably lurking around somewhere. You know her.”
Yes, yes I did. Inej and I had quite the run-in a couple years ago when I accidentally got a little too close to the Crows while on vacation in London—anyhow, that’s a story for another time.
“The others should be arriving soon. You know what you want to eat?” We’d never been to P.F. Chang’s together, but I knew he was somewhat familiar with the food the restaurant offers. As he takes the menu, I see our next guest enter.
“Ah, apologies for the delay!” he approaches, “I’m Dean Kamen!” I knew full well who this 74 year-old man is, and not just from the all edits I had seen from teams on Instagram Reels. He sits to the left of Kaz, and I have to inch more to the right to make room. Unlike me and Kaz, he dresses simply in a blue linen collared shirt (no tie) paired with easy khakis. He instantly starts talking about how excited he is to finally at an authentic Chinese restaurant, and how he’s never gotten the opportunity to eat at P.F. Chang’s before!
After an uncomfortably long streak of questions from Dean inquiring about Kaz’s lack of a formal education and experience in robotics (and a subsequent pitch for Kaz to join FRC), we finally order our meals. Dean keeps the table incredibly talkative, always prompting me for more fun robotics stories—many of which are heavily cleaned up—and not-so-subtly trying to convince Kaz to join a local team. After nearly 45 minutes of listening to Dean’s various speeches and questions, and almost an hour and a half after the time listed on the RSVP, the final guest skips into the restaurant.
In a simple black hoodie with a gold star design on the front and worn blue jeans, Lin Manuel Miranda slides over to the table, making himself at home next to Dean.
“I’m heeeeeerrrrreeeeeee,” he sings. Then suddenly he lays down a beat and starts rapping,“P.F. Chang’s it’s the place to be. Two pints of Sam Adams but I’m working on three…”
He scratches his chin, looking confused about how that last line ended up there.
“Um, wrong musical I believe,” I help him out. I don’t think he heard that, though, as his head is deeper in the menu than an anteater’s tongue in an anthill. He quickly orders, while rapping, and continues practicing his beat.
“This is Lin, by the way. Lin, this is Kaz”—I gesture to my left—“and Mr. Kamen”—I gesture further to my left. The two other guests shake Lin’s hand, although Kaz does so quite gingerly. He’s not big on touch.
Lin and Dean quickly create a ruckus, singing and talking over each other to impressively loud levels. We get quite a few noise complaints from nearby as neither adult chose to settle down. As our meals arrive—and Lin orders—the waiter comments, “has anyone seen my pen? It was a super nice one; I really liked it. No worries if not though!”
We shake our heads and thank him for the food; none of us had seen it. As we eat, Kaz and I start up conversation about the math of gambling, and he teaches me a couple of cool card tricks. I occasionally interject into the adults’ conversation, which, while originally beginning around talking about teaching young kids important life skills, somehow devolved into Lin creating a rap about Segways with horrendous backup vocals from Dean himself.
Unfortunately, the time to pay comes too soon, and we split the bill three ways (Kaz kindly covered my bill). Pulling his wallet out of his pocket, Lin Manuel Miranda screeches in song, “why are all my cards backwards? And my change is gone!” The whole restaurant instantly stops and looks his way.
“Pardon?” Everything looked normal to me. Then Dean pulls out his wallet too.
“Hey, where’d all these business cards come from?” A stack of multicolored cards fall from his wallet. Sadly, this triggers a long lecture about the sustainability of the business card business and that new cards need to be invented.
Hmm. I look toward Kaz, who sits silently in front his bill, cash and coins stacked in neat piles. He signs his name on the receipt in a suspiciously familiar pen, and glances over at me. I ask him the silent question, did you do this?
His eyes simply reply, look at their wrists. Bright white tan lines now shine on both adult’s wrists, their watches nowhere to be found.
Kaz… I warn.
I turn away, and, watch as Kaz begrudgingly slips everything back into place. He calls over the waiter too.
“Excuse me? I think I found your pen!” Oh boy. Overjoyed, the waiter brings us an extra gluten-free chocolate souffle to take to-go in gratitude. We file out, everyone with all their belongings, and only their belongings, although Kaz’s pockets look a little full.
I climb back in my car, knowing one thing and one thing only: that poor P.F. Chang’s is definitely blacklisting us.