It's the first service of the new menu -- or at least what will probably stay the new menu, though nobody can really tell with Carmy -- and Richie's that mixture of pumped and exhausted that comes from getting through a significant milestone. He's split his time between expo and the front of house, wanting to be in as many places as possible, and has plenty of notes on how they can do it better next time.

He's stacking glasses onto a tray and thinking about whether they could fit a couple two-tops along the wall instead of the warming trays when he's interrupted by one of the hottest women he's seen since arriving in the manor. Small and perfect, like she's stepped out of a magazine. The kind of woman that makes him feel big and strong and masculine. He's glimpsed her around the place, but hasn't had a chance to catch her name, which he immediately regrets.

Richie grins at the compliment, but the pleasure in his expression lasts only as long as it takes for Parisa to ask him about Carmy, at which point it's wiped away and replaced by an aggrieved scowl. He rolls his eyes.

"Fuckin' Carmy, I knew it!" He throws the napkin he's been using to wipe the table onto the tray, punctuating his annoyance. "Chicks always go for the big sad eyes. Or the tattoos. Is it the tattoos? Fuck! Look, I've got better things to do than make sure that little jagoff gets his dick wet, okay?"