Sitting at the table, two lads are resting, looking at each other within the emptiness of a pause for a nap. The radio is on and the Captain is sleeping.
There are customers arriving while others are leaving. They come for the usual meal or simply for a shot of bagaço.
Sometimes it is possible to have a close look of the cook, a french styled gentleman whose life is embedded in a closet whose doors open into a universe of knives and meat cutters, of scissors and other tools of dubious usefulness. But he is a master of the illusion of cutlery, transforming his pommes de terre into extravagant and delicious gourmet dishes.
Some other times the boss, a cock with a german accent, shows up, a vertigo element with his hasty daily habit of making a fuss.