“I might spit in their food,” I say, “but just my luck, a health inspector might be out there in line, too.”

“Caleb, shouldn’t you make a call?”

I get back to the stove. “To report what? Three men standing quietly in line wearing yellow? Those guys weren’t in the crew that was with Ty and his baseball bat.”

“Fine,” she says, digging through her pockets, taking out her phone and putting it on a shelf, between a stack of paper boats. “One of those yellow jerks does so much as lift their voice, I’m calling 911.”

“I love it when you stick up for me,” I say.

“Up yours, Caleb, I’m protecting Killer Chef.”

I feel better getting back to work. That’s my Marlene.

The three guys come closer and closer, and even the other customers in line can sense something is off about them. The gangbangers aren’t saying anything, aren’t making any threatening moves, aren’t doing a damn thing.

Which is out of place. Everybody else in line is slightly buzzed, or talking loudly, or taking photos of the line or selfies, some dancing in place to music from a nearby nightclub. But these members of the Franklin Avenue crew are stoic and hard-looking, just patiently moving forward with the rest of the line, and customers in front of and behind them are giving them lots of space.

Even if they don’t know what’s going on, these hungry folks in line are smart enough to stay as far away as they can from potential trouble.

I focus on chopping, cooking, plating, sliding the food over, and then there are four customers in front of them, then three, then one, and—

They just stand there.

“Help you fellas?” Marlene asks, as harried and friendly as ever.

No answer.

“Guys?”

Their faces are determined, humorless, and I stand next to Marlene, making sure the three of them can see the knife in my hand.

I say, “Good evening, gents, what’s your pleasure tonight?”

The lead one slowly lifts up his hand, makes a pointing gesture at me with his finger, waving it back and forth, back and forth, and says, “Shit, man, our pleasure is gonna be any night we choose.”

The other two laugh, and then they walk away.

I go back to my station.

Marlene remains her take-charge self. “Next!”

After another hour of frantically toasting baguettes, slicing up chuck roast, and flash-frying shrimp, my apron is soaked through with sweat. Plus I’ve run out of raw jalapeños, my lifeblood when I’m cooking, and our food stocks are just about gone, too.

The gangbangers haven’t come back, which is fine.

They were here to send a message, and their message was certainly received.