For better or for worse, Festival has been dropped into the world of cocktails without any sort of context for what's in style and what's old fashioned - back home it was simply a choice among ale, wine, or hard liquor. He brightens when he hears her order (he'd been a little worried she'd want tea, and then he'd be obligated to drink the same).

"Oh--good idea. Though I prefer a boulevardier. I'll put in the order; we can wait or start as you like."

Without a waiter currently waiting on them, Festival hops up, taking a second to coax Little Thunder onto his arm before he goes to the counter and engages in brief conversation with the staff member there. If she watches, his body language is loose and he's clearly taking a moment to share a joke or two; it takes a bit longer than it would if he'd only gone over and relayed their orders. Then he's back and slipping into his seat.