Mac moves smoothly; between flipping the browning steak slices and grabbing the roll to toast, he reaches for the hot water spigot-- not getting much use, this side of April-- and fills a glass bar mug. His hand hovers over a dusty bottle of brandy, hidden under the counter, on the back corner of a low shelf-- but he thinks better of it, and grabs some orange zinger instead, plopping the tea-bag into un-adulterated water.

Once the roll is toasting and he's flipped out a tongful of onions to grill with the steak, he covers it all with a pot lid, gives it a little water, and heads over to set the tea in front of Mac. He has better tea, herbal stuff from local suppliers, black leaf that will stand your hair on end (if you have any to stand). But the little box tea, with its cloying tang, is almost desperately mortal. Mass produced. He hopes Morgan appreciates the thought.

"Bartender's choice," he says simply, and places a hand over the top of the mug, spinning it to point the handle at Mac. Then he's back to the grill, finishing up the sandwich.