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Foggy had come to the hotel a handful of times over the last few months but this particular stint was problematic because he was stuck. While he liked the free mini-vacations, being away from his work and his clients for this long was a little grating and he was starting to get stir crazy.

There wasn't much need for an attorney in the hotel, considering there weren't many people with legal troubles and, well, he was only familiar with the law in the US and particularly in New York but there was always room for another cook. Foggy was actually a decent cook because he'd paid attention when his mom made things and then had a streak in college when he wanted to impress a girl and watched any and everything he could find on the Food Network. The girl hadn't worked out but the recipes had stuck around which is why he found himself in the hotel kitchen taking over for a suddenly sick chef.

He had always had a soft spot for Mexican food and while his spin on it probably wasn't as good as it could be, he put a lot of heart into it. It wasn't hard to whip up quesadillas, a nice cheese dip and some homemade salsas and guacamole and Foggy was in a really good mood once everything started heating up on the grill and putting a pleasant, comforting aroma in the air. It was like home in more ways than one and he was hoping that Matt would be around to enjoy.

Once he'd finished up cooking, he went back out into the dining room proper for two purposes: one, to eat his creation and two, to take additional orders.

"Anyone want any of these delicious quesadillas? I've also got a tamale recipe if you ask me really, really nicely."

As long as they didn't do it in Spanish. He might be able to cook from the menu but he still didn't speak the language more than a few things here and there.

Damn his decision to take Punjabi.

Foggy had presumed that this particular hallucination was simply the result of too little sleep and too much stress so after repeatedly trying to put the whole thing to bed for the past several days, he resigned himself to the fact that either A) he had actually gone insane, which would affect his ability to practice law to some great extent or B) The Nexus was a real place, removed from New York and Hell's Kitchen and anything familiar.

Foggy had never particularly been enamored of insanity as a legal construct but contemplating it as an actual medical condition was a hell of a lot more frightening. He decided the cure for said insanity was going to be to drink, a lot, and had taken himself down to the Smoking Room to do that exact thing. It wasn't his usual place, no, but since that was currently unavailable to him, he needed to take advantage of the next best thing.

It really had to be stress. He was carrying as many secrets as a parish priest the week before Easter and there was a reason he'd never been interested in being a priest. While being an attorney meant carrying a number of secrets, there were ways to divulge those secrets through discovery and arguments and to purge one's self of that burden. Hell, as an attorney, he could confess to his priest and be covered both ethically and legally. But being a priest, or, apparently, Matt Murdock's best friend, meant carrying secrets he couldn't tell to anyone. It meant carrying things he'd never share with another soul.

"Keep 'em coming. Just leave the bottle, actually," Foggy said, plunking some cash down on the bar in front of him. "Might as well just finish it, at this point."

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