"Your tea, sir," the waiter says, putting a teapot down on Inric's table. "Thank you." "Can I get you anything else?" "I want to speak to, mm, the person who makes the food," Inric tries, realising mid-sentence that he still doesn't know the relevant word for "baker". The waiter looks briefly horrified, then smiles awkwardly. "Oh, I'm glad you like the pastries! We don't actually have a Guild man on the premises. If you go to the Bakers' Guild Hall, you can ask about the people who supply the teahouses. Would you like directions?" Something about the exchange feels odd, but Inric can't tell how much of that is the language barrier.