Lev looks around too, struck by the exact same thought. What if there's a king? A king with a secret police, to boot? They wrench their attention back to Jeff, forcibly.

"Customer service?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. The term is entirely unfamiliar; Lev's from a time and a place where, prior to the Revolution, waitstaff were still more or less in a category of their own, and those working at shops were clerks, or cashiers, or in a very fancy department store, attendants.

As oblivious to social nuances as they can be by default, they're not, however, so obvious as to not have learned to compensate. And in any case, they've seen a lot of people struggling with Yiddish, with Ladino, with even loyshn-koydesh, the holy tongue of prayer and Torah. They pick up on Jeff's discomfort.

"Oy! Apologies," they say, with a practiced charming smile. "I meant kind and ah, nu. Compassionate. Merciful. Worry not about the specific word. I ..." they pause, and look aside, somewhat abashed. "I feel strange, talking in a language I never learned. So like, if I use mine own languages, and thou understand'st me not ... please, hesitate not and ask me, nu?"