“Even with a wine bar next door stealing all our customers?”
There’s no challenge in DeeDee’s question, only defeat. Her usual happy go lucky attitude slips for a second. Her shoulders slump, and the bubblegum pink of her hair almost seems to fade a few shades like a washed-out, wilted rose.
DeeDee has been working here since she was nineteen years old. She could get a job at almost any bar in the city just by bouncing through the door, but Taverne Toulouse gives her something no lounge in the Old Port or bumping club on Saint-Laurent ever will. This bar is a place she can feel safe. The staff here are people she can trust, and when DeeDee showed up with shaking arms and sleepless purple circles under her eyes, she needed that much more than she needed a job.
People like DeeDee are the reason I can’t let this bar go. Taverne Toulouse is a ship, and I am its captain. There’s no way in hell I’ll be anything but that last person to jump off.
“Our customers aren’t going to go to awine bar,” I insist, like the idea is ludicrous. “Julien Valois might know wine, but he doesn’t know this street like we do. We’ll come out on top in the end.”
The assurance seems to perk DeeDee up a little, but I can’t help feeling they’re only empty words. As things stand, we barely have any customers for the wine bar to steal. We’re losing our main client base, and I know Fucking Félix Fournier won’t give me the funds or the opportunity to attract a new one. Investing thousands into remodelling and rebranding with no real assurance of any returns will look way less attractive than the fat pile of cold, hard cash he’ll earn from selling. From a business standpoint, I have to agree that keeping Taverne Toulouse doesn’t make much sense.
Fournier’s never spent a day in his life behind a bar, though. He hasn’t whiled away dozens of afternoons on end polishing glasses and listening to retired old men lament their misspent youths. He hasn’t watched the beginnings of a lifelong love affair play out in the flick of a girl’s hair and the tilt of a boy’s head as he leans in to ask what she’s having.
I knowwhypeople come to bars. I know that when they sit down and ask for a drink, what they’re really asking for is an experience, a memory, a possibility. I know how to give it to them. I know how to make sure they want to come back for more. If this place was mine—really mine—I know I could have it packed to the rafters every night, no matter what kind of bar anyone decided to open up next door.
That’s just a dream, I remind myself.It’s just a fantasy.
I’m a manager. I’m here to make sure everyone’s happy and that everything works out okay. Dreaming about the personal glory of being Nightlife Queen of Avenue Mont-Royal is not going to help anyone else.
“One more keg,” I tell DeeDee. “We’ve got this.”
By the time I’ve got all my work finished for the night and am locking the door to my office, it’s just past eight. I’ve been here since ten in the morning. Everyone always jokes about how I should keep a mattress stashed somewhere in the back. If there was room, I probably would. After my first year of managing, I realized I’d have to give myself a 9PM cut-off time if I didn’t want to totally burn out, but in high season, it’s easy for that hour to come and go without me noticing. Even with the level of business we’re doing now, there’s always somethingthat needs my attention.
“Fare thee well!” I call to Dylan, our main cook, happy to see that he’s got several chits on the board and is running around like there’s actually enough to keep him busy for once.
“Have a good night, Monroe!” he calls back as he dumps a basket of fries onto a plate.
The front of house is half-full for once. I weave between customers and wave goodbye to the servers I manage to spot as I exit onto the street. It’s dark out already, but the cold hasn’t been quite so sharp the past few days. It’ll only be another couple weeks before I get to walk home in the fading traces of daylight.
The lights are on at the prospective wine bar. The paper on the windows still keeps me from seeing inside, but the front door is propped open by a large cardboard box, and a pile of similar boxes are stacked on the sidewalk.
They must have started renovations already, and if they’re working this late at night, then Julien must be paying for things to get done fast.
How rich is this man?
He can’t be much older than thirty, and yet he owns an entire nightclub and just bought up property on one of the most expensive streets in the city. Most people twice his age wouldn’t be able to get a mortgage on this building approved, but he talked about purchasing Taverne Toulouse like it was a second hand coat at a thrift store and his biggest concern was whether or not it would fall apart.
The sight of the boxes sends a wave of dread creeping up my spine. I thought I’d have months and months before this threat became a reality, but here it is, sitting on the sidewalk in front of me just days after the possibility marched up and announced itself.
“Va te faire foutre, salaud!”
The exclamation makes me pause. I can see someone’s shadow stretching out into the road from inside the building. They hunch over, and there’s a loud bang followed by more swear words and the hissing sounds of someone in pain.
I take a few steps closer and call out, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine, I just—oh.”
I move past the box pile to find Julien Valois leaning against the doorframe, clutching his foot.
He stares at me. I blink at him.
“I dropped the box,” he says eventually. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off mine. They watch me from behind his glasses, and my skin starts to heat under his gaze.
“Are you hurt?” I manage to ask.
The question seems to break the trance. He lowers his foot in its fancy leather shoe and tests his weight on it.
“I don’t think so. Maybe bruised, but nothing’s broken, I think.” He grins at me through his beard. “I’m acrétinfor trying to move these myself.”
