Monroe
CHAPTALIZATION: The process of adding additional sugar during fermentation to increase the alcohol content of a wine
In additionto putting a sign out on the street, I let DeeDee blast a message to her thousand or so Facebook friends saying there’d be three for one shots at Taverne Toulouse for a limited time this evening. My hope was to attract some sort of crowd for when Fucking Félix Fournier shows up tonight.
I need to get him sweetened up before we go through the numbers together. Why he insists on doing a business meeting at a bar in the evening is beyond me. We could have gone for lunch somewhere like I suggested. It would have been quieter. It would have put him in a better mood than being squished into my broom closet as we shout over the music thumping in the main room, but I’ve long stopped questioning why Fournier does any of the things he does.
Taverne Toulouse is barely half-full when he shuffles through the door at half past six, balding and beer-bellied and scowling at the world. I’m thankful we’ve at least got enough customers to keep him quiet out on the floor. I can only imagine what he’d have to say if he walked in and found the place empty. I myself am having hard time not pulling my hair out in dismay at the sight of the meagre crowd, even if it’s bigger than what we’ve been getting lately.
Fournier likes to show up every six months or so and make noise. I doubt he even knows how many employees we’ve got on the payroll, never mind what their names are, but it makes him feel like he’s doing his part if he can pop in and criticize everyone on the way they’re doing jobs he knows nothing about.
“Monroe,c’est quoi ?a?” he demands once he’s let himself in behind the bar. “What’s going on here? You barely have anymauditcustomers, and you’ve got five people on staff.”
“I have four people on staff.”
He harrumphs. “You’re here, aren’t you? That makes five.”
“I’m meeting with you,MonsieurFournier.” I try not to roll my eyes. “I can’t be out on the floor.”
He just grumbles to himself in answer as I lead the way to my office.
“This place needs work,” he comments, lowering himself onto the stool.
My thoughts exactly, but you won’t let me hire anyone to do it.
“We’re doing our best with what we have.”
He taps some of the papers on my desk. “If this is the best this place can do, then selling is looking more and more like a good idea.”
“Sales are up,” I tell him. I pull up a few documents on my computer and point out the upwards trend—the very slight upward trend that has only occurred within the past few days, but I doubt he’s paying attention. “When our profits are at their normal levels, this place makes you way more as an investment than selling it off would.”
“But profits aren’t at their normal levels. They haven’t been for a long time. The students aren’t coming all the way out here anymore, and nobody pours money into cheap alcohol like the brats from McGill. We used to be the cornerstone of cheap booze and a good time, but competition is catching up.”
“What if we try to attractdifferentclients?” I offer, knowing full well it’s futile to present him with the idea. “This has always been the wrong neighbourhood for a student bar. If we changed things up a little—”
“The only bar that makes real money is a student bar. They don’t give a shit what they’re drinking or where.”
Félix Fournier: business sage extraordinaire. I don’t know where he picked up that idea about student bars, but he’s been trying to bash it into everyone’s brains like it’s gospel since well before I started working here.
“If you want to get the students back, I can do it. I just need time.” I’m grasping at straws, but I need to get him off this train of thought fast.
“Time’s up. I got the contact information for the guy who bought the place next door, some richconnardwho already owns a bunch of restaurants. Shouldn’t be a problem for him to buy this place up. I’ve been talking to my lawyer about how I should make the offer.”
“Give me until June.” I almost shout the words in desperation, my heart hammering in my ears.
“June? It’s April, Monroe.”
“Exactly. Just give me two months to prove this place is worth keeping.”
He’s not convinced. “They’re renovating next doornow. This is the time to sell.”
“No,” I counter. “It’s not. I...I’ve talked to the owner a few times. They’ve decided to stick to their original plans, at least until the place is open. They’ll expand after if the business works out. Even if you offer now, they’re not looking to buy.”
Technically, Julien told me he’s still caught between moving the building process along and going after the extra space we have here, but if Fournier doesn’t make the first move, there’s a good chance Julien will leave Taverne Toulouse alone—for now.
“So I keep this place open untilheopens?” Fournier demands. “Then what? Get run out of business by whatever uppity place he puts in next door and lose who knows how much money when I could have just got the place off my hands months before? He’ll buy. Places like this don’t come easy.”
“You said it yourself,MonsieurFournier. The only place that makes real money is a student bar.” Repeating his words like some kind of disciple almost makes me want to shudder, but I hold back the urge. “You’re not going to get run out of business. If anything, the bar next door is the one that’s going to flop, and you’ll be left with a solid money maker that hasn’t failed you for over ten years.”
