His smirk gets deadly. “Would you like me to prove you wrong again?”
A few steaming plates get carried past us to the next table, and once more, the smell of the food distracts me from all else.
“I think this might be my favourite meal in the whole city,” I announce before he can have a chance to make good on his offer. “Their recipe is perfection. Just goes to show you that you don’t need a fancy exterior for a quality dining experience.”
I’ve been playing with our table number stand, and I point it at him now like a teacher jabbing a ruler at an unruly student. While I really was dying for some Portuguese chicken, my motivations for bringing Julien here weren’t solely based on the meal at hand. I may not have realized it when I first suggested the restaurant, but I later saw the potential in making a lesson out of this date. Julien may not see anything of value in Taverne Toulouse, but maybe that’s just because in all his years of being business savvy, he’s never had anyone sit down and show him whatreallymakes people fall in love with a place.
“Is that so?” he asks, looking way too cocky as he reaches up to stroke his beard.
I don’t know what the hell is up with him tonight, but it’s definitely more than simply being ‘overcome by my beauty.’
Our food arrives like a mirage in the desert, glistening with the promise of untold culinary delight. At this point, if they asked me to trade one of my fingers for a mouthful of those golden brown, pan-seared garlic potatoes, I’d probably consider doing it. The plates are barely on the table before I’m digging in.
“Fuck yes.” I can’t help groaning after the server has left. “This was a good decision. Good job, Monroe. Oh, and look, they’ve outdone themselves this time!”
I point at the herbal garnishes and tasteful arrangement of the salad on my plate. An intricatemise en placeis not usually Frango Tango’s priority.
“So they have,” Julien retorts, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s snickering at me. He hasn’t even touched his plate yet, choosing instead to watch with bemused fascination as I devour mine.
“You’re missing out,” I tell him as I go in for more potatoes.
We focus on our dinners for the next few minutes. In between bites, I get Julien to admit that the chickenispossibly the best chicken he’s ever tasted, and at least the best chicken he’s had in Montreal.
A familiar face appears at our booth when we’re nearly done, though I doubt he remembers me. He does, however, seem to recognize Julien.
“MonsieurValois,Madame,” he says in Portuguese-accented French, dipping his head at each of us. “I’m sorry I didn’t come out sooner, boss. How is your meal?”
“Perhaps you should ask the lady instead of me, Bento,” Julien replies with a smirk. “She’s the guest here tonight.”
Bento turns to me just as I’m wiping a glob of sauce off my face with my finger. His eyes light up with recognition.
“I know you,Madame! You used to eat here all the time, didn’t you?”
“That’s me,” I admit.
Boss? What the hell did he mean by that?
“I hope you still find the food just as good?”
“Better, even,” I reply. “It’s fantastic, Bento. Thank you very much.”
He nods his acknowledgement of the compliment. “I have a good team.”
He and Julien exchange a few comments about how business at the restaurant is going. Bento stands with his spine straight, his words delivered with the caution and deference of a private addressing a general. By the time he leaves, I’ve figured out exactly what’s going on here.
“You own Frango Tango.” I hurl the statement at Julien like an accusation, slapping my palms down on the table on either side of my plate.
He raises his shoulders in a guilty-as-charged shrug. “And I truly appreciate all the lovely things you’ve had to say about it.”
“Don’t make me throw this potato at your face,” I fume. “God, you are such a...a...maudit connard de chriss.”
He screws his face up. “That insult does not even make grammatical sense.”
“The Québécois are not concerned with grammatical sense when it comes to swearing.”
“That I will agree to.” He grabs his drink and shifts back from the table, watching me with a mixture of smugness and very justified fear.
“Have you enjoyed making a fool of me?” I demand.
