He starts shaking his head, the smugness falling away. “I haven’t made a fool of you. If anything, you’ve made a fool ofme. I’ve known Bento for years, and I had no idea how much this place means to him. I knew he was a hard worker and good at his job; that’s why I made him manager and let him hire whoever he wants. I didn’t know Frango Tango was the whole reason he’s been able to make a life for his family in Canada.”
“And that matters to you?” The question slips out before I realize how rude it is, no matter how business-obsessed Julien might seem. I instantly feel like an asshole.
He doesn’t answer right away. I drop my eyes and poke at what’s left of my salad with my fork.
“It matters,” he finally says, leaning forward so I’m prompted to look up at him again. “I don’t know who you think I am, but thatdoesmatter to me. Thank you for making me aware of it. I know Bento would never tell me himself.”
I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m staring into a mirror, one that’s forcing me to confront just how over-critical of him I may have been. Julien doesn’t seem to expect a reply; he pops the last few potatoes on his plate into his mouth and downs the last of his water.
“You mentioned a bar?” he prompts, the lightness back in his voice.
“It’s not far.” I lay my knife and fork down on top of the few remaining pieces of lettuce on my sauce-streaked plate and slide out of the booth. “Should we get the bi—Oh, right. You own the place.”
He grins as he shifts his ball cap back into place. “Has its perks.”
He holds the door for me once again like the perfect gentleman scholar, and it’s only when we’re about to enter the dim little dive bar up the street that I realize I haven’t even asked him what he has to tell me about Taverne Toulouse.
Nine
Julien
BOUQUET:The sum of the individual aromas and fragrances that make up a wine’s scent
She’s killingme in that outfit. I’ve appreciated her curves before, but the way that shirt is just loose enough to turn them into soft hints beneath the silk is driving me mad. Her jeans, on the other hand, leave no room for ambiguity; every decadent swell of her hips and thighs is on full, cardiac-arrest-inducing display.
I’m so caught up in memory of her shimmying out of her coat at Frango Tango that I don’t even notice the name of the bar we’re walking into. We step inside a dimly lit space with just enough room for a wood-topped bar running along the entire left-hand wall, flanked with tacky leather barstools only a few feet away from the handful of rickety tables tucked against the opposite wall.
I’m surprised to see most of the seats are occupied. Monroe leaves her jacket on the coat rack beside the door and leads us over to the one remaining table.
“What do you think?” she asks once we’re settled.
I take another look around the place. The walls are so full of mismatched paintings and old photos that the effect is claustrophobic. There’s a string of Christmas lights woven between the bottles on the liquor shelf behind the bar.
“It’s...a dive bar,” I reply.
“One of the best dive bars in the city,” she corrects. “When I was a student, I liked to study here. During the afternoons, it’s actually quieter than any of the cafes near campus.”
“Monroe!” the burly barman calls out. He doesn’t have to shout very loud; we’re hardly more than an arm’s length away from the bar. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in years.”
Monroe tilts her chair back so she can see him better. “I think it reallyhasbeen a year since the last time I was in. How are you, Kevin?”
“I’m still standing, aren’t I?” He points over at the beer taps. “The usual, I take it?”
Monroe nods. Kevin jerks his chin at me. “And for him?”
Apparently it’s not necessary that I receive an introduction.
Monroe let out a laugh. “Heis Julien, and he’ll have the same.”
Kevin is quick to pour our drinks, and Monroe jumps up to grab them from off the bar before I can have a chance to do it myself.
“This is called a pint,” she says sarcastically as she sets my glass down in front of me. “It’s what beer comes in.”
“How crude,” I joke.
She taps the side of her glass. “What you are about to taste is one of the finest amber ales in North America. This is the only place you can get it in Montreal. It’s brewed just outside Boston, and they don’t usually export it up here. Kevin’s cousin co-founded the distillery, and they ship it to the city just for him.”
“You seem to know a lot about the places you eat and drink at,” I comment.
