WHITE WHALE: A term used within the beer tasting and brewing community to describe a beer that is exceptionally rare or difficult to obtain
I grabmy best friend’s hand for what must be the sixth or seventh time today and bring it closer to me where we’re both sitting on my couch, peering down at her ring finger.
“You’re going to stretch my wrist ligaments or something,” Roxanne complains, but she still lets me twist her hand around to make the diamond catch the light.
“It’s just so perfect!” I exclaim. “It’s so...soyou, you know? Cole knows you so well.”
Roxanne Nadeau, my best friend of many years and a former employee of Taverne Toulouse, got engaged yesterday. Her ring really is perfect for her: a rough diamond set in a plain gold band. It’s simple but so unique, with that same raw and unexpected beauty she blends so well with a touch of delicacy.
I already went through the screaming and crying phase of finding out Cole proposed. I’ve known him even longer than I’ve known Roxanne, and if their relationship was an ice cream flavour, it would beextrarocky road. They’ve been to hell and back for each other, and there’s no couple I know who deserves a happy ending more than they do.
“Are you planning an extra special surprise way to ask me to be your maid of honour?” I ask Roxanne.
She snorts. “Voyons, what surprise? Do I even need to bother asking? It’s obvious I’ve already picked you.”
Roxanne and I got to know each other under somewhat unorthodox conditions. She left her home in northern Quebec as a teenager and came to Montreal all by herself with next to nothing. Cole found her and eventually asked his most generous female friend to give Roxanne a place to stay until she could save up a few months of rent. He also asked said generous friend to help find a job for the little runaway at her bar.
Spoiler alert: the generous friend was me, and the bar was Taverne Toulouse. Roxy started off as a dishwasher and lived on my couch for the better part of a year. She barely spoke a word of English back then, but we bonded through our impromptu language lessons and ended up inseparable. I would full-on bitch slap her if she asked anyone else to be her maid of honour.
“You’re making me feel cheap,” I joke. “You could at least buy me a card.”
“Okay, Monroe.” She pulls her hand out of my grip and uses it to pat me on the shoulder. “I’ll buy you a card.”
I get up when I hear the kettle finish boiling and select two mugs from my extensive and borderline obsessive collection before pouring us some tea. I bring the drinks back to where Roxanne’s still on the couch, facing the massive framed portrait of Charles Dickens that takes up a large part of the opposite wall.
Charles Dickens was the man.
I manage to find two coasters with Latin printed inscriptions on them under the pile of papers and books on my coffee table. I’m just taking my first sip when my phone starts vibrating on the arm of the couch. I grab it with a groan. Managing anything in the food and drink industry means that real ‘days off’ gets reduced to a pleasant idea it’s nice to think about sometimes. I amalwayson call.
I let out a second groan when I see the name on the screen.
“Fuck, it’s Félix Fournier.”
“Fucking Félix Fournier!” Roxanne choruses.
For some reason, we only ever refer to the owner of Taverne Toulouse by his full name. It’s usually accompanied by an expletive—because alliteration is fun, and also because my boss is a dickhead.
I get up off the couch and wander over to the kitchen as I accept the call.
“Bonjour,Monsieur Fournier,” I greet him.
“Is it really a ‘good day,’ Monroe?” he continues in French. “I got those sales reports.”
“I find them just as...troubling as you do, I’m sure.” I have to pause and search for the right word. My French is good, considering I didn’t really start learning the language until I moved to Montreal for my undergrad, but I still falter from time to time.
“I understand a lull after Christmas, but this...What’s going on, Monroe?”
“I promise you, Monsieur Fournier, if I knew what was wrong, I would already be working on fixing it. I’ve double-checked everything. The numbers just...dropped. It—”
“Is it the staff?” he interrupts. “I know you have your favourites, but maybe I need to come in and—”
“I know my staff,” I retort, as sharply as I dare, “and they are not the problem. Everyone working there right now is excellent at what they do. I’ve let anyone we can spare go already. If we drop any more employees, we won’t be able to stay open full time. They’re already so starved for hours that I’m scared some of our best will quit.”
“We can barelyaffordto stay open full time as it is. You’re the manager, Monroe. If you can’t figure out what’s going wrong...”
I feel my spine stiffen at his implied threat.
“With all due respect, Monsieur Fournier, you said it yourself: I am themanager. I’m not a market researcher or an advertising specialist or even an interior designer. I’ve worked to know something about all of those things, but all myjobreally consists of is managing the staff and overseeing most of the finances. I would be happy to do more, of course, but without the proper—”
