A/N: Perhaps one of the hardest chapters I've written to date. It's what personal experience does to writers, I suppose. Reunions scare and enchant me all the same. The uncertainty of a past coming together once again towards an unknown future—that is what makes a reunion so beautiful. This was very, very hard to write and I took so long trying to get myself to face it. I finally did; here it is.
There is a clear difference from Chip and Xander's, because, well, their reunion did not involve the slow breaking apart of things that were once whole. Something long drawn out can perhaps hurt more than anything else and to witness the tragedy and not be able to do anything about it is perhaps the greatest suffering of all.
The next chapter would be so much easier for me to write hahaha, and that's honestly ironic, if you read till the end of the chapter and understand what is the 'likely' content of the next.
Thank you for waiting. Candles represent the passing of time. They burn until extinguished.
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[Vanilla]
He was late.
I had, myself, been seated prior to the half-hour we'd agreed upon, having arrived a perfect seven minutes early and made good conversation with the host before being honorably attended to by the restaurant's general manager. He'd recognized me from across the room and had, at once, made his way to the entrance to be my personal escort. I was not disappointed; Chef Louviere's had maintained the impeccable standards it set for design and service since its first opening in Versailles.
The initial concern I had was with punctuality, in that I would find myself a disastrous five to ten minutes late having unfortunately encountered some public humiliation that involved being drenched waist up and a decent suit ruined. I hadn't so much as bothered to write the draft of anything I wished to say about Chef Andre's, and so I'd headed back to my apartment for a quick shower and re-evaluation of my evening attire. This, I'd spent a decent amount of time doing.
It seemed almost necessary that my mind entertain the contemplation of additional accessories; of course, the intention was to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic for our first dinner in seven years but there was certainly no denying the fact that I had been saving the pair of suspenders for special occasions. Once, to the final interview for an internship at the Times, and another, at my godfathers' renewal of vows—courtesy of still being madly in love with one another. The most recent occasion was Giselle's wedding.
Those aside, I could not bear exposing such exquisite leather to the light. How an idiot like himself could afford such luxurious material and quality back then remained quite the astonishing mystery. The suspenders were long lasting; with a look and fashion that stood the test of time, continuing to stay within my closet of taste that had, with maturity and age, narrowed every step of the way. A sharp indifference was the key to the wardrobe of every critic and a pair of slim leather braces had, somewhere along the way, developed into the height of androgynous fashion.
"I hope you're feeling better this evening, Mr. White. Perhaps Chef Louviere could impress you with some specials? Or maybe you would like a glass of red for a pick-me-up?"
Raising my gaze with a blink, I was slow to ask what it was he meant by a pick-me-up; slightly confused by the implication that I was upset or in some way or other, not my usual self. Manager John recovered with an embarrassed shake of his head, offering, in response, the tasting menu before running through today's specials and then excusing himself to allow myself some privacy for a decision.
Quite frankly, I'd spent the next couple of seconds piecing things together for several possibilities: one, that the manager was somehow miraculously aware of the anxiety-inducing evening I was about to have with the massive, certified idiot of my life; two, that he'd seen the Twitter thread earlier this morning about Chef Andre's dissent towards my review; three, videos of said chef splashing an entire glass of infused water on my face had made their way across the net.
The last of conclusions wouldn't have been very surprising considering the manager's profiling and how, statistically speaking, he'd be one of the few who'd have such things recommended on his feed.
"Yes sir, how may I help you?"
The server assigned to my table had approached moments after making eye contact and observing my nod. Prior to visiting, I'd intended to order the specialty eight-course for my companion and the new vegan alternative for myself. I consulted the server, curious about guest reception of the recently-devised menu.
"So sorry, euh, pardon?"
"Has the new vegan menu been well-received by your guests?" I rephrased, slowing down and narrowing the subject to something more specific. "I am curious what they might think of roasted celery root... do you serve the same on your vegetarian menu as well?"
The server seemed to struggle with the processing of this and, after a moment or two of staring into space, flashed an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, if you could speak slower because I am still learning English..."
"Aimeriez-vous mieux que je parle français?" I tried instead, inferring from his accent before promptly crafting a back-up in my head just in case I'd made a mistake and he preferred another language. Fortunately, he brightened up at once.
"Oui monsieur! Tu—parlez-vous français? Euh... je suis désolé pour mon mauvais anglais."
"Tu travailles à partiel?" I asked, inferring from his groomed appearance and youthful spirit. Likely a college student funding his education with the minimum of three part-time jobs for mere survival.
"Oui monsieur. Je suis encore étudiant. Euh... Le Cordon Bleu?" He said with an expression that was a cross between a frown and a smile, unsure if I was familiar with the name. Considering the fact that I would be starting my first day as a guest lecturer at Le Cordon Bleu tomorrow afternoon, well, the school name was... well within my knowledge.
I found myself hoping I wasn't being paid too much attention; after all, a certain idiot was about to arrive for an evening meal and though the occasion wasn't necessarily romantic, my mind was prone to being overly conscious in front of a server who'd be taking my classes twice a week.
Settling for a vague response, I wished him good luck with his studies before returning to the initial question of menu reception. He suggested I try the vegetarian menu instead after clarifying that I merely wished to avoid red meat in my diet for the evening, and proposed a selection of savory desserts to finish. I checked the time and observed the lack of response on my companion's end before making the decision on his behalf. The server then handed me a wine list and asked if I would like to speak to the sommelier. I declined politely, explaining that I would like to consult the preferences of my guest before ordering.
After all, I couldn't be too sure about his taste in alcoholic beverages after all these years. He seemed like the kind of person to appreciate a good spirit but wine was my personal preference.
I sat back, relaxing my shoulders that were stiff from a day's worth of bizarre, heart-stopping adventures—gazing out the window and down at the pedestrians on the street below rushing by the upscale district that Knightsbridge was. All of a sudden, he and I seemed rather distant; farther apart than we were before, with oceans between. Perhaps I should have chosen a small, quaint diner instead of a high-end, fine-dining restaurant that could potentially remind him of the days he'd struggled with, back then.
No wonder he was late.
Subconsciously, there were things in our lives—both his and mine—that we would choose to avoid. And as established seven years ago, I, Vanilla Julian White, was the very direct representation of the culinary world in his eyes. That and I were inseparable. All those years, he'd cooked for a single reason. A single reason that was me.
And then there was the issue of being appropriately dressed. Directing and fixing my gaze on the entrance of the restaurant, I could observe couples, friends and families alike, clad in evening dresses and lounge suits as per the dress code of the restaurant. I sipped on water, wondering what he'd decided to turn up in. Back then, it was rare to see each other in anything besides our uniforms and though there were occasions outside of school in which we did spend time together, they were mostly casual and relaxed.
It would be odd to see him dressed in formal attire. Odd, but not unwelcome. After all, he did have a very pleasant, attractive build. And this all had so unfortunately multiplied with age to become an illegal extremity in itself—seasoned for banning and, um, criminal... action. Or... something like that. Either way, it was absolutely underhanded to possess such looks of appeal and be seemingly unaware of it, having dedicated himself to the wellbeing of humans and felines on trees; and flames in which he no longer lit from within.
I collected myself, keeping the frozen surface in check before actually registering the view of the entrance that I had been staring at for the past five minutes. The manager's back was keeping a single guest standing before the hostess station out of view, waiting to be seated. It was upon shifting to the right—just enough to make out half the figure—that I realized who he was and stood at once, leaving my napkin neatly folded on the armrest of my seat before heading over.
"—dress code, unfortunately. May we propose..."
"He's with me," I said to the host, who turned abruptly at my voice and froze in place for a good second or two before alternating his gaze between us both, as though perfectly stunned by our acquaintance. I had to prompt, turning to the manager who'd come by to address the situation. "My guest for tonight, I mean. It appears, um, rather unfortunately that... there is some confusion. Regarding the dress code, in which I should have emphasized and and explained in clearer terms... the fault is mine. I apologize for the mistake."
I adjusted the lapel of my blazer, unsure of exactly how strict the dress code was and if I'd made the mistake of not conveying that to my companion despite knowing his complete lack of a wardrobe. All I could do was wear an apologetic smile and come up with an alternative location in my head.
"Is there any way we could um... would you be so kind to allow for an exception?" I said to the manager. "We'd be alright with sitting out on the balcony instead, if that would make your guests more comfortable. We are truly, very sorry."
Chef Louviere was known for having a hand in staff management and his priority of thoughtful service over everything else, which thus translated into the hiring of considerate and understanding front-of-house staff. The restaurant's manager was, indeed, a role model.
"Ah! Your guest, Mr. White?" He nodded in understanding, turning my way before referring back to the man with a motorcycle helmet under his arm who had the audacity to look my way without a reasonable word to say. "Not a problem. Shorts and flip-flops are the main red-flags we look out for anyway, and we certainly don't have a policy against bomber jackets and jeans," he laughed. Relieved, I returned his well-humored response with a polite nod.
"Besides," he went on unexpectedly, "Chef Louviere would be very upset with me if I sent your guest away without his permission. I think he even personally requested to meet him. Of course, knowing that you never really pay a visit to any restaurant for leisure, let alone with a companion, so... how can I possibly refuse?"
Good god. I was turning red internally and blindly hoping that this little piece of embarrassing information about myself would go unnoticed but a single glance his way proved otherwise. Even for an idiot, it did not manage to sip by his radar.
I'd merely smiled, nodding politely once more before allowing the manager to lead us back inside the restaurant. Once he'd shown us to the table I had been seated prior, he offered to have the server come by with a wine list.
"Thank you. That would be perfect," I said, removing my blazer and draping it carefully over the backrest of the chair. Across me, my companion watched and did the same with his bomber jacket—only, not as careful. And not quite a drape.
"Monsieur. Vous buvez quelque-chose?" The server assigned to our table came back with the wine list, positioned between us both and ready to take questions and orders.
"Est-ce que vous servez du vin au verre?" I couldn't be too sure of his alcohol tolerance, not to mention preference for wine, champagne or spirits. Starting the evening with a glass of red was the safest option, and would, at the same time, pair nicely with the first few courses on our menus.
"Oui Monsieur." Hm, so they did serve wine by the glass. "Two reds?"
I paused. Turning to my guest, I relayed the question. "Would you like a glass of wine?"
He'd been watching our exchange earlier, seemingly surprised by the unfolding of it. The lack of understanding, however, appeared clear in his eyes. "Sure. You like red?"
"Well, I... usually order whichever I believe would complement the courses of the menu. Red, in this case. Is there anything you fancy in particular?"
"Spirits. Cognac, mostly." It seemed to click in him then—that the server was waiting on us for drinks and that I'd already made the order for two eight-courses. "Or whatever's cheap."
I waved his latter comment aside. "You know that doesn't exist on our table. We're allowed to celebrate your first fine-dining experience in... what, four-to-five years, would you say?" I'd meant for it to be passing tease, rhetorical in nature, but he took the opportunity I'd presented him to put a spin on it.
"Six," he went on to correct with a hint of amusement on his lips. I rolled my eyes.
I requested, in the server's preferred language, a recommendation of something medium-bodied, an old world-style red, with smooth well-integrated tannins that leaned towards the heavier side of smoky notes. I was directed to three options on the list before picking a glass each of something relatively safe; then added to that a bottle of cognac, Courvoisier XO, to finish.
"You're fluent," observed the idiot as soon as we were left to ourselves, leaning against the backrest of his chair that seemed a little small with him in it. Of course, he'd completely forgotten the fine-dining etiquette Chef Marseille had beat into us in the second semester of first-year studies and left his napkin unentertained, on the plate in its diamond fold. It was highly distracting.
"Well... enough. Just the basics to get by in the industry, I'd say."
"Teach me something?" He leaned in, arms rested on his side of the table and fingers drumming once. There was something reflected in his eyes, specular in nature; just the surface of it. Not a light.
"Alright," I sighed, unsure if this was the kind of conversation we should be starting off with after seven years of waiting. "What would you like to learn?"
"You look good in those," his gaze did the pointing. Lowered. "How do I say that."
I saw only his eyes for a brief moment; they looked up and met mine, leaving the rest of the world behind. The sounds of a restaurant deep in a quiet evening after a long, protracted day quite like every other, clinking of glasses as they unite in a single touch—a caress. Something close to a memory.
"I don't..." Looked down. The suspenders. "I'm not quite sure what they're called in, um... and no, I've never really thought of how I'd phrase a sentence like that in French."
Every thought seemed to shorten in nature. I struggled with pieces of the day at the back of my mind, seven years-worth of fleeting moments—moments in which I thought of him, of him thinking of myself, of us thinking of us—they surfaced in the form of cracks.
I hid behind my glass of red. It had so conveniently appeared while I was away, standing in the middle of a lake, knee-deep in ice. "So um, how was your day?"
He'd returned to leaning against the backrest of his chair, fixing the distance that had gone awry for seconds before looking away, staring out onto the street below. "It was okay," was all he had, visibly fazed by the odd simplicity of a question. Perhaps something he hadn't heard in quite a while. "Sorry I'm late."
"Oh you're allowed to be more specific than that, you know," I opted for something deliberately light but realized, as soon as the had words left my lips, how sarcastic and condescending it could have sounded. "I was, um, hoping to hear something more than... well, an 'okay'."
He ran fingers through his hair, laughing in half. It was hard to tell what was genuine and what wasn't. "Just a couple of EMSs, some MVAs. And one fire."
"You were running calls?" I blinked, watching him reach for his glass of wine. "But... it's your day off."
"Yeah I hang out at the firehouse anyway 'cuz..." he finished half the drink before the hors d'oeuvre was even served. "Got nothing else to do."
"And your odd jobs?" I recalled.
"None today. Or for the rest of the week."
"I see..."
Registering this called for a distant quiet that lasted for seconds longer than the usual length of comfort between strangers of space and time; a kind of silence that spoke of the past—that things were no longer what they used to be.
"You?"
I looked up, surprised by his prompting of a continuation. It somehow never occurred to me that he'd be the one to carry on. "Sorry?"
"How was your day?" The words made it past his lips in the strangest, most bizarre manner. I myself was musing over his tone of voice: stiff and oddly low. As though they were words he'd never in his entire life attempted to piece together and now that we were much, much older than our previous reunion in high school, maturity had in its way shaped the ability to speak our minds. Simply put, it no longer was the case.
Either way, I was unable to contain a single quiet laugh that, though seemingly harmless, turned heads in the otherwise quiet restaurant. I excused myself, both in the direction of surrounding tables and across the table, before collecting thoughts and composing the mind. My guest seemed to wait, observing the instance with eyes I couldn't read.
"You are so tensed! Is this what fine-dining does to you?" I leaned in to whisper, resting my arms on the table but with my back straight—relaxing into a posture that was casual and much closer to what he was used to. It was, perhaps, the wine. "Siegfried would be proud. He'd love to see you this serious."
This attracted—lured the kind of smile I was used to seeing. The kind I had so missed.
"Out front, it's all whispers and smiles but at the back of my head, I know it's going down in the kitchen," he sat up and leaned in, just as I had done. We were wine glasses apart. "You like me when I'm serious?"
"Sometimes," I offered rather vaguely. Again, hiding behind my glass. He laughed.
"You know I can't fine-dine for fuck."
The curse called for more ambiguous swirling of red in a glass. "I see your grammar hasn't quite deviated from its ghastly state of the past."
He snorted. The witnessing of yet another familiar gesture in the form of an indecent finger felt, for the first time, oddly comforting in its presence.
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't consult you about the location for our first official meal together in seven years. If fine dining isn't your cup of tea, I'd like to see what is. Next time, you decide," I finished, fingers steeling. Holding his gaze. The look in his eyes would flicker at the tilt of my head. "Impress me."
Then the corners of his lips were faltering at the phrase, perhaps fazed by the memories it sparked. I watched him look away, reaching for his glass and nearly unconsciously following my lead—little circles in the air—before disarming me with a glance. A glance that stole straight into the eyes; past its frozen surface and deep beneath the blue.
"I will."
The moment; it slowed. Appeared as though we were strangers searching in the other, a semblance of a story. A story of remembrance and memory; candles and lakes; fire and ice. And the in-between, the gap in which we now struggled to fill. Blanks in a roll of film that was black and white with instances in perfect, pristine condition and others, forgotten.
"Appetizer for vegetarian?"
Dishes came into view and between our silence, presenting vibrant colors and textures on a plate. I removed my gaze, acknowledging the server's words with a nod before leaning away from the conversation, allowing him the space to comfortably place my appetizer in my dining space.
"And the Devonshire crab for your guest." The server prompted next but across the table, my companion had remained as he were before—leaned in, almost as though he'd missed the cue for a paused conversation and went on staring regardless. Waiting for me to continue. Which I did, in the form of a very pointed look. Our server attempted to present the dish once more. Only then, did he succeed in doing so.
"It's different," he observed, glancing over at the contents of my plate.
"Well, I'm giving the chef's new vegetarian eight-course a go. Please start," I picked up the appropriate fork and knife before gesturing to the ones on his end of the table. "I'd heard about it weeks ago when I was still in New York settling business affairs. Chef Louviere has been a friend of mine since I first visited his restaurant years ago in Versailles." I must have sounded excitable. The look in his eyes had shifted into something less readable upon my words, which I knew not were the cause of his unpredictable mood.
"You'd fly all the way to France."
I paused, fork hovering mid-air. He continued with his appetizer, seemingly unfazed. Again, it was the tone of voice I could never understand in its entirety—words meant as a question, said as though they were something of a fact. I waited. He did not comment on the food.
I returned my fork and knife to their original positions. "You know very well I wasn't there for leisure, or any specific purpose of anything other than—" I stopped short. The surprisingly rare ability to cut oneself off, snipping the train of thought and killing it entirely, was one that I had honed over the years to great results. Last year, my rate of conflict and verbal confrontation had averaged at a mere two-point-seven a week!
Starting an otherwise quiet evening with a conversation of such nature was going to make the rest of it quite as enjoyable as our texts. That, I was fully aware of.
"I apologize," I said first, starting afresh. "How is the appetizer? Do you like it?"
I was about to reach for my utensils once more when the shift manager came into view, making his way across the room with a hand behind his back and stopping at our table.
"Mr. White," he greeted first, to raised gazes. "A moment, please?"
The look on his face made his intentions clear: it was a matter of urgency. I glanced across the table and observed a hardened gaze that felt, once directed towards the manager, on guard.
"Someone is here to see you," I heard in a lowered voice, trained to remain out of earshot. Other guests had not seemed to notice the odd tension in the air but a single glimpse of Chef Andre at the entrance of the restaurant colored the evening a distasteful shade of yellow.
"Good god, he cannot be serious," I said under my breath. My guest had turned to me with a raised brow and the shift manager could not help looking over his shoulder.
"The front house host has turned him down multiple times, but he's been insisting to see you. The words... um. They don't sound very nice. The concern is that he'd raise his voice should things... escalate. It would attract unnecessary attention." He explained uneasily, clearly put on a spot. "Should I call for security?"
I held up a hand. "That would only provoke him further. He's apparently very disagreeable when things don't go his way."
He took the cue with a nod, stepping back to allow some space for standing. "I am so sorry for disrupting your dinner." I dismissed his apology with a headshake, checking the time and noting passing minutes with a sigh.
Indeed, the very last thing I expected to experience on a night like this was a repeat of this afternoon's events—causing a scene and hence ruining the rest of the night. A night I had been waiting for. I looked up, meeting his gaze from across the table and telling him I wouldn't take long.
His eyes searched mine at once. "You need me?"
As if leaving the dinner table to tend the unruly ego of a disrespectful man wasn't enough, I couldn't possibly involve Leroy in work-related matters. Already, I was embarrassed enough.
"Five minutes and I'll be back," I managed without a sigh. He was perhaps the only one sharp enough to see the apology in my words and for that, I had, always, been thankful for.
"I'll time you." He'd given the impression of a smirk behind his glass.
I stood, agreeing to that, leaving my napkin on my seat before tailing the shift manager who led the way. Several feet away from the restaurant's host stand, faint voices in a heated exchange began turning heads. Guests who had their curiosity piqued stood, and some, called for their servers to ask about the commotion.
Chef Andre had a distinct voice. That, I'd heard first; a striking addition to the bear-like appearance of his that made shoving the welcome host aside seem like an effortless task. The latter appeared understandably flustered and was doing his best to reason with the impolite man.
Hotel staff passing by the restaurant on the second floor paused to look on. One of them appeared to be phoning for security. Chef Andre spotted me coming towards him and turned with balled fists as I did, face hard with displeasure.
"Forgive me if I'm mistaken," I spoke first, starting off fairly neutral, "but I'm quite certain I left your restaurant in the most civilized, mature and peaceful manner despite being labelled, untruthfully, by yourself as a fraud and publicly humiliated with water running down my face." Gradually, I let the ice show. "What more is it that you want, Chef Andre? A toy car? A dollhouse? How else can I possibly keep you entertained?"
He scoffed, taking a horrid step that made the distance between us an awful invasion of personal space.
"You say that, but you're just a coward running away." He was practically spitting on my face by this point. Yet, men like him would be sure to see stepping back as a sign of defeat which, by all means, was not something I'd allow his inflated ego the luxury of experiencing. "A bloody overrated writer who has the guts to call himself a critic when he doesn't even have the balls to stand his ground! The least you could do is put a fight for the trash that you wrote."
"God your logic is so flawed," I managed under my breath, not quite intending for it to be heard in the first place. It was extremely difficult to look the man in the eye; anyone would find it hard to raise their gaze when all they were breathing in was the used air of a stranger's foolish outburst. Besides the fact that everything about it was unhygienic and generally unpleasant to think about.
"Oh fuck off."
I closed my eyes as Chef Andre spoke, not quire daring a deep breath to calm myself since that would do much to ruin my palate before a nice eight-course I had been anticipating for quite some time. At the very least, he had not raised his voice enough to attract the attention of the entire restaurant. Not far away from the entrance, I was relieved to spot several hotel staff members making way for security.
"Someone's here to see you, Chef Andre. I suggest you meet them now," was all I had the grace and patience to say before turning to leave, slightly relieved that the entire conversation had taken me less than three minutes to wrap up until I felt him grab me by the arm, tighten his grip, and forcibly turn me towards him.
I was stunned into oblivion not because I hadn't expected him to raise a hand against me, but simply due to the pain I was registering on my arm and that I was back to facing a red-faced chef. The instant I intended to react however, stopped short as soon as I was registering the confusion on Andre's face and the presence of a wrist on his arm. A bomber jacket.
I looked up.
The idiot would not say a word. He held onto Chef Andre's wrist, staring at him. Watching his eyes widen.
"Cox?" The head chef who refused to deviate from his molten chocolate cakes yanked his wrist free and visibly, it had turned an angry red. "What are you doing here?"
Again, my companion did not bother with an answer, leaving myself quite frazzled by the fact that the two were mildly acquainted. Perhaps the culinary scene here was indeed fairly well-connected.
"Sir we need you to leave," a security officer from the main lobby had arrived with several other men, nodding in the direction of the stairs that led to the exit. "You're disrupting our guests without a valid reason."
"Oh shut the fuck up, you know who I am," Chef Andre brushed him off as expected and I'd somehow found it far too tedious to hide my exasperation that escaped in a sigh. Unfortunately, Andre's keen ears was not letting this slide. He seemed to lose it, then. Perhaps pushed to his limit.
I saw it coming—the hand that reached for my collar and I'd stepped back to avoid it when a couple of feet away, the same hand from before came in to hold Andre still in a single motion.
It had happened rather quickly and simply put, all security was on the celebrity in an instant. I stepped away, unwilling to be caught in the frenzy and by doing so, also noticed the phones that were up and about, directed our way. Ah. Perfect. More publicity. Much, much more. I was going to be just f a m o u s.
"Philip!"
Someone called from the interior of the restaurant, several feet behind, and the security guards surrounding a hell-faced, fuming Andre seemed to pause, glancing over our shoulders.
The voice was familiar and rightfully so; Chef Louviere parted the group, anxious and mildly displeased (which was the most negativity I'd personally ever seen on his face) to find Chef Andre in the middle of it all.
"Quel idiot, quand même! S'il te plaît, ne sois pas comme ça. Pourquoi vous disputez-vous toujours?" Really, honestly you idiot! Give me a break, please. Why are you always fighting? "Ça alors, is that you Vanille?"
Chef Louviere was a slight man and came up only to my shoulder in height. His personality, however, was one feared and revered by many in the industry; not only because of the food he makes and the sheer amount of awards he's received, but entirely due to his humble demeanor and respect for others. The moment we'd become acquainted was perhaps the best instance of my time in Versailles.
"Je suis désolé, c'est votre compagnon?" He lit up upon turning to me and then, my companion, flashing an apologetic smile as he did. "I am so sorry. C'est inacceptable. I am so sorry."
I stopped him from apologizing any further, ensuring him that we were quite alright and expressing concern for the disrupted guests inside his restaurant. The hotel security on the other hand, seemed mildly surprised by the fact that Chef Louviere, the Michelin-star-restaurant's head chef, was acquainted with Andre.
"Ne vous inquiétez pas. Vous le connaissez?" Naturally, I posed the question, glancing at the red-faced man in similar disbelief. How could a sweet, lovely person like Chef Louviere be friends with a—
"Malheureusement," he said, embarrassed, giving Chef Andre a side eye. Surprisingly, the latter straightened up and appeared strangely less aggressive than before. After which, Chef Louviere was kind enough to separate us and, giving me a look over his shoulder, conveyed his insistence on handling things here by speaking privately to his friend while we enjoyed the rest of our dinner.
And so we did.
The food however, had unfortunately turned dull and stale. It was lukewarm. Neither of us really said a word about the event for some time until, across the table, he decided to do so with a wry smile.
"New enemies?"
"A common occurrence," I said, relaxing slightly.
His eyes seemed to harden. "Violence?"
"W-well. That, no. Fortunately. But..." I was searching for a way to lighten the mood. Things have not been off to a good start since the beginning of the evening; which, contrary to popular belief, was not how I wished for things to be. While I certainly wasn't idealistic enough to hope for a 'perfect' evening (heaven forbid, what that even means), I hadn't been expecting a day of humiliation and embarrassment.
Still, I decided to face it. As I always did, head on. This time, I whipped out my phone and proceeded to do something completely and utterly dangerous: google myself. Sure enough, videos and pictures of myself drenched in infused water or being yelled at by Chef Andre were all over Twitter.
I picked on a random one, muting the audio before holding it up to my companion in a light-hearted manner. And taking a sip of wine just in case I seemed a little too serious.
"Well. Gave me a good reason to change out of that back-up attire. Incentive to dress myself for the evening."
He'd taken one long look at the video, watching it play over and over again until he glanced up, straight into my eyes with something in his. "You don't need an excuse to look..." His gaze wandered briefly. "Good." Then back to the phone.
"Oh." I managed, slightly speechless. Looking away. Perhaps it was the alcohol. "You look... very much decent yourself. Although admittedly, I was hoping to see you dressed formally in something I've never quite seen you in."
He snorted. "I'd say next time but if I get to decide, we're going somewhere fun."
"Ah. So this is boring," I somehow teased, tipping back my glass of wine. "I see now."
"Very," the idiot emphasized, smirking. "I prefer seeing you burn the kitchen down."
"I'm sure you've seen far too many of those to actually be entertained by the mediocre job I've done with your bacon," I put across pointedly.
"True," he laughed and the sound—the striking of a match. "You?" He proceeded to down the rest of his wine upon finishing his appetizer. "Seen too many Andre's?"
"Some. They remind me of that idiot you told off during the interschool that time," I mused in remembrance. "Chefs like that are a chore and dealing with them... can be the worst. I hope it didn't ruin the evening, but... thank you—for the, um. Earlier. I hadn't expected Andre to react so violently."
"You'd think people in the industry would learn to respect critics," he scoffed.
I felt my thoughts slow and wander.
I was staring at his shirt, and then up at the waiter when he arrived to collect our empty dishes, and then back down at the reflection of him, of Leroy in my glass. The warmth saw an expanding of the inner-most thoughts and I, as a result, felt oddly open to sharing more all of a sudden; telling him about my experience at the Times and once, when a chef had purposefully served me food that was extremely distasteful just to mock me. Apparently, he'd been furious about the paper sending an amateur critic for a review instead of a senior writer. Of course, back then, my mentors at the Times had all been very proud of my knowledge and palate and hence made the decision to have me write for established restaurants. Still, many chefs remained unimpressed.
He listened. Close. The look in his eyes when he was listening—that look hadn't changed one bit.
"And you?" I looked his way. "Any near-death experiences?"
"Not much," he mused. "Just hundreds a year. Two for today. Still alive."
I quite missed this. "Tell me more." Laughing.
==================
Dinner came to a quiet end after speaking to Chef Louviere, who insisted on walking us to the door and apologizing, again, on Chef Andre's behalf. This was nine o'clock in the evening, just as the restaurant was wrapping things up for their cocktail reservations. We'd completed our eight-course in about an hour and a half before winding down with a bottle of cognac. Reminiscing.
Then, it was time.
"That's it?" He asked at the bottom of the stairs, hanging back as I, in the strangest state of clouds, walked ahead. The main lobby reception of the hotel was quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a piano. "Seven years, and that's it?"
He sounded disappointed. Perhaps, even, mildly exasperated by his supposed end of the night.
I'd paused; then, turned around in full to face him, closing the distance, tipsy, admittedly, and as a result, stopping unintentionally close in proximity. Then, took a moment to register this and stepped back, raising my gaze to meet what seemed the tip of an extinguished candle. With smoke.
Good god.
"London is filled with Michelin star restaurants, Leroy," I said rather slow. Goodness, he's always had to have everything laid out for his one-track mind. "Why would I go to the trouble of picking one in a hotel?" Movement was long. The distance between my sides and the pocket of my blazer seemed awfully great. I reached in, pulling out a keycard—sliding a corner of it down the front of his shirt. "You're still the idiot I know."