Page 28 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

“I’ve never eaten a snail I’ve set out traps for the neighbor who lives below us so her sweet peas don’t get eaten at night but, uhm, when in Rome right?”

“Precisely. These are nothing like the little ones in the garden. Come. I know an eatery two blocks north. Would you like to have a bit of lunch with me?”

“I would like that a lot,” I replied with the candor he seemed to enjoy so much.

“Marvelous.”

Off we went, leaving the view of Paris behind. Hand-in-hand we emerged above ground after leaving the Arc then he led me left, then right, around a corner, and into a cramped restaurant with five tables outside under a brown awning reading Le Petit Moineau on the fluttering sides.

“The Little Sparrow,” Claude translated as we stepped inside. The interior was intimate, tiny tables packed in tightly with a few early luncheon patrons. Each table, and there were possibly a dozen if that, had their own nook where small lights outlined the gentle arches while also gently illuminating atmospheric paintings of Paris. The inside was dark, sensual, and incredibly private. “This way. There is a table in the corner where we can watch tourists and offer our critiques of their attire.”

The eatery smelled of garlic, browned butter, and shallots. My stomach rumbled like thunder under my jacket.

We made our way past a narrow bar where a barrel-chested man waved at us before bellowing out for a person named Monique. Claude and the barman had a friendly conversation I couldn’t understand before a tall, lean woman with a severe face emerged from a swinging door. The rich aroma of onions accompanied her as she and Claude exchanged a soft hug followed by pecks on each cheek. She was wearing chefs whites, her pewter hair tucked up into a bun so tight it angled her eyes. Bright blue eyes darted from Claude to me. She asked him a question in French that he replied to with a shake of his head. Then she patted Pamplemousse on the head. Brave woman. I didn’t have the guts to even reach for that sling. Obviously the dog, and his owner, knew this woman well for the Chihuahua wiggled around in his sling in joy.

“Sorry, Kinder,” Claude turned to me, cheeks flushed so red I could see it even in this dim lighting. “Monique is the owner as well as the chef de cuisine. Her English is terrible but her escargots à la Bourguignonne are divine.”

She bowed her head at the compliment.

“A pleasure for meeting you,” Monique said in broken English. “We will sit you. Lunch is almost ready. A wait a little. Sorry but we will bring you wine to pass the time. The Chablis you like so, Claude?”

“Merci, oui, une bouteille de Chablis serait parfait.” She bobbed her head, gave me a look that made Claude clear his throat, and then went off wearing a smile to speak to the big barman. Claude turned to me. “I told her a Chablis I enjoy would be fine. Come, let us claim the table with the view of the street.”

His hand grazed the space between my shoulder blades, sending a tingle to intimate places. We moved to a round table for two then slid into the booth. The table was a dark, highly polished wood, the linens white and red. White bread plates sat beside red and white linens, white dishes, silverware so highly polished you could see yourself in the butter knife. A tiny light on the table, romantic and subdued, sat beside the menu and wine list.

The bench seat was well-padded. My knee rested against Claude’s as he settled himself and his dog, who, amazingly, was sitting at the table like a human.

“That’s something you don’t see much in America,” I tucked my sunglasses into the pocket of my leather jacket then wiggled free of my coat. “Unless the dog is a service dog. Just bringing Fido into a restaurant is prohibited due to health codes.”

“Mm, well, yes, I’ve run into those codes in New York when I visit for Fashion Week. Silly if you ask me given the admittance given to humans who look far less tidy than Pamplemousse.”

He had a point. “Do you spend lots of time in the states?”

“Enough. Do not get me wrong, I love America but it is not France.”

I nodded in understanding.

The barman arrived with a bottle of wine which he opened with silent grace, no loud pop, and then presented the cork to Claude. Claude nodded. Wine was poured into our glasses, the bottle left on the table.

“Do you like wine? I didn’t think to ask.” Claude lifted his glass, his gaze mellow as he studied me over the rim of the goblet. “That was rude of me to assume you would.”

“Wine is fine.” I had no great feelings for it one way or the other. It wasn’t something we drank back home just because it was a luxury item but every now and then Mom would break down and buy herself a bottle of blackberry wine we’d share after the twins were asleep. “My mother enjoys blackberry wine.”

“Mm, there is a winery out by my cottage that produces excellent berry wines. I will have to send her a bottle.”

“That… she would love that.” He raised his glass so I did the same. The clink of the delicate stem wear filled our little nook. Our gazes met and held as we sipped. The wine was as dry as a bone, light, very acidic. Citrus, green apple, and a heavy mineral taste like sea spray burst to life on my tongue. My lips almost puckered it was so dry. Claude watched me throughout, smiling slightly throughout.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s good. So dry my lips are tingling.” His eyes fell to my lips. I took another drink. It got better with each taste.

A server appeared at our table, a pudgy woman with dark skin and eyes. Claude and she had a short discussion in rapid French. Off she went with her little tablet in hand.

“I took the liberty of ordering us some appetizers. The main meal of course is your decision unless you wish me to order for you?”

Pamplemousse – growing bored as no food was coming I imagined – curled up into a ball tight to Claude’s hip and began to softly snore.

“Let me take a look.” I placed my wine to the table then removed the menu from the sleek silver holder. Flipping it open I sat staring at a whole lot of French words. There were no prices listed. I peeked up at Claude. “There’s no prices.”