Page 29 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

“No, there is not. That is known as a blind menu so you can focus on the culinary experience of the food without concern for the cost.”

“Oh.” I closed the menu. “I probably can’t afford the culinary experience here.”

Claude reached over to reopen my menu, his serious gaze grasping mine. “Please just order. The price is not important.” I began to argue. One perfectly plucked brow winged upward. “Kinder, the meal is on me. No, I will not brook a backtalk. Here.” He tapped the menu. “Let me translate for you.”

“Okay but I want to repay you somehow.” Not that I had enough cash to pay for the breadsticks here. “Let me take you out to lunch sometime.”

“If that pleases you then fine. Now, I recommend the bœuf bourguignon. It’s delightfully seasoned, the beef tender and rare, and the vegetables shipped in from farms in the Loire Valley. Pamplemousse is very fond of this dish.”

That made me snicker. “Well, if Pamplemousse is fond of it then that’s good enough for me.” I closed my menu and dropped it smartly back into the holder.

“Excellent.” Claude smiled widely before offering a toast to his dog’s refined taste buds. Said dog snored a bit louder. “I shall join you with that dish. So, Kinder, you speak of your mother often in loving terms. Tell me about her.”

“Oh wow, there’s… where do I start?” I leaned back, wine in hand, and started talking about the wonder that is my mother. “She’s just everything amazing rolled into one tough woman. After my dad died things got really bad.” I took a moment to stare at the wine in my glass as memories of those terrible weeks and months popped back up.”

Claude placed his hand on mine as it rested on the table. I pulled my attention from my wine to give him a weak smile.

“Your mother sounds incredibly strong to me. Picking herself up after a loss that huge, keeping her children fed and housed despite desperate situations, that is a powerful woman taking on the vagaries of this human existence to come out on top.”

“Yeah, she really is amazing. Sure, we live in low income housing. People think we’re just lazy reliefers living on handouts but we’re not. Mom and me both work hard, her especially, to keep the lights on and food on the table for my twin sisters. One good thing…I mean if its good even, is they were so young when Dad was killed that they don’t remember a lot other than they were sad. The dark day they call it.”

“That seems a fitting title.” I nodded, took a drink of my wine, and then sat back as the server arrived with two dishes of snails. “Ah, this looks magnifique. Now you will be sampling French cuisine at its finest.”

A basket of dark bread was placed before us then the server left to tend to a new couple who had just arrived. I stared down at the snails swimming in butter, garlic, and herbs. My gaze darted to Claude shaking out his napkin. He gave me a wink.

“You look skeptical. Shall I go first?” He enquired.

I shook my head. “Together.”

“Very good. Use the snail tongs to hold the shell, it’s very hot, and then use this snail fork to twist and pull the meat out.” He showed me how with a flair I was sure I’d never possess. But I did my best. Freeing the snail from its shell I held it over the dish. We counted to three. Un, deux, trois. Then pulled the flesh from the fork. The meat was tender, slightly chewy, and heavy with the taste of garlic butter. There was a slight briny flavor as well but not strong enough to put me off another. Then another. And then another.

Claude took great joy in watching me devour the escargots as well as our main dishes when they arrived. I’d never had such delicious beef in my life. Claude fed Pamplemousse tiny bits of the tender meat as we chatted about everything and anything. Fashion mostly obviously but also books, the weather, music, and finally films. In between bites we commented on the outfits of people walking past. It was super catty but we were fashion designers. Also, it was nice to critique other people’s clothes instead of mine being judged. We ate to excess, ordering two dishes of poached pears we really didn’t have room for but we ate anyway.

Three hours had passed since we’d left the Arc de Triomphe. Claude paid for the meal with a swipe of a platinum card, gathered his dog back into his sling, and guided me out into the busy streets. Not once during the meal did he check his phone nor did it ring, vibrate, or ping so he must have silenced it. That made me feel incredibly special.

“Let us take the long way back to my home. Walk off the pears,” he said.

I was fine with that. I didn’t want to go back to the party, although to be fair that was probably long over by now. It was close to five in the afternoon. We strolled along side streets, past tourists luxury boutiques, boulangeries, fromageries, and patisseries. Vintage stores, wine shops, and an art gallery which sat beside a narrow theater with a bright marquee announcing a play taking place inside. Claude paused on the sidewalk.

“Kinder, this sounds most interesting.” He waved a hand at the marquee. “L’Heure Bleue à Montmartre. The Blue Hour in Montmartre. It’s advertised as a romantic comedy with darker undertones. Shall we buy two tickets?”

“Sure.”

He grinned then led me into an old theater where an even older Frenchman took our money and handed us two red tickets. No concession stand not that I needed another thing to eat but some water would have been nice. We slipped into the rear of the theater, hands clasped, the forty or so seats mostly empty, and sat in the middle row at the back as several performers on stage were darting about chasing a dude in a pig costume. Lots of yelling but not a word of it in English. Pamplemousse was situated on Claude’s lap ears up, tongue lolling, so Claude leaned over to whisper what was being said to me in English. The warm air tickling my ear for over an hour had me harder than a fence post throughout the performance. Leaving the theater I had to keep my jacket in front of my crotch.

“What did you think of the performance?” Claude asked as we began the walk back to his building. The sun was setting now, the city’s famed romantic glow starting to come to life.

“It wasn’t very funny for a rom-com. And the pig confused me. Was he the rom part or the com part?” I confessed. Claude chuckled softly while pulling his phone from the inside of his jacket.

“Yes, it was a bit befuddling but props to the pig for he was the most entertaining thing. Pity though for Montmartre was poorly portrayed.”

“I think the entire play was poorly portrayed,” I said, getting a playful wink from him as he tapped the screen of his phone. He seemed torn. “You okay?”

“Hmm, yes, I’m fine just dreading turning this back on,” he sighed out as he fired up the slim phone. Our eyes met. “I’ve rather enjoyed cutting class with you today.

“I’ve enjoyed it too,” I candidly replied. Why lie? He liked my candor so why pretend I hadn’t been walking on clouds since we’d left his penthouse?

“Perhaps we should—”