Itinéraires Bistro

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

Tom was having a rotten day. An absolutely, no good, rotten day. It started at the bookshop where he worked. They’d hired some new kid and asked Tom to show her the ropes. Well. Tom wanted to show the kid to the hangman’s rope by the end of the day. She actually cited “Fifty Shades of Grey” as her favorite novel. Not sarcastically, not in jest. There was nothing wrong with a little erotica now and then. But there were so many wonderful, glorious, multi-faceted books out there. And instead, this girl subjected Tom to conversation about the complexities of Anastasia Steele’s character while they were shelving biographies. If Tom heard the phrase “inner goddess” one more time, he’d unleash his inner fury. As in the monsters with vulture wings and snakes for hair.

New Girl had also likened Tom to the book’s hero, Christopher or whatever his name was. She’d reached out to touch Tom’s “copper-colored” hair, which resulted in him seizing her wrist and telling her in his best Orlando voice, “I do desire that we were better strangers” before releasing her and taking his leave for lunch.

Now that he sat in a bistro with a pint of beer and a plate of garlicky pasta, Tom supposed he should feel better. He didn’t. Instead, he was still moody and irritated. If he was to be likened to a romantic hero of literature, let him be Benedick. Let him be Rochester. Let him be anything but Christian Grey.

Christian, not Christopher. Tom had read those damned books – those cursed affronts to literature – upon their release. He’d studied his opponent; it was embarrassing that he’d forgotten his arch-foe – his apparent alter-ego’s name. He pushed the pasta around on his plate.

God, he missed London. Hell, he’d even take Dublin or Tottenham over Paris today. The city of love was unromantic, uninspiring, and utterly disappointing. There was no adventure to be had here. Only unintelligent conversation partners and a job shelving someone else’s magnum opuses.

But it would be worth it, he told himself, if he could find his son.

That would have thrown Miss Fifty Shades of Stupid for a loop. Tom had a son running around, about her age. A son he’d had when he was about her age. Nothing more than a dumb kid. If he’d brought that up, would that have made his day more bearable? He hadn’t told anyone at work about Kenneth – that was his son’s name, Kenneth – and his family back in Ireland certainly didn’t know. Instead, he kept that secret bottled up inside. And as dramatic as it sounded, as interesting, it wasn’t. Tom found himself perpetually thwarted, stopping by various universities in the city to ask after a redheaded kid named “Kenneth Dahl”. Admissions and student services seldom believed his story. And it they did, they usually turned him away. Once, he’d even been escorted out by security.

It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t known about Kenneth up until now. He’d been eighteen when Kenneth was born – or there about – and he’d long fallen out of contact with his mother. His “bio-mum”. “Mother” was a term used to describe the woman who’d adopted Kenneth. And while Tom was grateful to her, for taking care of his boy when he couldn’t, he found himself bitter and resentful. How lucky she was, this unnamed “Mother” who had raised Kenneth. Tom wouldn’t have been able to care for a child then, but he would have wanted to at least have a go at it. And at thirty-eight years old, it was unlikely Tom would ever get another chance at being a father.

God, he was miserable. Tom hated being miserable more than anything. More, even, than “Fifty Shades of Grey”. He needed a laugh. He needed something to happen, something fun, entertaining. So he twirled his pasta around his fork and made a makeshift catapult. It brought a mischeivious grin to his lips. And then ZING! a few noodles rocket launched into the air. Tom thought they’d go straight up and come right back down. But instead, they sailed through the air until hitting a woman square in the chest. Tom looked up and met her eyes. And then he didn’t bother to bite back a loud, raucous laugh.

Sometimes, you had to make your own fun.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

This really was a lovely place. On fact, it was one of the few places in Paris where Penny didn’t find herself comparing the soup to her mother’s, or missing the cuisine comforts of home. And when her soup did come, she smiled contentedly and was ready to dig in.

So when a forkful of pasta hit her square in the chest, sauce plopping into her tea and meal, Penny squealed, looking around for the perpetrator. At last, she found him. She could tell it was he who flung the garlicy-smelling noodles at her, for beneath his ginger eyebrows was an impish twinkle in his eye, which was accompanied by a wicked, wicked grin.

She had been in food fights before. Growing up with brothers, they would find any way to get out of putting the leftovers in the compost pile. If there was messy fun to be had, they would find it and they would everything in their power to rope Penny into joining. And sometimes, much to her chagrin, they succeeded. But now, she was a grown, respectable woman, well on her way to Parliament. Well… sort of. But she looked at the lumps of sauce floating in her tea and could feel the stain of pasta spreading as it made its slimy way down her shirt. She cringed. She was being violated by noodles. But she refused to fight back.

But Bill and Ben’s voice came to her mind and said “Penelope, stop being such a spoil sport!” It was a sentence she had heard throughout her life and now, sitting here, she wondered if being too tightly wound was why her older brothers dreaded spending time with her alone. “I am not a spoil sport,” she mumbled to herself and sucked water up her straw. She held it there for a while, debating the merits of spitting it at this stranger in return. But the need for a fun afternoon far overweighed her need to keep within the boxes of propriety. It was a rare occurrence, but it was a much needed for the hard week she was having.

The water went flying across the room, landing on the man’s head. She had no pasta to throw, but she would make do with what she had. A couple dozen food fights with William had taught her not to complain about ammunition.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

In a little bit, he’d apologize. But right now, Tom was laughing too hard to even get a word out. People stared at him and he was acutely aware of their eyes. He was especially aware of the woman he’d thrown pasta at’s eyes. She didn’t look like she was going to cry. Instead, she looked mildly horrified. And then, calmly – oh so calmly – she reached for her straw. Anticipation thrilled Tom, running up his back like little shivers, before the stranger spat water at him. It landed on his head and droplets rolled down his red hair, falling onto his forehead and dripping off of his nose.

“You don’t realize who you’re messing with, girlie,” he called at her. He picked up a piece of buttered bread from his basket and threw it at her. This was war. And Tom’s foul mood was fading fast. Instead, all he could see was that some pretty stranger had picked up his gauntlet and thrown it right back in his face.

What a treat.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

Penny smiled to herself. It had been years since she had gotten into a food fight, and she had forgotten just how gratifying it was to have your ammunition land in the bulls-eye of your aim. But before she could cheer her victory, the man called across the café to her, “you don’t realize who you’re messing with, girlie!” And a piece of buttered bread landed, butter side down on the table, just inches from her hand. She laughed.

“It seems to me,” she said, picking apart the bead into smaller pieces and dipping it in her soup, “that I’m dealing with a man with bad aim.” And once by one, she threw the soup-drenched, bite-sized bread in an erratic pattern towards her new adversary. Playful or not, Penny was a winner, and she refused to let this be the one thing she lost at: an impromptu food fight with a stranger on her day off. “You’re going to have to do much better than that.”

Though Penny could ignore poise for a transient moment just long enough to spit water or throw bread, she could not ignore the stares of the other patrons and she looked down sheepishly, straightening her spin and lifting her chin. She may be in a food fight, but she was a lady (not a ‘girlie). And ladies, as she had been told, did not start fights, but could certainly finish them.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

The buttered roll landed inches from the woman’s hand. Tom’s face fell. He’d been so sure that he would hit her with it. Instead, all he’d done was provide her with ammunition.

“It seems to me,” she said, picking apart the bead into smaller pieces and dipping it in her soup, “that I’m dealing with a man with bad aim.”

And then she began to pelt Tom with soup-drenched bread bits. Some missed him, but many others landed on his face, on his shirt, leaving broth-residue as they slid downward.

“You’re going to have to do much better than that,” the girl said, bringing a smirk to Tom’s lips. He usually wasn’t a competitive guy.

Usually, he was content to play a game for the game’s sake. But this stranger’s taunting made something in him pop. All day long, he’d had to fence in his frustrations. All day long he’d had to smile at customers, not yell at his coworkers, and answer questions like “Is ‘Abe Lincoln: Vampire Slayer’ autobiographical?” He needed at least a little victory to brighten his day.

Tom picked up his pasta bowl and marched over to her. And then, with a flourish, he dumped the pasta over the woman’s lap.

“Is that better for ya, m’dear?” he asked, grinning.

And then the sound of someone clearing their throat caught Tom’s ear. He turned around to see the manager of the bistro, arms folded, glowering at them.

“Both of you, out!” the manager bellowed, thrusting a thick finger at the door. “Now.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

If there had been one thing her brothers had tried their best to teach her, it was that a little teasing never hurt anybody and now, flinging pieces of soaked bread at a stranger in good fun made her believe them, if only for a moment. But when her playful opponent approached her with his entire bowl of pasta, a too impish look in his eye. She knew what was coming and she suddenly eschewed any implication that her brothers may have been right.

“Is that better for ya, m’dear?”

She could feel the slimy noodles intertwining with her hair, bearing down into her scalp like little worms determined to make burrows out of her skin. She cringed as sauce slid down her face and caught in her eyelashes and her stomach flopped as she thought about how difficult it would be to get out those long slender pieces of pasta out in the shower. But she swallowed a bit of sick that had crept up to her tastebuds and smiled. “Perfect,” she said, curious about what buttons she could press. It was a skill every good politician would have to learn eventually. Why not start now with no danger of permanent repercussions?

But then, someone cleared their throat behind them and Penny had the sinking feeling that there was more fury than phlegm behind that cough. She turned around to the the authoritative glare of the bistro’s manager, who pointed a sausage-y finger at the pair of them and said, “Both of you, out! Now.”

Penny had never been kicked out of anywhere before. The rebel William and the obnoxious Benjamin, sure. But never Penny. Proper, polite Penny who never broke rules and most certainly never made scenes. She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry and standing on the pavement, dripping Italian food, she let out a hiccup instead.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling noodles from her eyes. “I think I needed that.”

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

Just as Tom dumped the pasta on the stranger’s head, he became acutely aware of things like “consequences”. It was always after the fact that consequences occurred to him; and as usual, they didn’t much worry him. He just hoped France didn’t have some inane law about not wasting pasta. But the strange woman smiled at Tom and said, “Perfect”, which kept his grin devilish and his eyes bright, even when the restaurant manager tossed them out onto the street. The young woman and Tom stood in silence together, looking back at the restaurant. Neither had been made to pay, which Tom found shocking. He looked over at his companion, who was pulling noodles out of her hair.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I needed that.”

“Anytime,” Tom said. “I’m Tom, by the way, and I’d love to buy you a replacement dinner.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: Incredibly short wrap up post. BiC:

Penny MaCarthy

“Anytime,” the man said as if they were to meet again. Penny assured herself that they wouldn’t, but she smiled nonetheless for there was no point in frowning at the man. “I’m Tom, by the way, and I’d love to buy you a replacement dinner.”

Penny’s eyes grew big. Was this what being asked on a date was like? Penny didn’t know if she should accept out of her sudden desire to be impulsive or reject on principle of never dating strange men she met during food fights in bistros. She swallowed hard, tasting the dryness of a meal uneaten and the tang of adventure at the same time. It was an awful combination on her palate and she wanted to wash it down with the water and tea she had ordered inside.

“Penny,” she said at last, introducing herself. Extending a hand, sticky from playing with her meal. Maybe seeing this man again wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She knew very few people in Paris apart from her coworkers and her brother. Maybe he would be a nice boost up into some sort of social circle. “A replacement meal sounds absolutely lovely.” A noodle dropped from her bangs and onto the sidewalk at her feet. “But maybe a shower, first…?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

When the curtain closed, Bill’s mind was not on the stage, ensuring a smooth curtain call. Instead, his mind wandered to a dark lit street, walking side by side into the bistro with Devi. He wondered if she had even stayed through the whole show or if she had gotten bored halfway through and went home to a bottle of wine and wedding plans. He hoped that she had at least halfway enjoyed herself. If not, he hoped she wouldn’t pretend she did.

The lighting technician whispered into Bill’s ear from under his headset. “What are you doing, MaCarthy? Why are we holding curtain? I’m waiting for your cue.”

Bill jumped and waved to the flyman and listened as the audience roared once more with was certainly another standing ovation. Bill smiled. Another successful opening. Tonight could only get better if dinner went smoothly. So he hurried the performers offstage, rushed the costume check-in, and locked up without making sure he was the last one to leave.

And quickly, he zoomed down the black Parisian streets on his motorcycle, praying to whatever God was actually listening that she decided to show up and that he wasn’t too late.

He walked into the bistro, helmet tucked under his arm and scanned the room.

“Table for one, monsieur?” the hostess asked.

“I hope not,” Bill said, not seeing Devi anywhere. “Table for two please.”

What if she hated the opera and found a late night meeting with her client’s best man to be inappropriate? What if every meeting they had until the wedding was awkward and uncomfortable all because Bill suggested she come see an opera he helped put on? He sat in the booth, his nerves rattling under his skin. Until finally, the door chimed and Bill looked up to see Devi. At last, he could breathe.

[The Exodus]

Devi Kumar

Two acts later, and opera still wasn’t Devi’s thing. She’d loved the lush costumes, the dramatic make up, the impossible hairstyles. She’d even enjoyed the colorful set pieces and the feast-for-the-eyes the light show provided.

But that music – whatever it was – had not done anything for her. Perhaps because the whole of Rossini’s opera was in Italian and Devi didn’t know how to say anything in Italian except “spaghetti” and “vino”. She hadn’t understood the plot of the story. Didn’t even have an inkling what was happening. It made her feel embarrassed and stupid. Uncultured. On the one hand, Devi believed wholeheartedly in the philosophy of “different strokes for different folks”. And on the other, she knew that her whole family liked opera and she preferred dark wave and heavy metal.

Padma often asked her “how do you understand that awful screeching?” when they were growing up. Now that Devi had seen an opera, she would be sure to ask her sister the same question.

But she had sat through the whole thing. Devi wanted to be in the MaCarthy family’s good graces, since she was planning a wedding for them. Of course, the man she’d sat through two acts for wasn’t even the groom. It was the best man. But since Bill MaCarthy was the one in charge of planning his brother’s wedding…

Devi sighed and popped two Tylenol in her mouth. She swallowed them without water and nearly retched. Sacrifices a woman made in her career.

She liked Bill well enough, anyways. She figured that they’d talk opera for a few minutes – she’d gush about how beautiful it was, whether or not she meant it – and then they’d order dinner and get to work on wedding prep.

Or maybe she’d ask how a guy as cool as Bill survived the veritable torture of opera music every day of the week.

She walked into the Bistro and looked around. A waiter directed her to Bill’s table and Devi smiled. She approached and gestured to the empty chair across from the stage manager.

“This seat taken?” she asked.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

When Bill saw Devi walk in, he diverted his gaze down at the complimentary water he had received. He began tracing the water circles distractedly, determined not to let Devi see that he was actively waiting for her. He leaned back in his chair until it teetered precariously on two legs, and rested one foot on the table.

“This seat taken?” Devi asked and Bill looked up at her, feigning surprise.

“It is now.” He gestured for her to sit. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d make it.”

As she sat and the waiter brought by Devi’s goblet of water, Bill sat up. “How are you Devi? How’d you like the opera?” Bill had a feeling, a negative, pulling feeling, in the bottom of his gut that told him she’d say no. But his heart thumbed with a small flicker of hope at the off chance that she’d say yes. “Or was it just as boring as you expected?”

[The Exodus]

Devi Kumar

Bill gestured for Devi to sit, which she did happily. Almost immediately, a waiter came by to fill Devi’s glass with water and to place a wine list in front of her. It was tempting; she might need a glass or two before her Tylenol kicked in.

“To be honest, I didn’t think you’d make it,” Bill confessed.

Me either, Devi quipped internally. She had enough sense not to say it out loud, since relief broke all over Bill’s face. Clearly, it meant a lot to him that she was here. Which surprised her. She was his brother’s wedding planner; what did he care if she showed up for dinner out with him?

“How are you Devi? How’d you like the opera? Or was it just as boring as you expected?”

“It looked nice,” Devi admitted. “But I had no idea what anyone was saying the entire time. My Italian isn’t as good as it used to be.”

Devi’s father was the one who spoke nearly a dozen languages. He worked in the British Embassy as a young man and now served as an advisor or analyst of some sort. A consultant-for-hire. He spoke not only French and English, but also Hindi, Russian, and whatever-else. Probably Italian. Devi hadn’t inherited that gene. She’d taken French at school, spoke English at home, and signed up for Italian under the pretense of wanting a fashion marketing degree. She’d actually used the time in class catching up on missed sleep. The teacher’s monotone voice lulled her into even more of a coma than being strung out did. She wasn’t going to tell Bill that, though. It bothered her to think that he’d fire her.

“I left Ben and Matvey’s folder in the office,” she confessed. “I actually was hoping we could use this time to get to know each other better. In a no-pressure kind of way. To be honest, I get the feeling you and I are gonna need to be on the same page for the next few months. You know, for the sake of the wedding.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

“It looked nice. But I had no idea what anyone was saying the entire time. My Italian isn’t as good as it used to be.” was Devi’s reply as if she was stabbing his arm with a needle dipped in a weak numbing agent. Bill loved his job, but he understood that opera wasn’t for everyone. He wasn’t going to turn the world into one big opera lover overnight, and to be honest, Devi could have been a million times crueler about her dislike for it. He had met opera devotees and opera protesters. But never had he met anyone who felt ambivalent or lukewarm about it. There was, Bill supposed, a first time for everything.

Like eating dinner with your brother’s wedding planner, for example.

But Bill reminded himself it was only a dinner to discuss the MaCarthy-Kaminski wedding, and not some social gathering. But just then, Devi leaned in, her voice dropping. “I left Ben and Matvey’s folder in the office.”

Bill’s eyebrows raised as he thought about this. Why was she even here, then? If not to talk about the opera or the wedding, what would compel her to sit across from a near stranger on a late Saturday night? Either she was crazy or Bill was a very lucky man.

Or both.

“I actually was hoping we could use this time to get to know each other better. In a no-pressure kind of way. To be honest, I get the feeling you and I are gonna need to be on the same page for the next few months. You know, for the sake of the wedding.”

“You make a valid point,” Bill said. “As far as Ben is concerned, no one’s been on the same page with him since his fourth birthday and you see how well he’s turned out.” Bill could remember it clearly. Instead of his school and church friends, Ben decided to invite the entire raccoon population of Castle Comb. It was a disaster and Penny was bitten. “I agree. It’s best we’re on the same page about something as important this.” He leaned forward, rest his chin in his hands. “Can I order you a drink or something?”

[The Exodus]

Devi Kumar

Devi had lost her marbles. Only a few days ago, she’d made a point to congratulate herself on her ability to separate work from playtime. She’d kept her mouth shut about it around Solange who – poor thing – wasn’t making that distinction between personal and professional life. Thankfully, she hadn’t said anything. Because now Devi was sitting across from a handsome client and he was offering to buy her a drink. And she really, really wanted to say “yes”.

You’re such a hypocrite, Dev.

“A drink sounds lovely,” Devi said, leaning forward ever-so-slightly. “This is kind of a ‘house wine’ joint, isn’t it?”

She picked up the wine list and held it like bridge between herself and Bill, so they could both read it.

“I’ll bet you’re a white wine kind of guy,” she said. Bill’s dry wit would pair nicely with a good Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay. “Am I right?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Devi leaned in and with a breath, Bill could take in the scent of her. It was smokey with some spice-like overtone. The longer she sat across from him, the more he enjoyed it and the worse he felt. This was his brother's wedding planner and this was a professional meeting. If Ben had been here, he'd be kicking Bill under the table. But it was a simple observation: Devi Kumar smelled good.

"A drink sounds lovely. This is kind of a 'house wine' joint, isn't it?"

Bill shrugged. There had been numerous nights when he and Damien came here for beers, preferring it to the bar merely for the food. But Devi scanned the wine menu as if her heart was set on it and Bill figured he had better order wine if he wanted to make nice with the woman in charge of overseeing Ben and Matvey's nuptials.

"I'll bet you're a white wine kind of guy. Am I right?"

Bill smiled. "I must say, Miss Kumar! You pick wine just as well as you pick tuxedos... white wine sounds perfect, I think."

He let Devi place the drink order with the waiter since she seemed rather keen to take the reins. He put his nicotine stained hands on the table.

The waiter arrived with surprising punctuality and poured their glasses so that the wine sat like a golden, placid pool in their glasses. Somehow, small talk seemed vastly inappropriate.