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CLEOPATRA : Now from head to foot I am marble-constant.

William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra (via antigonick)

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Gratin Dauphinois

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Tomas:

Tomas nodded and hummed in reply as she asked, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He didn’t seem phased by her skeptical tone at all, it was what he does to push ideas out of the box. Sometimes it doesn’t work but sometimes wacky combinations turn into a symphony of flavours. He wasn’t sure how they kept things interesting there at their restaurant, maybe it would be fun to go experience it if they’d let him within a mile from their place. Tomas never understood the huge feud between the two restaurants.

He sat a little straighter as Francoise began to rant out her day, or specifically a customer today. It wasn’t everyday you get to hear tales from the other side so he kept quiet most of the time while she spoke. He wasn’t even too sure why she was annoyed by the fact he’s taking photos, don’t most customers do that? Tomas was usually ecstatic when people take pictures of their dishes, people indeed eat with their eyes (and now cameras) first. But he didn’t voice out, letting her continue after the pause. It was.. amusing, hearing the source of her annoyance and Tomas had been trying to suppress the laugh he held, seeing how serious of a look she shot him. Once she stopped, there was a pause before Tomas dared comment, “I mean, you could just.. give him cheese?” It didn’t sound too bad to have dauphinois with cheese, it’s potatoes. Potatoes and cheese? Classic combo.

Shrugging slightly, he wouldn’t say he’s done amazing work, half of the time, people don’t even stop for dessert, because it’s seen as extra unnecessary expenditure, at least he gets bread out for the starters. But he appreciated it, someone telling him that. He glanced down towards the water, a tug of a smile lingering, as how he’s always handled the nice comments, something he started getting a lot more during these past few years.

The sketchbook showed a few sketches, arrows scribbled and pointing to different elements of them but most of the details hid on the back page. Francoise was asking questions he still didn’t really have a definite answer for but perhaps that was for the best if he was going to pitch it to Loulou for the menu. “I’m not too sure yet, actually… But I do want to play around with spun sugar, it’ll look just like spider webs and I’ll see where I can go with that.” In his mind he was playing with different spices and textures to go with the pumpkin, but he didn’t want to just blurb too much out in his excitement. “And what are you guys going to do for Halloween? Or maybe winter if Halloween’s not for you.”

As Françoise continued talking, it gradually dawned on her, between the spurts of frustration, that her story was not having the intended effect.

What had possessed her to think that he would understand? Sweet as he may be, Tomas was a card-carrying member of the modern cuisine club, with its slabs instead of plates, and food in cold unwelcoming spheres.

And, of course, modernizing often meant sticking ingredients where they didn’t belong. “Well, yes...” she said slowly, her mouth hardening into a tense little line.  While it was technically true that some grated Gruyère may have solved the problem, there was the whole matter of principle to consider. “But you see, the joy of something like that – the point of it, really – is that it doesn’t need any fancy trappings to jazz it up. A dish like that is just cream and subtle flavours and...pleasure.” No cheese required. “What about you? Do you get idiots over at Loulou too?” They must, surely. She hoped so. It would be good for the soul to hear the tribulations of the other side.

When she saw that shy, modest shrug, she could feel herself fill with self-satisfaction. There was nothing like a well-placed bit of praise to help charm a person. And she supposed it was probably true. The kid was certainly enthusiastic, and Romauld had probably coached her into creating slightly less oddball fare than what he’d brought to her place so long ago. Not that that was saying much.

She nodded politely as he spoke. The spun sugar would certainly help. She hated to admit it, but if you got over initial look of it, it might be passable. If so, perhaps she would need to have a word or two with the patisserie staff. They were brilliant, of course, but it didn’t hurt to make sure they were nice and tuned up. “A spiderweb? Quite ambitious of you.” she said mildly. “Well, in winter,” she pressed the word for emphasis, “We try to have a few things. My sister gave me a wonderful recipe for opera cake, which is always impressive.”  She was sure no harm could come of mentioning that. L’Ambrosie’s opera cake was such a specialty, she often saw people’s eyes go as wide as their plates when they saw it. No chef in his right mind would try to better it.

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Valence:

In reply he gave a very Valence smile, which is to say his lips barely moved and the corners of his eyes hardly crinkled. “I assure you, once I put them on a plate you won’t even recognize they are there.”

It was at this point that a brief gasp let them both know Mr. Guillory’s order was ready. The young man at the counter had gone mute with alarm, caught between saying hello or saying nothing that would interrupt the conversation between two L’Ambrosie celebrities.

“Thank you,” Valence said to the young man before casually turning to Françoise, giving her that professional yet hesitant look. It was the look of a man with a personal complaint and therefore unsure if he should voice it. Better to be a competent adult than a petulant child of 52. Nevertheless… it was his kitchen that would be suffering. 

“The new boy… he needs more training,” he said it with such civility he almost impressed himself. Meanwhile the young man behind the counter was still silently screaming. 

Françoise eyed the truffles again, her brow furrowing as she considered them. She supposed that if there was anyone she could trust to transform such odd-looking things into absolute magic, it would be Valence. Demonstrative he was not, but the man was a wizard with a stove. “If you’re sure.” she said lightly, her posture softening slightly in the presence of someone familiar. “As long as I get to try whatever you dream up before it lands on the menu, go right ahead.” If those truffles were as expensive as they looked, she may need to stay his hand slightly. They had to be cautious with purchases, unfortunately.

Her gaze flicked sharply to the young man who had emitted such a noise. She didn’t smile, but she nodded in his direction. It was barely perceptible, but she knew would notice, by the look of him. His eyes looked as if they might fly out of his head with shock at the sight of them.

She knew that look. Something important was coming. Important, and possibly delicate too. If so, it might be best that their starstruck companion didn’t hear. Françoise shifted her weight and turned so that the truffle seller was shut off from their conversation. She glanced at Valence and waited until he was ready to speak.

”Oh.” Her voice lowered, her disappointment audible in it. So that was it. “What did he do?” she asked, hoping he couldn’t hear the apprehension that was flooding her. She had wondered what he would make of their newest recruit, and it seemed that things weren’t going as well as she would’ve liked.

On the Prowl: Open

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Sherry and Chocolate Pot de Creme (Local Milk)

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Tomas:

“Oh you sure did, didn’t help that I was trying to get into a spooky mood,” He pulled out his ear buds and set them aside, leaving any creepy music far away for now. He was doing his best to be ready for Halloween (yes, he knows that it’s only September), he always looked forward to holidays, great excuses to experiment with new ideas. And though Halloween is fun, it’s a little hard for Tomas to brainstorm without making it cheesy. Pretty sure most of these would be rejected but better to get all the crap out first to make space for something good.

While he was busy with his work, he was also curious with how Francoise was doing, they weren’t friends, they don’t do catching up of coffee and what not, and so when they do meet by chance, sometimes it’s months, or years, or weeks or days. And while most of her staff speak to her with utmost respect, Tomas seem to simply speak to her in his calm, friendly demeanour. He raised an eyebrow as she elaborated, “an odd one? Try me, I always love a good bad customer story.” The loulou waiters do always have the best dinner stories to share, he’s pretty sure the other side probably have good ones too.

Tomas laughed as the question was bounced back to him, “my establishment, you make it sound like I own it.” Perhaps that would’ve been applicable years ago, embarrassingly, and perhaps it would maybe be applicable years later, hopefully less embarrassingly. “It’s fine though, has it’s good days has it’s bad days,” shrugging, he flipped his sketchbook back open to the drawings he did today, everything else might be a bit more sensitive. Romuald would probably knock his head for sharing anything to L’Ambroisie, but to be honest, everything in there was too outlandish for the other restaurant to even want or care anyways, he didn’t see the harm in letting them mock some of it. Tomas learnt to grow a thick skin over the years, but he still beamed, excited to share, “What I have been doing though, is trying to do a twist for Autumn and Halloween. Today’s thoughts: tarte à la citrouille.”

"Spooky mood?” she repeated, skepticism creeping into her tone. Françoise was never the type to discourage a bit of planning ahead, but wasn’t that excessive? Surely, most normal people didn’t need to psyche themselves up just to check whether courgettes are in season.

She was silent for a moment as she debated the best way to respond to his encouragement. She was seething with frustration over the encounter in question, and desperately wanted to give in and talk about it. But she would have to be careful. However simple and puppy-like Tomas might seem, if something she said made its way back to Romauld through him, well, she wouldn’t be jumping for joy.

Oh, but the temptation to let loose and tell someone! And besides, he might have a story or two from his own side. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t be as careful with his details as she was planning be with hers.

“Well, if you really want to know, we had a man this morning. Well-dressed, respectable-looking – not someone who would set off alarm bells.” She flinched slightly as she remembered more of the story. “But the thing was, the minute his food arrived, out comes his phone, and off he goes, clicking away, photographing his plate.”

That was one aspect of running a restaurant in the modern world that Françoise was not keen on. Yes, the plating at L’Ambrosie was beautiful, but you were supposed to eat the food, after you admired it, not let it cool into a cold mess. ”And then –” she suppressed an exasperated sigh and continued. “Once he finally eats, he complains. Apparently, it’s a great affront to him that there isn’t cheese in the dauphinois. So much so that he insists on being comped.” She flashed Tomas a look, hoping he’d be just as annoyed as she was. “So I’m called in to explain that cheese is not in our dauphinois, nor will it ever be. I managed to smooth things over eventually, but there you go.”

 She nodded pleasantly as he brought her up to speed. Nothing revolutionary yet, but perhaps he would reveal something if she played her cards right. “Well, you contribute to it being what it is, don’t you?” She remembered how much she wished someone would say that to her when she was his age. Anything to acknowledge all her hard work. Perhaps he was the same.

If so, she would have him, hook line and sinker.

She leaned over the notebook, surveying it not just out of politeness, but genuine interest. Sure, it was interest tinged with a hint of disdain for the outlandish creations that Romauld so loved to clog his menus with – but it was interest nonetheless. “How...unusual!” she remarked as her eyes traveled over the sketch. It didn’t look like anything remotely resembling a pumpkin pie to her. Was that really what people at Loulou thought the public liked? “How will it taste, ideally? What’s in it?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as neutral as she could.

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Pan-Roasted Chicken Breasts with Lemon and Rosemary Pan Sauce

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Tomas:

@mmesauveterre

People say that your past haunts you, but perhaps he’s the one haunting his past. Tomas’ first years into coming to Paris was a nightmare. He had such hope and dreams of having his own patisserie he dived head first into the sea without learning how to swim, of course he was going to drown. But at least he’s not dead yet, years later here he still stood (or well sat) by the edge of the river, still baking in Paris. He had Romuald to thank for mostly but he wasn’t the only one back in the day that helped young Tomas stay. His legs dangled over the edge, sketchbook in hand as he tried to conjure up new things for Halloween. Sure it’s only September bit you can never be too early for Halloween. He had a few sketches for designs, intricate sophisticated ones along side kiddy cartoony ones for the kids, and a mash of different flavours sprinkled all over the page seeing what could work together. This was probably one of his favourite past times, even if it led back to work, he enjoyed watching the boats pass, waving at random strangers as the kids occasionally wave back, and taking in the scenery of the city as his inspiration.

He was lost in his thoughts when someone behind his almost scared the daylight out of him, clutching the book close to his chest not to drop it into the river, “You scared me half to death, Françoise.” He let out a sigh and a chuckle upon seeing the lady, one he’s known as early as Romuald. Tomas shifted slightly, patting the space beside him, inviting her to sit, if she has the time away from her work that is, “How’s the restaurant going?” They aren’t exactly the closest of friends, buddy buddy and all but he strangely doesn’t exactly feel intimidated by her either.

Francoise was grateful to have a few minutes to herself. Valence and company seemed to be coping well with the day’s demands, as far as she could see, so she had slipped out of the way.

She’d be back, of course. Her restaurant would need her again soon. Or, more accurately, she would need it. The urge to rush back would overcome her again, and she’d sweep through L’Ambrosie’s doors like a devoted mother worried her child would perish if it was ever out of her sight.

Just this afternoon some customer had complained about the lack of cheese in the gratin dauphinois, which had caused something of a problem. “If you want cheese, monsieur,” she’d been tempted to say, “wait until winter and you can practically bathe in raclette.” Cheese in a dauphinois. Who did he think he was? The very thought was enough to make her stomach turn.

Besides that, though, things seemed to be running smoothly. Smoothly enough that Francoise had nothing to do but admire the floor tiles.

So she’d found herself taking a stroll by the river. And on such a nice day, too. It would be a shame to experience it alone.

But perhaps she wouldn’t have to. Seated not far away from her was that plucky Dutch baker fellow. Not exactly the first person she’d have wanted to keep her company, but he would do fine. She wandered over until she was next to him. Not wanting to interrupt whatever it was he was up to, she stood there and waited.

“Oh, did I? My apologies.” For someone who worked in such a chaotic environment, he was surprisingly easy to startle.

His question, came as something of a surprise. While nothing revolutionary, it was so plainly pleasant that she was shocked. It didn’t even sound like he was trying to tease a secret out of her. “It’s fine, thanks. We had an odd one in today, parked at a corner table.” She glanced at him. “And you? How’s your, uh, establishment?”

This should be fun. What great dish had Loulou transformed into overpriced jello now?

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Valence:

The crowds, the noise, the movement happening all around him couldn’t touch him. Valence Guillory slowly walked the market, carefully observing the colors of the food, the smells, the touch. Life was all around him but all he could think of was the future: the possibility of a purple tomato or the transformation of an ugly monkfish into a beautifully plated dish.  As usual, he wore his elegance all the way down to his wrists. His graying hair, moved freely with the wind for a change, making him no less unapproachable but hinting at a levity he rarely wore inside the kitchens of L’Ambrosie. 

“Mr. Guillory! I have something you might be interested in,” called out a young man from behind a stall, obviously familiar with Valence Guillory, and with an eagerness to impress. “Here. Picked them out myself… what do you think?” Valence eyed the truffles with a pregnant pause that made the young man begin to sweat before Valence even picked one up. With time and care, the Head Chef examined the ingredient, always searching for the possibilities. 

“I’ll take all three.”

If he could in, the presence of the respected customer, the young man would have jumped with joy. Instead, he went to package them with the best self control he could muster. “Thank you sir, please have some wine while you wait.”

Ah, the market. Françoise took a deep breath, filling her lungs with a myriad of scents. Many of her favourite memories had occurred in markets like this. She could remember being a child and racing excitedly from stall to stall, taking in all the bright colours and odd shapes of various offerings, her mother and grandparents trailing behind.

Now though, things were slightly different. She coasted through the stalls, growing increasingly aware of all the eyes that were locking onto her person. As she passed, the butchers, farmers and other stall keepers stole a look, then quickly averted their eyes, gazes suddenly locked on their wares. She wasn’t some inconsequential 12-year old now. At times, she almost felt the need to check her hair to make sure it hadn’t turned to snakes.

As she passed a stall full of obscure, twisted looking mushrooms, Françoise caught sight of a familiar figure. It was none other than Valence Guillory!

“Hello there,” she said softly as she sidled up beside him. “Are you finding anything?” she gazed at the various offerings in the stall. “I hope these taste better than they look. Customers tend to be a bit wary of food that looks as if it could eat them, rather than the other way around.”

On the Prowl: Open

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Margaux:

The afternoon’s proceedings had gone mostly according to plan, with the exception of a shortage of Chardonnay that had left a few customers very cross. Margaux had survived yet another midday rush. Her smile had worn thin, though not so much that she couldn’t spare one for the owner herself. “Good afternoon, madame,” she said, her heart racing. Every employee stiffened their posture and put in a little more elbow grease as Francoise floated past with her stern gaze. Once, she had frightened Margaux. But if one looked long enough, there was much kindness in those blue eyes.

Margaux rocked back and forth, waiting by the door for customers, breathing a sigh of relief as she had appeased the woman. At least, until she heard the muttered comment. A hand flew up to her earrings. They were large, yes, but Rosalie had sent them as a birthday gift. The fact that Margaux’s then-pregnant sister had taken the time to buy earrings had meant the world to her.

“Madame Sauveterre,” Margaux turned around, her smile fading, “is there a problem?”

Françoise stopped in her tracks and turned to meet the voice that had adressed her. She was met with – oh, what was her name? Françoise tried  to keep her expression as neutral as possible until she could place the young woman. She nearly had it! Was it Mary? No.  Margaret...? No... Margaux! That was it!

That hurdle dealt with, Françoise surveyed the younger woman. Or at least, the attempted to. Unfortunately, she didn’t get farther than the waitress’s rather distinctive ear jewelry.

Damn it!  Did she actually hear that? she thought.

She really should be more careful.  Françoise wasn’t the kind of woman who apologized for her opinions, but that didn’t mean that she should let the whole world hear them. “A problem?” she repeated.

She had said she should speak to someone about it. No time like the present.

“Well, you see...Margaux,” she began, her voice tight and terse. “Are you familiar with the dress code in this establishment? Because I’m afraid –” she gestured to the woman’s earrings, “that those are against it.” She cleared her throat sharply. “The aim at L’Ambrosie is to have the serving staff look as professional as possible.” Her eyes locked on Ms. Chapelle. “Would you say your choice of accesories could be described as professional?”

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Julien:

The coffee was a ploy, he knew,she knew. But these acts of courtesy were the normal human decencies that were expected to be exchanged. Simple, complete a quick polite greeting, show some sort of interest and average acting skills needed of course. One had to be convincing, pretend they really gave a damn  and once that was over - get onto the important subject at hand. 

Julien had been one to utilize such a strategy earlier in his years, but the man had other methods now to deal with people. But that wasn’t the point, the point was that Françoise wanted something from him. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was, hell it happened every other week, give or take. 

“Good words for L’Ambroisie?” He asked simply, cutting the bullshit immediately, “or slander for another restaurant - you know I can’t do that. No matter how many bottles of champagne you gift to me Madam,”he shook his head with a sigh. “But I do like a good cup of coffee. What is your proposition this time?” 

This odd little arrangement between them had been going on for some time. She would see something, maybe get an idea, then go find him somewhere or other and  suggest it. It was almost a routine now, come to think of it. Some undiscerning person might even get the impression they did this for their own enjoyment, that they were some kind of charmingly mismatched pair of friends.

She almost shuddered at the thought.

Well, whatever it was,  this routine was really quite advantageous to both of them, as far as she could see. She would get a nice sharp piece of prose out of it – one that would hopefully send some silk ties and shiny heels through her door – and he would get a damn good evening and another byline to his name. 

“Yes, exactly. If you’d be willing.” He would be willing the the end of this conversation, she was sure. “Never slander, Julien! Why, I would never dream of such a thing!” This was something of an exaggeration, as she had indeed dreamt of it many times. But she had to behave herself, if this was going to work. That was part of the whole thing, keeping everything at least a little above board.

“I’m thinking...we give you a great evening, you describe the nice warm atmosphere, the good service, all that... but this time, we’ll have a nice section about how  L’Ambrosie is doing, how we’re still in fighting form after all these years.” They probably did have some anniversary or another coming up. That could be worked in quite nicely. “Of course, it’s all up to you.” she said, a studied casualness making its way into her voice. “But..” She leaned forward slightly as she spoke, more sincerely now. “I bet you could do a lovely job.  They might even quote you in future reviews, if you really try.”

She might’ve gone a bit overboard on the last bit. But hey, in her experience, no writer could turn down a compliment.

Sh*tty Coffee : OPEN

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Celine:

It was extremely fortunate that just at the moment Celine was going to deliver some papers into Françoise’s office, she caught sight of the woman herself entering the building. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be a good idea to disturb her boss when she clearly wanted to spend some time in the restaurant itself, but she supposed that there was no time like the present.

Approaching cautiously, she hovered in the background as Françoise was seated. The owner had such a strong presence that Celine couldn’t help but feel the usual twinge of fear that caught in her chest whenever she knew she had to speak to her, yet despite her nerves, she recognised that she was absolutely fascinated by her. The way she held herself, her passion, and all she had achieved were endlessly inspiring and exquisitely French to Celine, making her something of a role model to the young book keeper. When it seemed as though she were settled, Celine quietly moved beside the table just in time to hear the comment about the waitress.

“It does rather look as though she’s stolen some chandeliers,” she murmured, momentarily transfixed by the gold objects offset against dark hair, before remembering who she was stood beside and returning her gaze to the older woman. “My apologies. Bonjour, Madame Sauveterre. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Mmhm?” Françoise looked up when she heard a familiar voice. Celine. Where did she come from? she wondered. It was almost like the book keeper had appeared by magic.

The more plausible explanation was that Françoise had been too distracted pondering the wattage of the new light bulbs, but she was still slightly taken aback by the young woman’s sudden presence.

These days an interaction with Celine Park put Françoise just slightly on edge. Not because of Celine herself. On the contrary! She was an exceptionally bright woman, and thoroughly trustworthy too, as far as Françoise could see.

No, the problem was less Celine, and more her job. Due to recent...developments, a visit from the book keeper often meant that some problem had arisen, and that the two women would have to scrimp and save in order to solve it.

Françoise glanced at Celine, her face showing none of these nerves – or so she hoped. She chose to ignore the remark about the earrings, however much she agreed. They musn’t be seen to be catty, after all. “Oh no, not at all,” she said evenly, though this was a bit of a lie. She had been hoping to just sit back, observe, and if needed, nitpick a little.

But if finances were what needed to be attended to instead, then they would be. “What do you need, Mademoiselle Park?” she asked. As she continued to speak, her voice dropped to something near a whisper. “Would you rather we continue our conversation here, or elsewhere? My office perhaps?”

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Françoise Sauveterre – Moodboard

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What we wish upon the future is very often the image of some lost, imagined past.

Graham Swift, Waterland 

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Julien:

He recognized the woman immediately. To say that they were familiar was a bit of an understatement seeing that most of his family members for some odd reason were motivated to work under Madam Sauveterre. “Putrid,” he noted honestly, a grimace briefly dashing on his face before they evaporated.

Julien knew full well that Françoise didn’t simply people for no reason. The woman always had an agenda on her shoulders, much like himself. He brought up his hands from the keyboard, nimble fingers formed a strange triangle as his attention was drawn forward. What could it be this time? Another review? More favors? The man had limits to his patience and most were aware of it.

“Hello, is there something you were looking for in this disgraceful establishment?” He was expecting a follow up, a plea for some sort of help.

She nodded sharply as he spoke. “Mmm. Right.” She hadn’t actually been interested in the state of his coffee, but if it had put him in this sour a state, she might have a challenge on her hands.

But if Julien wasn’t interested in small talk, she couldn’t really complain. Neither was she, if she was perfectly honest. The faster she could get what she wanted out of him, the better.

“As a matter of fact, yes. You.” She slipped into the chair opposite him, not bothering to ask if he was saving it for anyone, and fixed him with a firm, steely gaze. “How would you feel about doing some writing for me? I can assure you that you would get a great cup of coffee out of it, at the very least.”

Sh*tty Coffee : OPEN

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Julien:

Fingers arched quite elegantly over his laptop, Julien had managed to find time at a small cafe in the hub of Paris to work over the critiques that were due that evening. He was fumbling with words in his head - ardent, zealous, impassioned, none suited the sentence has attempting to construct together. With the subtlest of lip bites, his eyebrows furrowed further as he could feel himself losing his thoughts into the machine before him. All his eyes could focus on was the screen which contained the key to his liveliness, his world, his everything. 

Quietly, the man brought up a cup of coffee to his lips, his tongue dipping in the taste. He manifested a scowl, unimpressed by the flavors conjured by the lukewarm liquid. Regardless, he swallowed with as if he was taking medicine rather than coffee. Perhaps he wouldn’t come again to this place. No matter how many attempts he had made to allow himself to enjoy the atmosphere, their products were sub par to put it gently. Absolute shit if he was to be honest. The latest socialites had been raving madly about the wonders of this place but perhaps it was only the visuals they cared for rather than the content. He wasn’t shocked. 

As his hands continued to tap against the keyboard, he felt a lingering presence overhead. The man tilted his head, brows raised with a twinge of annoyance decorating his visage. “How can I help you?” Do I have to make up bullshit for you to get out my face he thought internally. Julien loved people. 

You might think she was above them, given her line of work, but Françoise was no stranger to a tiny cafè. She’d spent enough time in them as a student to be sentimental over them, and it was good to get a break from the diamond-studded affairs she was used to, occasionally.

But today wasn’t just a trip for pleasure. There was business to be done too.

Françoise had been keeping an eye on the press, and Maison Loulou appeared to be basking in adoration from all corners. From a rational perspective, she could see why. They were new and shiny And yes, if she absolutely had to admit it, they were innovative. All fine, if you liked that sort of thing.

The problem was, the papers really liked that sort of thing. Which meant customers were sure to too.

So Françoise was hoping to enlist some help. If she could just catch Julien, she might be able to twist his arm and get him to... shall we say, redress the balance.

“Why,” she said slowly, as if this was just some pleasant coincidence, “I just thought I ought to say hello. It would be rude not to.” She gestured in the general direction of his table. “How’s the coffee? Is this place up to scratch, in your opinion?”

Sh*tty Coffee : OPEN