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Olivier
The live music on the terrace in Montmartre creates an ambiance of times gone by. Wine flows as Sacre Coeur rises behind us and we brainstorm. Where my ideas were old fashioned or overdone, the ones we’ve come up with so far are mostly ridiculous, completely impossible, or simply incomprehensible. I haven’t laughed this hard in years.
Watching her eyes light up as she throws out a new impossibility makes it worth every second not spent on the true business at hand.
"I've got it," she says, taking a sip of her champagne. "A banner. A giant banner, that wraps around the whole base of the tower. It says ‘Le Bouchon Noir’ next to a giant picture of your face. Haven’t you always wanted to see your face plastered on the Eiffel Tower and not just newsstands?"
"That’s a great idea," I say gently, though her eyes are already laughing. "But I think it would be more effective if we wrapped theentiretower."
"Oh yes," she says, leaning forward. "It can be a kind of performance art! And a slogan—how about The Restaurant of the Future."
"I'll be honest," I say, leaning forward. "When I hear restaurant of the future, I imagine flying cars and self-pouring bottles of wine."
"Yes! Add those to the shopping list. Floating cars self-pouring bottles of your best wine. People will lap it up."
Her laugh is full and loud—just like her father's, I now know. Even the band seem to liven at the sound of her joy.
"I know," she says, her head nodding slowly and her eyes narrowing as if she has a vision in front of her. "Yes. This would put you on the map forever."
Her phone pings but she ignores it.
"What is it?" I demand.
“Wait, I’m thinking.”
I wait as her smile grows.
"Tell me! You can't keep me in suspense like this. It's entirely unjust. Tell me, Natalie, tell me!"I gently shake her shoulders until she laughs and clears her throat.
She opens her arms wide. “King Kong, climbing up the side of the Eiffel Tower, with a sign saying 'The Bouchon Noir is where I get my dinner'. Then he joins us all for a fine meal on the deck. What do you think?"
"Oh no," I say, shaking my head. "It's too short notice for him. I know he's fully booked with a social calendar like he has. On top of that, being a fictional beast, we could run into other bureaucratic challenges. Can you imagine the red tape at City Hall?"
"Good point." She drops her head onto her arms. "France does love its administration."
"It was a good idea," I say, patting her back. I rest my hand on her shoulder, her hair in curls slip into my fingers.
Get it together, Olivier.
She takes a deep breath, her chest expanding under my hand, and against my own will, I remove it from her. She sits up, wistfulness in her eyes, and I don't know what to say.
“Olivier…”
“Let’s keep thinking.” I don’t want her to say that she has to go. Anything to make this moment last longer. “Maybe the music can inspire us.”
“That’s not bad, actually.”
“What isn’t?”
She purses her lips in thought. Those lips. What I’d do to climb across this table and kiss those lips again. "They'd have to play on the deck with the diners," she says, still deep in thought. "Once again that only benefits the people who attend and won't actually raise greater awareness of the restaurant. But…"
"But what is a special night without music?” The band is playing classic French songs but with a twist, more energy and a modern vibe. It feels like a soundtrack to a movie. One where boy meets girl and they live happily ever after.
"I agree," she says, and for a moment I wonder if she heard my thought. She takes another sip and stands as the band winds down their set. Then, against anything I would have expected, she waves wildly at the band. "Excusez-moi!"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to ask the band."
