by JB Sanders
As they were seated at their table, with the security guys taking up two tables nearby, a man came up. He wore the slightly 1920's-style tuxedo that the rest of the wait staff wore, but around his neck hung a chain with a little dish on it. Over one arm he had a towel, and around his waist was some kind of sash.
"Good evening, gentlemen. I am the sommelier for La Lumière des Ètoiles, how may I guide your wine selection this evening?" He spoke English fluently, with only a trace of a cultured French accent.
Tyler gave the man a short bow, and then in French said: "Sir, I am going to say to you the words that all great sommeliers wait their careers to hear: I put myself entirely in your hands, the wine is yours to select, and --" Tyler smiled. "Money is no object."
The man looked surprised, and then very pleased. He, too, continued in French. "I am very happy to hear that, sir. May I suggest that I tailor your food to the wine I select for your meal? Would you care for a little champagne to start your evening?"
"Yes, certainly, we are entirely in your hands. And champagne would be very nice, thank you."
The man then hesitated. "Please forgive this question, but I feel I must ask: when you say money is no object...?"
Tyler grinned. "It really isn't. Check with the maître d', he has already called our bank."
The man nodded curtly and moved away.
Glen looked around at the restaurant, and felt himself relax some. Not much, but enough that he actually began to enjoy what promised to be a spectacular meal. The place had glittering crystal chandeliers, bright gilt silverware and starched white table clothes, all of which contrasted with the muted red carpeting and burgundy drapery. The lighting was electric, but pleasingly dim, and there were several candles on their table in frosted glass vases. Each was slightly different, almost sculptural, and the light they threw was warm, and promised passion.
"Like it?" Tyler asked. Glen could see he really wanted to know and was worried what Glen thought. Being worried like that was one of the hundred ways Tyler said "I love you" throughout the day.
Glen turned back to Tyler and smiled. "It's perfect. I mean, in a mushy romantic chick-movie kind of way--"
Tyler grinned at him almost aggressively. "--Which you find yourself increasingly appreciating in a way that would make 14-year-old you puke, but which you are powerless to resist?"
"Yeah." Glen scooted his chair a little and took Tyler's hand. Then he leaned over and kissed Tyler.
They both leaned back from the kiss and looked at each other with pleasure.
"So, treasure hunting." Tyler took a sip of his water. "Now that you've become Doctor Merriwether, we have a little time on our hands. I was thinking we should start in the Bahamas."
Glen turned his head to the side inquiringly. "What? I thought the map I got you showed the tip of San Salvador?"
Glen had bought Tyler an honest-to-gosh Pirate Treasure Map for their first wedding anniversary, and they'd been kicking around the idea of sailing Tyler's gift to Glen, a schooner, the whole time they'd been holed up in St Andrews University. Glen had taken a year to finish his Doctorate in Medieval Studies, and although Glen loved the subject, the slog had been hard at the end. They could both use a vacation after that -- to say nothing of the little mess they were in now.
"Well, I thought we'd start by touristing it around a bit, and work on breaking in the ship's crew."
"I thought it was just going to be the two of us, sailing away into the unknown, seeking treasure? We need a crew?"
Tyler gave Glen an irritated look, though there wasn't much heat in it. "Don't be silly. You know perfectly well -- better than me -- that a ship that size, even with automation, needs a crew of at least ten."
Glen smiled back at him. "So you're going to bring along thirty, and all of them will be our security guys."
Tyler smirked back, and nodded. "Except for Tim, and the cook."
Glen laughed.
Before Tyler could continue, two waiters came up, each with a towel over their arm and a dish in their hands. A plate was put in front of each of them, service from the left, and as the waiters retreated, the sommelier came up with a green-glass bottle in his hands.
"Messieurs, may I present a 1989 Louis Roederer Champagne Cristal Brut Rosé." He poured a bit of the bubbly rose-colored wine into a flute and handed it to Tyler, who sniffed, sipped, and smiled. The sommelier then poured the flute full, then Glen's, and then placed the bottle into an ornate ice-filled receptacle which appeared in the arms of another waiter. The sommelier bowed and then moved away.
Glen sipped the amazingly nice champagne and looked down at his plate. It was some kind of fleshy white fish, drizzled in a butter sauce and divided into five bite-sized pieces. A blue shell was arranged on the plate as decoration.
"What is this?"
Tyler mumbled and moaned through his food, pointed at Glen's plate with his fork. "Eep eb!"
Glen gave Tyler a slightly raised eyebrow -- Tyler knew how much Glen enjoyed someone trying to talk through their food. But Glen got the message. He set down his champagne, picked up his fork and ate one of the pieces of ... as it turned out, lobster.
Glen's eyes widened. The lobster and butter melted in his mouth; the flavor was simple but intense. Glen had quite possibly never tasted lobster -- no, seafood -- this good. He moaned a little, too.
Glen had to control himself not to inhale the rest of the food on his plate. He interspersed sips of the wine with the lobster and found that they were ideally suited to one another. It was almost like the wine was an additional sauce for the dish.
Tyler finished before him and slumped in his chair in satiated delight. "Wow."
"Yeah, ok, whatever we're paying for this meal is totally worth it. And you win huge husband points for picking this place."
They chatted about hockey for a while, sipping the champagne and looking out at the Seine. The river flowed right past the restaurant, and they had an unparalleled view. Sight-seeing boats floated past, and in the distance Notre Dame lit up the night.
The next course was a light salad, everything fresh and crisp.
When they brought out the duck, the sommelier reappeared.
He nodded to them, and presented a dusty bottle for their viewing. "This is the star of our cellar. It is the 1990 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Romanée-Conti. It is without doubt the best Pinot Noir in the world."
Tyler raised both his eyebrows at this bold assertion. "That is a big statement, monsieur."
The sommelier smiled just slightly, cradled the bottle in his hands and poured a small sample into a fresh glass. This he handed to Tyler, who rolled it in the glass, sniffed and then sipped.
Wonder slowly dawned on Tyler's face and he leaned over to look more closely at the bottle. "Ok, that's ... wow. I'm going to have to find some of that for myself."
As he poured, the sommelier talked. "Even with your great wealth you will find that difficult, monsieur. Very few bottles are produced, and those who are fortunate enough to acquire even one bottle, much less a case, seldom wish to part with it."
He handed back Tyler's glass half full and had another for Glen.
Glen wasn't all that savvy when it came to wine, though they'd been playing at learning more since they were able to afford, well, anything. Still, even he could tell that there was something simply better about this wine, as if the other wine he'd drunk over the years had been cheap, pale imitations of this.
Then they tried some of the duck, and it was like the two together had some kind of special alchemy. Alone, the duck or the wine would be spectacular. Together, it was like some kind of ballet on his tongue.
As they ate, they were silent, both thoroughly absorbed in their food. They spared each other smiles between bites. When they were finished, they both leaned back with a sigh.
"Ok, you're going to have to do something over-the-top crazy for the next special meal to top this." Glen patted his stomach.
"Yeah, I'm a little worried about it. An
d it's your turn next. Just -- no jumping out of an airplane into a four-star restaurant or anything, ok?"
Glen grinned. "You're ruining my ideas."
A waiter approached the table. "Are you finished, sirs?"
Tyler nodded at him.
The hot waiter leaned over the table, plucking the dirty dishes efficiently and expertly. He also showed off his shapely ass right in front of Tyler. Then the waiter stood up, smiled, winked at Tyler and strode away.
Glen made an amazed face, half laughing and half affronted, gesturing at himself.
"If you like, I can ask him to come back and accidentally rub up against you."
Glen contemplated the shapely waiter, who had moved on to another table. "No, that's fine. He's nice to look at, but I'd prefer to just be a little angry with you."
Tyler looked a little surprised, and maybe a touch hurt. "Why?"
Glen gave Tyler a very heated smile, his eyes smoldering. "It'll help me keep the passion at a ten -- you know, for tonight."
Tyler widened his eyes and blushed, then looked down at his food with a small smile. As they ate, Tyler kept darting glances at Glen, and touching him on any little pretext.
***
The dessert was an amazing cheese, followed by crepes and their old friend, a bottle of 1967 Château d'Yquem. They'd served that wine themselves the first time they'd had friends over for dinner as a couple. It was a thick white wine, not quite syrupy, and oh so good. It had hints of butterscotch, citrus, honey, apricots and just a touch of smoke. The Château d'Yquem was perfect as a dessert wine -- not that it couldn't do much, much more. Married with camembert cheese it was divine.
They were just starting on their crepes when the maître d' came up.
"Pardon me." The maître d' stood next to their table. He looked, to Glen's expert eye, both apologetic and ... scared.
"Yes?" Tyler looked up from the whispered conversation he and Glen had been engaged in, their heads nearly touching, their chairs right next to each other. Like a few of the other romantic couples in the restaurant, Glen and Tyler had been quite close the whole evening, touching hands or knees more and more all night, as the alcohol flowed. Unlike most of the other couples, however, their romantic chatter had mostly consisted of hockey stories.
"I am so sorry, gentlemen, but there has been a complaint from another patron."
"Complaint." Tyler said it as if the word was fish just slightly past it's use-by date.
The maître d' looked even more nervous and upset. "Yes, sir, some of the other patrons are uncomfortable with your ... public display."
"Oh, really?" Tyler pinned the man with a look that had intimidated generals before. "Which table?"
The maître d' actually paled at this. "I, uh, really I couldn't ... ah, the gentlemen in question are ... valued customers."
Tyler looked at the man thoughtfully for a moment, and then said quietly: "Tim."
Glen had been right in thinking that he and Tyler were under closer watch than just the usual adjacent table of bodyguards. Tim appeared from a back door and came right over to their table. Tim had obviously heard the tone Tyler was using and didn't dilly-dally. He had a laptop with him.
"Yes, sir?" Tim said -- he only used the "sir" in front other people, or when Tyler got into what Glen thought of as his "Operational Command Mode". Or Bossy-Pants Snit, if he was being particularly insufferable.
"What table did Monsieur Vallette speak to before coming over here?"
"Table five, sir."
Monsieur Vallette, the maître d' broke out in a sweat. "Please, Monsieur Conrad, do not make trouble with these men, they are..." He swallowed, then continued in a whisper. "They are bad men."
"Tim?" Tyler didn't look away from Vallette, but he did take the napkin off his lap and put it on the table.
Tim cleared his throat, pulled some papers from his inside suit pocket and handed them to Tyler. "I, uh, thought this sort of thing might come up, and I had a little extra time, so..."
Tyler smiled up at Tim. "So you did background checks on everyone eating here tonight, didn't you? Have I mentioned how awesome you are recently?"
"You have, but a guy likes to hear it again and again anyway." Tim grinned back. "I think you'll find table five particularly interesting reading."
Tyler started reading. Glen looked up at Tim. "How did you--?"
Tim glanced at the flabbergasted Vallette, and then back at Glen. "We hacked into the credit card charging computer of the restaurant--
"Monsieur!" Vallette whispered in protest.
"-- plus using photos of the patrons from our video surveillance equipment, we did some facial recognition look-ups via, ah -- sources, and compiled dossiers."
Vallette gaped at Tim.
"Ah." Glen said, and smiled. "You know, I think I'm starting to appreciate what an expedition it is when we go out these days. It's like a major spy operation just for us to have dinner."
Tyler looked over from the papers he was reading. He looked a little worried "And?"
"It's kind of fun." Glen squeezed Tyler's knee. "Like our own episode of Burn Notice, only less shooting."
"Yes, and you'd never fit into those dresses Fiona wears."
"I also don't use guns."
"No, but you do kick ass when you have to."
"Crap," Tim put in. "This means I'm Sam in this scenario, doesn't it?"
"Yes, you'll just have to suck up being the awesome ex-spy, ex-commando with a heart of gold." Tyler looked down at the papers again. "And this is some great work."
"Thanks."
"Ok, Monsieur Vallette, go back to your restaurant, I'll handle this."
Vallette looked sick. "But, monsieur--"
"I swear to you, there will be no shooting, no violence, not even raised voices. Nor will you be troubled afterwards."
"But, but these men, you do not know them--"
Tyler gave Vallette a grim smile which made him stop talking. "Oh, but I do, Monsieur Vallette, I do know them. There is nothing to worry about."
Vallette swallowed again, nodded and went back to the front of the house.
Tyler looked at Glen. "So, how are we handling this?"
"You're asking me?"
"Of course! This is our romantic anniversary dinner. If you want, we'll just leave and do something else."
"Pfft. Please! As if I would ever ask you to back away from bullies."
"If you wanted me to--"
Glen squeezed Tyler's hand. "Go on, be the hero -- I know you like doing it, and you know I like watching you do it. Plus you just should."
"But the dinner--" Tyler gestured their half-eaten dessert laid out before them.
"Will keep."
Tyler smiled, kissed Glen, and stood up. "Come on, then, let's go kick some ass."
Glen and Tyler made their way over to table five.
The table was populated by three men and three women. They were all most certainly French, the men in very stylish modern high-end suits, the women in haute couture. Despite the richness of their appearance, Glen thought there was a hardness in their demeanor, a sense of dangerousness. And not just because he was sure at least two of the men were, as they say, packing heat.
"Gentlemen!" Tyler said to them, not too loudly but enough for them all to hear.
The men stopped eating and talking, looking at Glen and Tyler with hard expressions. The women stopped eating and looked at them with wary expressions. Except one of the women, who had just as hard a look as the men.
"What do you want, fairy?" This was from the oldest of the men, who was middle to late 40's. He put out his cigarette contemptuously. It must be something about the culture or the language -- only the French could convey contempt that expressively just by stubbing out a cigarette.
"Ah, yes, if I might have a private word with just you and your people, Monsieur LaTout?" Tyler gestured at two of the women.
LaTout looked put out rather than surprised, although the rest of the table had more than enough s
urprise to go around.
"Suzette, Charlotte, please excuse us." LaTout didn't look at the two women, who immediately hopped up and made their way to the ladies room. LaTout kept his eyes on Tyler.
Tyler waited for them to be out of earshot, and then spoke. "Thank you. I understand you made a complaint about us."
"Oui." LaTout pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one out into his hand. "I don't like my meal spoiled by your perverted antics. This is a French restaurant."
Tyler smiled. "Tough."
His men muttered, not loudly but with a fair amount of anger. LaTout merely narrowed his eyes at Tyler. "Do not presume to insult me, American, in my own restaurant, without knowing who I am."
Tyler tilted his head to one side. "And you shouldn't be an asshole to other diners without knowing who they are. It's bad manners."
One of men next to LaTout went to stand up, but the older man restrained him. "If you really knew who I was, fool, you would know not to insult me to my face like this."
Tyler nodded. "Yeah, I can see where that would be stupid. But I know who you are. It's you who don't seem to know who I am. And I don't like bullies, particularly homophobic ones."
LaTout gave Tyler a tight smile. "Ok, American, who do you think you are."
"I am Tyler Conrad."
LaTout made a derisive snort. "You say that as if I should know you."
Tyler sighed and looked at Glen. "This is what comes of doing everything quietly." He turned back to LaTout. "That's fair. I guess I've yet to make a really serious impression on the criminal classes." The men at the table stirred slightly at this. "Let me introduce myself, then." Tyler relaxed a little, and put his other hand, the one that wasn't holding Glen's hand, in his jacket pocket, casual like. "You might recognize me by the name I am known in Russia. There, they call me кровавый принц."
LaTout swallowed. One of his men leaned back as if Tyler had just said he had the Black Plague.
One of the other men obviously didn't know Russian or recognize the name. "So what if you're some flunky Russian punk? Your face smashes just as --"
The man made a noise of pain, stopped talking and looked at his dinner companion in confusion.