Camellia Sinensis

one teaspoon of black tea

The room was a little messy. There were clothes thrown on a chair, dirty dishes in the sink, and cardboards of take-out foods all over the place. Ethan thought his mom would be mad at him if she knew he wrecked her apartment. As if that wasn't enough, his dad was calling him, for the tenth time today. He waited for a few moments and decided it wasn't worth it to hang up on him since he'll just gonna bombard him with messages.

"How are you settling? Good? How's your mom?" There were rustles from the other side of the line. He guessed his dad snuck out from his meeting to do a quick call.

"I'm doing ok, dad. Mom's been doing okay too. We talked this morning and I just got back from the hospital."

"Great, that's great. Call me when you need anything, okay?"

"Yes, dad. I—"

The line was disconnected.

"—will."

It's funny how his dad is caring yet irritating at the same time. He wondered if that was why his mom divorced him. He thought they weren't a match for each other since the start, based on how they explained to a 6-years-old Ethan. She's too stubborn and he's too busy with his work as an art director. Nonetheless, he's grateful they're mature enough to raise a kid together with no beef. Not a lot of people can have both parents taking care of them with the visible word of 'separated' printed on their forehead.

The sun was almost setting and the weather was a little cold when he stepped outside. It rained a lot since he landed yesterday and the street was damp. He zipped his fur coat, thinking that eating outside might not be a good idea at all.

In the corner of the street, a small building with a blaring neon sign and hideous canopy stood tantalizingly, almost challenging. It read 'La Parisien Brasserie' and as he walked closer, he could smell smoky beef and champagne. The bell jingled when he opened the door. The interior was even more horrible, he thought. The paint was a little chipped off and it gave a sad and miserable aura. Fading portraits and dimmed lamplight accented through the room. The interior designer should be fired, he mused amusingly.

He sat near the entrance, beside a large plant pot he's sure never watered by the staff by how yellow they looked. The number of dishes on the menu left him flabbergastered. The descriptions were off and there were no pictures. Whipping his head left to right, he waved to the nearest waiter and said, "I can't speak Indonesian" and "Do you have a french speaker" in broken words. He nodded, gesturing for him to wait before bolting through the backdoor. 'Or an English speaker' left unsaid as the waiter flee before he could say it out loud.

It was a minute or two before a girl in a black apron and tied bun walked out to him and smiled. "How can I help you tonight, sir?" He noticed her name tag was a bit skewed with the letter embossed slowly losing the ink; Binar, it wrote.

"Right, I don't understand the description here. Do you have Coq au Vin or Croque Monsieur?"

"Sorry, sir. We don't serve them tonight since we haven't got the deliveries. We can serve you plate-du-jour if you desire?" Ethan noticed her smiling nervously as if she's afraid she said the wrong thing.

"Cool, I can do that." He swore he could feel her sigh relievingly.

"Great!" she chortled and gathered the menus. "Please wait a moment!"

He observed there weren't a lot of customers on sight. He'd like to think French food isn't for everybody. Or the food's just bad.

Loud banging came from the kitchen and the girl burst, not literally, from the backdoor carrying a tray of several dishes: a bowl of onion soup, a couple of andouilles, and a small plate of gratin dauphinoise.