Cadet at the city of Metropolis' prestigious military academy, Dusk Lancaster on the outside was a man to envy. Yet, behind his uniform, a beast having lost his compass thrived on the thrill of bloody duels, whilst the orphaned shoeshine boy he once...
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February 23rd 549 days to the miracle Queenston, Borough 4.
They smirked staring at their poising waiter or, appropriately enough, sommelier?
One who oozed refinement, presented them with a bottle of fortified Sauvignon Noir to inspect.
Having the Noir on your table at the FitzRoy, was a sign of one's affluence. Though being at the Grand hotel would be enough lead about one's societal rank.
Luxe with the reputation of louche, it was one of the city's oldest and most remarkable buildings, featuring an eclectic though sharper Edwardian Baroque style, heavier on the Edwardian than Baroque elements.
The FitzRoy wasn't a mere hotel however, aside from its elegant veneer, it was more of a first-class casino resort than a lodging establishment. Since its beginnings and over time, the Grand Hotel had inherited and consistently fostered a distinction for being the meeting place of the aristocracy and haute bourgeoisie of the Metropolis, and a hotspot of entertainment of all kinds and tastes; sometimes verging on the proscribed, while other times unreservedly off-limits.
And so, in presenting them with the bottle, the sommelier commenced that time tested etiquette of wine tasting. Allowing them to take a sniff at the cork at first, placing it on the table in front of them, to which they responded by examining the cork stopper like the connoisseurs they were, name and year first before moving on to confirm there was no damage to it.
The man, refraining a sigh at the show his customers were pulling, promptly proceeded to pour off the whole bottle into a glass decanter, then served them a sample in each of their pair of opaque twist glasses, before taking one step back, so to provide his patrons some space to do their thing.
The couple of lads, though going out of their way to prove otherwise, far differed from those he served on the sixth floor, the man thought to himself as he watched them.
The younger generation of the Lords Protectors, unlike their discreet and prudent seniors, did not mind to flaunt the wealth their families had amassed and the power they were themselves to be bequeathed. At the great hall, sixth floor; where they spent their soirées dining, drinking cocktails and chattering under the frescoed ceiling of Hellenic paintings of an assemblage of bon vivant demi-deities whooping it up—as above, so below.
Underneath the stucco-decorated ceiling, by the curtained balcony was a table of four, the same one where the two college men, their neckties loosened and sleeves rolled up, showing off their self-winding leather-strapped wristwatches, expensive without a doubt; those were the nouveau rich type who colloquially referred to themselves as the parvenu, the new money, the urban native bourgeoisie.
Swirling their glasses and snobbishly poring over the wine's tears streaming down the sides, the gentlemen went taking the liberty to inspect its aroma airily smelling the few drops, and only then they would have a proper sip of it to finally determine the palate, tasting its mouthfeel for a while, as the patient somm aside waited for their impression and final approval, raising eyebrows as the lads were about to speak.
They however, appeared to eventually disapprove of what he had brought them, as they spitted back the thimblefuls into the glass, one after the other.
"Anything wrong?" politely inquired the server.
"Well, the flavor is good, it carries some of that foxy savor most prominent in Noir, just love it! And I've nothing to say in that respect!" retorted the one seated to the left. "Problem is the dryness, feels somewhat sugarless, definitely lacks in sweetness! Don't you think Henry?"
"Regrettably I tend to agree with that." He replied facing the waiter. "I say it's good, tannins as puckery as they should be, so don't get me wrong! Though as Alphonse said, I mainly find issues with the dryness and hotness, it feels like alcohol overpowers the other flavors, and you know the Noir is one of the sweetest out there, but this, this just leaves me with a slightly acidic finish at the back of my tongue, and I don't like that."
"Yeah who would!" Alphonse again.
"Gentlemen! I am very sorry for the inconvenience." Said the sommelier. "We usually don't receive complaints about our Noir, and I assure you we double-check our wines before serving them, though I'm hundred percent with you Mr. ..."
"Henry."
"Mr. Henry, that Sauvignon Noir is sweet by nature, albeit it also has that distinct lean and restrained vapor, which might be behind the acidy finish you've experienced! Otherwise, I truly am afraid I have no fair explanation for that blemish! Would you like me to bring you something else then?"
"Mmh no!" returned Henry bobbing his head in agreement with his pal. "The Sauvignon Noir will do, just replace that one!"
"I will, right away!" mumbled the server. "My apologies again." Said he, putting the glassware onto a tray, and just about to walk away, he turned to her asserting. "I bring the lady's strawberry juice as well, I expect it to be ready."
"Thank you," Frost said, simpered, on the other side of the same table facing Alphonse, there she sat by the window, she always liked sitting by the window.
"So where is she?" Henry inquired, once the waiter had left.
"Honestly, no idea!" she told him. "Should've been here by now, she said something about her dad, won't be able to pick her up, so she'll probably take the sub."
"Man! been ages I last took that darn train!" grumbled Alphonse. "Have I told you of the shmuck I had the misfortune of sitting in front of? Say midnight, napping right there, the little sod not even flinched a finger when this fat ugly rat, and I stress fat, as big as that Sauvignon bottle mounted him, I kid you not!"
"Yuck! Please stop." Grossed out she exclaimed.
"I bet he had it for dinner." Henry went on.
"I swear one more time, and I leave!" Frost interjected, the girl was pissed.
"But seriously! You have a point there Alphonse." Henry returned. "Leave the lousy train for the hoi polloi, the riffraff, and the great unwashed! Just makes you wonder why our so-called government, administration, or whatever the hell it is, with emphasis on the magistrate herself or power-that-be, why do these folks not honor their election promises, and offer a first-class or at least business class option to subway passengers? I mean planes and ships have it, even ground trains do, and taking into account the city has quite expanded over the last decade or so, not to mention end-to-end trips would sometimes the last couple of hours if not more, it's only logical to have that option for people like us."
"Not until they have bathrooms there!" Alphonse further went. "And believe me, if what you proposed ever see the light of day, I'll be one of the first to put my trust back into the subway! Until then I'd prefer to walk than mingle with those types." Affirmed he, taking a gander about in searching for the waiter, talking still. "Just the thought of it! Someone still needs to explain to me why this wretched city is so obsessed with trains."
"So should I tell her to take a walk instead?" Frost tauntingly inquired, grabbing her phone. "I've no problem with that."
"Of course not," Henry clasped her hand, putting it down as he carried on. "If you told me earlier I'd have sent someone to fetch her."
