Daedalus

it's lit

Once we introduced ourselves to Loire at Le Vin de Sang, we participated in traditional small talk as she served her guests, but all three of us felt that we only scraped the surface, and, since we're going to be spending two weeks together, also felt that it is essential to know more about each other if we are to cooperate in these confines successfully, so Loire invited us to her house for a sort of introductory dinner where we can talk about whatever we please without customers being a threat in our minds. In addition, she wanted us to try some of the classic French foods, because how America spins them is apparently disgusting and unauthentic on the highest level, although Americans never grasp that notion until they dine with the European.

Loire specifically told us that we don't have to dress formally, but that didn't stop Lent from procuring a wacky polka-dot bowtie from his bag, and tacking it onto a horridly yellow shirt. It's not like I'm going to scold him for his fashion choices, however poor, and neither will Loire, because he does what he sees fit, and I don't wish to break his heart over a casual dinner. But, just to reiterate, it is very ugly, and every fashion designer who ever lived is cursing him for getting away with it. Perhaps there's something endearing about his flaws, though. Perhaps it reinforces just how adorable he is.

"Basil! Lent!" Loire greets, striking us with the cultural phenomenon of kissing both of the cheeks of one's acquaintance, but this time I'm prepared for it, and I can do the same for her without messing up too badly.

Protected against the harsh bite of Parisian weather indoors, Loire has opted for a casual sundress that, judging from how new it looks and from the climate of France, she rarely has the opportunity to wear. It matches the hue of a sunflower, as Lent's yellow does not, and reminds me of how many times I have glimpsed the same color in other sundresses. It seems to be the default shade of these garments, not to say that it doesn't suit Loire. She actually looks rather remarkable in it, with the pinched waist and the flowing skirt that trickles down to her knees like a river of gold. I sense that Loire is the goddess of the twentieth arrondissement, and maybe even beyond.

I consider complimenting her on her dress, but Lent beats me to it, as always. "You look stunning, Loire."

"As do you, mon chèvrefeuille," Loire replies, fiddling with Lent's polka-dot bowtie cheerfully. It's obviously a lie, but Loire pulls it off so well that she has masterfully injected a blatant rouge into Lent's cheeks. Loire soon catches sight of me, in black skinny jeans and a loose white shirt, and, with a fascinated stare, adds, "And once more to you, mon hère."

"My honeysuckle and my wretch," Lent mouths from behind the woman, translating for his painfully monolingual friend.

"Thank you for inviting us," I acknowledge as Loire pulls us to her cherry dining table, upon which a meal of corn, bread, champagne, and pasta rest elegantly in their own decadence.

It is evident that she cooked all of this herself, and it smells absolutely amazing. I'm not sure how things operate in France — that would be left up to Lent, who survived honors French all throughout high school — but I assume they are very picky about their food, and rely on stores only for ingredients, especially when they are hosting guests they want to impress with their cultural cuisine, so it is very likely that Loire prepared all of this on her own, and for that I am more than thankful.

"It's no problem," Loire responds graciously as she scoots out two chairs on either side for us, then one at the head of the table for her. "I think Fleming would reprimand me if I didn't complete my job as your confidante."

"Yeah, it's probably best that you do what she asks," Lent comments, tucking himself to one of the aforementioned chairs. "Fleming can be worse than the devil when she's angry."