Page 11 of The Bar Next Door
I keep my face as neutral as I can. “It’s...drinkable. I haven’t had pinot noir in a long time.”
Roxanne looks surprised. “How do you know that’s pinot noir?”
“It has the lightest body of all the reds, which makes it hard to miss even though the flavour varies so much between regions. People say it’s a red that drinks like a white, which I usually agree with, even though—”
I cut myself off when I realize they’re both watching me with their chins mockingly propped on their hands.
“He sounds like you when you talk about craft beer,” Roxanne stage whispers to her friend.
Monroe elbows her in the side. “Oryouwhen you talk about coffee.”
“Is Shock Top reallycraft?” I reply.
“No,” Monroe says slowly, pausing to take a sip. I watch her lips press against the rim of the glass. “But I’m at a dive bar. You don’t come to a dive bar for craft beer—orpinot noir.”
I shift back in my seat and survey the room. “Maybe it won’t be a dive bar for much longer.”
“And what exactly would you like it to be?” There it is again: the flash in her eyes, the glint of steel that lets me know I’ve crossed a line.
“I’m putting in a wine bar next door.” I figure I might as well go with the truth. “I can see a lot of potential in expanding the plans to use both properties.”
“A wine bar?” Roxanne questions. “That’s a bit of a change from Cavellia.”
She’s right; the club I opened two years ago is all about drama and over the top glitz. It’s not even somewhere I like to go myself; I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been in the place after dark, but I saw the lack of that sort of venue and knew I could build something to fit the bill.
I followed the same process when I set up my first restaurant downtown five years ago. The house speciality? Portuguese chicken. At the time, I knew nothing about what makes good Portuguese chicken. I did know people really wanted to eat it, and I knew I could hire staff to make it. We’ve expanded to three locations since then.
I sip at the pinot. It’s a crude flavour, like someone’s first crooked, disjointed attempt at tracing cursive letters, but I can still read the brisk notes of strawberry, still catch the trace of something pungent and wild underneath. My father always said wine had its own language, that you could read the dictionary front to back and still not find the right word to describe the place the liquid takes you to when you let it sit on your tongue.
He said a lot of things, my father. I wish he’d been given the time to say more.
“Call it a passion project,” I answer Roxanne.
“Is your passion destroying beloved local places of business that have been part of the neighbourhood for decades?” Monroe narrows her eyes at me over the top of her pint.
I set my wine down and rest my elbows on the table, leaning forward until our faces are only a foot or so apart.
“You really don’t want me to buy this bar, do you?”
I can’t figure it out. Nobody isthisattached to their favourite watering hole, especially when it’s an actual hole in the wall like Taverne Toulose.Merde,there’s a sign that says ‘Don’t do coke in the bathroom’ on the wall, and yet she’s acting like I want to bulldoze the birthplace of Jesus Christ.
My sudden proximity seems to throw Monroe off for a second. She blinks at me, eyes big and brown and uncertain. A strand of hair slips into her eyes. It wouldn’t be that hard for me to reach over and push it aside.
Roxanne coughs. Monroe sets down her pint.
“I care about the people who work here.”
I let my confusion show on my face. “They work at a bar. There are hundreds of bars in this city. You really don’t think they’ll find other jobs?”
“You don’t understand.”
She shakes her head, glancing up at the ceiling and away from me again, but I don’t let her get away easy this time. I lean in as close as I dare.
“Explain it to me.”
“You...” She swallows, doing her best to avoid my eyes but ultimately giving into the pressure to lock onto my gaze. “You don’t seem like the kind of person whocouldunderstand.”
I risk leaning even closer.
