Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Parc Breakfast: I Don't Think You're Ready For This Confiture, Part I

Lipstick that guts men in their sleep stamps a porcelain mug on a sidewalk table at Parc.

The day is breaking.

Owen removes his sunglasses and places them next to his glass of orange juice. "Here, really? You can't pick a fight with me when we're at McGlinchey's. Has to be here. A class act, Amelia."

"It's 9:30. I don't wait well." Her tartine is but one bite reduced.

"Think of the black eye you could give me at Oscar's. Can we just finish breakfast and then go somewhere quiet?"

Parc itself seemed to laugh at this. Who pays for silence?

"You're getting all excited and I haven't even tossed this $7 Badoit water in your face yet," Amelia said, putting down her butter knife.

"Why do you always have to be so fashionable? Vogue after you eat."

He looked away, where their server was trying to mentally deliver the check. "Very nice. Gangly will completely strand us now." He turned back and watched her sip from the glass of imported h20. "Tip or no. Careful, don't drink it all."

She dangled her arm closer, giving it a swirl in front of him."There's enough."

They both knew she wouldn't. He accepted the glass to settle her own doubt.

"How's this, then?" He splashed a quick jet of the two inches of remaining fluid directly into his face, with movements so precise and controlled that only the two-top next to them took it in. Even Gangly the Server had given up watching the palpable conflict unfolding in his section.

Amelia slid back. "You are depressed." Leaping up from her seat, she jettisoned her napkin over their breakfast and stalked off towards the bathroom. The walk took forever, a human nature trail of gawkers. All bistro eyesets had fastened themselves to her spectacular form by the time she reached the swinging doors of the toilette. An elder woman with a cutting coif attempted to hold it ajar, but Amelia gave her a firm shake of the head no, plowing through with a kiss of her own kinecticity.

Back out with a graceful land at the bar, Amelia was refreshed and fit with a slick coat of Guts Men in Their Sleep. Snatching a baguette from a basket off to the side, she tore off a sizeable hunk and pushed it into her mouth. The bartender started to pour. It may have been the first of the day.

With the contents of face-saving glassware vanished, she allowed herself a glance at their table.

Someone else had claimed it.

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