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Aquired Tastes

by Andrea Blackie

In all of Paris, this is my favourite café. The waiters whisking between the tables, the regulars in their seats, and that wonderful rich scent of good coffee. I always use it for these first meetings. It gives me confidence, like being on home ground. If only the butterflies in my stomach would calm down. This one has to go well. The rent’s due next Friday and I’ve barely enough to see me through. Bread and cheese again this week.
It’s obvious he isn’t happy to be here. When I arrived, he deliberately moved his chair so that he was facing away from me, and he hasn’t said a word apart from a ‘Good Morning’ that clearly meant anything but, and a snort when I ordered our coffee. Deep in his newspaper now.
Come on, Sophie. Deep breaths. First, gain their trust.
‘So, we begin, no?’ I ask. ‘Introductions?’ My English always goes wrong when I’m nervous. The clients don’t usually mind.
This one obviously does, though. He gives another snort and flicks over a page. His cufflink clinks heavily against the table. Solid silver, I’d bet. Well, that bank he works for pays well. That’s why this meeting is so important. If I play it right, I could have a whole string of clients like him, fresh from London and in need of my services. There’d be no more worries about the rent then, that’s certain.
I spot a tiny thread hanging from the sleeve of my jacket and drop my hand onto my lap to hide it. Merde. A new jacket, too. It’s the reason for the gaping hole in my bank account. But then, with this sort of client you have to look the part.
‘Perhaps you would tell me a little about yourself?’ I suggest. Men usually like that.
He – Kevin, they said his name is – lowers his paper an inch and glares.
‘ ’Snothing to tell,’ he snaps. The paper goes back up.
Well, if he won’t talk, I’ll have to.
‘Eh bien!’ I exclaim. ‘Then, let me introduce myself. I was born here, in Paris, and I have lived here all my life. I know everything about this city. Anything you want to know, I can tell you.’
‘Is that a fact,’ mutters the wall of newspaper. Is that sarcasm? It’s difficult to tell with these English men. Americans are so much less complicated. Better try again.
‘And you, Kev-een,’ Careful, Sophie. Don’t overdo it. ‘You have just arrived, n’est-ce pas? You like Paris, non?’
‘Non’ is right,’ Kevin drawls. He lowers the paper. ‘Look,’ he says, folding his arms. ‘I’m not into this. Nothing personal, but I’m just not interested.’
My heart sinks.
‘But it is all arranged!’
He scowls. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for this, all right? They said I have to turn up. So I’m here. But that’s all. Far’s I’m concerned, the whole thing is a waste of time. Right?’
I have absolutely no idea what to say, so it’s as well that at that moment the waiter arrives with our coffee. I take a sip and feel the warmth spread through me. Delicious. Then I notice Kevin. He isn’t drinking. He picks up his cup, looks at it in disgust and bangs it back onto the table.
The waiter is at the next table by now. He turns back in surprise.
‘Pardon, m’sieur. There is a problem?’
‘Milk,’ Kevin snarls.
Parisian waiters are not easily cowed. This one raises his eyebrows fractionally, and waits.
‘Look, mate,’ Kevin’s face is turning red. ‘If I’d wanted black coffee, I’d have bloody said so. Where’s the milk?’
Just in time, I manage to catch the waiter’s eye. For a moment I think he’s going to ignore my silent plea. Then he shrugs, disappears for a minute and returns with one of those tiny jugs of frothing milk. Impassive, he places it on the table and walks away. Kevin touches the jug, swears, and shoves both it and his cup aside.
‘There is still a problem?’ I ask.
‘Milk’s bloody hot, isn’t it?” he growls. “Should be cold!”
Could this meeting get any worse?
‘I will ask,’ I say, bracing myself to tackle the waiter.
‘Don’t bother,’ Kevin says, reaching for his paper. ‘Stuff’s crap anyway.’ He opens the paper with a snap and buries himself in it.
I drink my coffee in silence. I can’t believe I’ve managed to get it so wrong in such a short time. What am I going to write in my report? It’s no use him just ‘turning up’ if he won’t cooperate. If I don’t get results, and fast, they’ll never send me another client. And I spent all my rent money on this ridiculous jacket. This was supposed to be my big break. Instead, it’s turning into my worst nightmare.
At a quarter to nine, Kevin stands up.
‘Gotta go,’ he says.
I stand too. Have to salvage some professional pride from this disaster. I hand him my card.
‘Alors, tomorrow evening we meet at my apartment.’
For the first time, he meets my eyes. Given how he’s behaved, I’m expecting the hostility, but not the flicker of nervousness. His arms are folded across his chest like a shield. He looks away.
‘If you want to waste your time like this, fine with me.’
He shoves the card into a pocket and walks away towards the Metro station. I watch him go for a minute. Then, on impulse, I drop a few coins on the table and follow.
He enters the station just ahead of me. I lurk behind a pillar and watch as he scrutinises the Metro map on the wall. Then he squares his shoulders and steps up to the window of the ticket office. I’m too far away to hear what’s being said, but I can tell by his gestures that it isn’t going well. Perhaps I should help? Or would it just make him more hostile? As I dither, he suddenly throws up his hands, punches the wall beside the ticket window, and storms out of the station. He doesn’t see me.
‘Bloody French,’ he swears under his breath, and stomps off.
I should be offended, I know, but instead a snort of laughter escapes me. Bloody French, indeed. I remember feeling like that. Only for me, it was the bloody English. That dreadful year in Manchester, studying. Dark, grey streets, constant rain, and that impenetrable accent. My first month was a fog of unhappiness. One day I actually wept over a supermarket sandwich. How do you explain to a check-out operator that you’re just homesick for a decent Parisian ham and cheese baguette?
I realise I’ve been walking back towards the café. My table is still as I left it, so I sit down again. I’ll have to skip lunch to pay for this, but I need another coffee. I also need a plan. He’s on foreign ground, out of his depth. Maybe that’s why he’s so hostile. I just have to find a way to get him to trust me.
I touch the milk jug absently. Imagine getting so upset about not having milk in coffee. Such strange tastes the English have. Like -
And then the idea hits me.
The next evening, waiting for him to arrive, I feel nervous myself. I hope I’ve judged this right. I pace the apartment, flicking invisible specks of dust and straightening already perfect cushions. When the intercom buzzes, my heart thuds. Taking a deep breath, I press the button to open the front door.
‘Bonsoir’ I greet him as he comes up the stairs.
‘Evening,’ he growls. My heart sinks. Evidently, his mood hasn’t improved.
‘Please come in and make yourself comfortable. I will be just one little minute.’ Pointing him in the direction of the tiny salon, I hurry into the other room. For some reason, my hands are trembling. This won’t do. I take another deep breath, forcing myself to be slow and careful. It seems to take forever, but at last I’m ready. Feeling as though I’m walking on stage, I enter the salon.
Kevin’s standing by the window, looking out. Everything about him radiates the desire to be anywhere else but here.
Showtime.
‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” I purr. “I was just preparing some refreshments.’
Kevin turns his head fractionally. He sees what I’m holding and his eyes widen.
‘Let me take that,” he says, stumbling forward. He takes the laden tray from me, puts it down on a table and looks at me, bewildered. I smother a grin and sink – gracefully, I hope – into an armchair.
‘English Breakfast,’ I say airily. ‘I hope you approve?’ I pick up the teapot. ‘Milk before or after?’
Kevin makes a valiant attempt to pull himself together.
‘Um – ah – after,’ he blurts.
I pour the tea, and hand him the cup. I’m rather proud of that perfect amber brew. I spent hours yesterday researching tea-making. I hope he appreciates it.
He adds a great dollop of milk (cold), ladles in four teaspoons of sugar, stirs, slurps, sighs.
‘This is the first decent cup of tea I’ve had since I got here,’ he says, with deep satisfaction. I sip my own tea. It’s refreshing, I suppose, but I’d have rather had a proper coffee. Still, if it does the job…
I look at Kevin, who has the appearance of a cat drinking cream.
‘Alors,’ I say, putting down my cup. I move closer. ‘So, Kevin, perhaps we begin now?’
He looks at his cup, then at me. Then he puts a hand up to his tie. He tugs it loose and slowly pulls it off.
‘Oh, all right,’ he says.
In triumph, I reach under a cushion and pull out my notebooks.
‘Allons,’ I say. ‘Lesson One. Introductions. Bonjour, je m’appelle Kevin.’
Kevin opens his book.
‘Bonjour, je m’appelle Kevin’ he repeats obediently. I smile. Looks like my report to his company’s training department is saved. And so is my rent.