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The young man waiting the window tables at Le Boulevard Vert is dark and slim-wristed, with a trace of some obscure accent that he chases around the French names of the dishes.
He is exceedingly polite, and quietly but firmly opinionated about the wine list, and before placing the water glasses has already identified which members of the party are left-handed.
“...should I be afraid, Mr. Dulac?”
If he is, he doesn’t look it.
"It was a simple background check! Your landlord does more every time you apply for an apartment!"
He turns the menu around and offers it to Valentine.
"What should we order?"
But that’s not what’s important right now.
He takes the menu and studies it carefully.
“...the quail. Or — oh, the chanterelle crepes...”
"Excellent."
He flags down the waitress, quizzes her about wine pairings, and orders the crepes for himself and the quail for Valentine.
He has no idea how he’s going to hold a reasonable conversation in the time before their food arrives.
He’s already gone through a glass of water. He’s pouring for himself again before their waitress leaves.
“Will I see you in a helmet in the near future?”
"God, no. But one has to give them hope, once in a while."
Jean is nearly as impatient for the food as his guest is.
"You have a good tailor, but not one I recognize. What's his name?"
"It seems pointless."
The waitress arrives with their wine. Jean touches the cork, and passes it to Valentine to inspect as he tastes the tablespoonful she pours for him.
Jean knows just enough to determine that the wine isn't corked, and hasn't turned to vinegar. He thanks the waitress, and offers her a taste.
Only then does she pour for each of them, Valentine first.
The brief wait for the pour to finish is agonizing. It’s all he can do not to snatch it out from under the bottle and stain the tablecloth — but the lost wine would be a tragedy.
He takes his cup, once she’s moved on, and puts it to his lips.
Jean doesn't even bother to touch his own glass, contentedly occupied in watching Valentine drink.
He doesn’t speak another word until the first glass is drained, just sits eyes closed and breathing deeply, sipping at the wine.
Then he realizes what he’s been doing, as he hits the bottom of the glass. He sets it aside and averts his eyes.
Jean plays with the wine in his own glass -- swirling it, watching it, smelling it, not drinking it -- watching Valentine, enjoying himself.
(It's not a crime, to buy a beautiful young man a glass of wine. He doesn't even intend to sleep with him.)
He glances at Jean’s cup, when he manages to look back anywhere at the table.
“...you don’t like to drink much, do you.”
"A lot of people want to buy me drinks. Fewer of them are interested in pleasing my palate than in compromising my judgement."
He has very clever fingers; he can swirl the wine close to the rim of the glass, even a little over it, without ever spilling a drop.
That is both impressive and a little painful to watch.
“I’m not sure you should be the one worried about that.”
"No, I suppose not."
He sets down the glass and slides it almost halfway across the table -- a clear offer, but one which Valentine will have to reach out to accept.
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