For the Love of 'Old Money'

Chapter 9- VIVA LA FRANCE

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As if the silent ride to this swanky French restaurant weren't uncomfortable enough, Charles chose to sit me between him and his grouch of a mother at our square four-person table.

Fabulous.

Would you like a list of terrible things that I would rather be doing right now?
• eating scorpions
• getting dumped via text message
• clipping a stranger's toenails
• standing in an airport security line
And last but not least...
• singles cruise with Carol and Grandma Faye

Someone needs to say something. Our lunch table is quieter than a mime in a library. I suppose I'll take one for the team...

"So, what's good here?" I nonchalantly ask, scanning the menu. Then, I notice the dumb thing is written entirely in French! There is no way all of their patrons are bilingual.

"I always order Bavette à la Bourguignonne," my boss informs me, using flawless French pronunciation.

Okay maybe all their patrons do speak French...

Charles continues his explanation, likely due to my still bewildered face. "It's a bavette steak, with bibb lettuce, escargots and butter, and shiitake."

I scrunch up my nose at the less than appetizing description. Noticing my expression, Mrs. Branault pipes up, "I don't have the patience for this. Charles, just order for her."

"I am not going to order for someone else, unless they specifically ask me to," Charles defended, lowering his menu to glare at his mother. "That would be presumptuous."

I'm just ready for this lunch to be over. "I trust your judgement," I say, trying to be the neutral party. "I really don't mind if you order for me." And I genuinely don't mind.

"You're sure?" he double-checks.

"Absolutely."

The two of them rattle off some various French phrases to our server, and I pull out my IPad in preparation for the inevitable business discussion. Instead, I'm greeted by more unpleasant silence, which I'm obviously unable to cope with. Would they notice if I started surfing Pinterest?

But, I choose to be a trooper and try to get the conversation-ball rolling. "Soooo," I drawl out, wracking my brain for any topic that might interest them both. I secretly thank Forbes magazine for my next question. "Um...I know Branault-White group is known for it's philanthropy. Are either of you involved in any personal charities?"

I realize I sound like a reporter for the Times, but I'm grasping at straws here. (Fun fact: the expression 'grasping at straws' originated from a book saying that a drowning man would be so desperate, that he would literally grab anything to survive, including straw) Have fun with that useless knowledge!

Mrs. Branault bypassed my charity question altogether, saying, "I demand we address this, Charles. No more silent treatment..."

Apparently, I'm privileged with front-row seats to an earlier argument. Great, just great. But, I'm relieved to know that not all of their mother/son interactions are this painful.

"Why won't you take her? You would be doing me a large favor. And, it's only one night of your life. Must you be so dramatic?" Eleanor chided.

Without answering his mother, Charles turned to me, randomly asking, "Emmy, what are you doing Saturday evening?"

Feeling more confused than a kindergartener at a TED talk, I chose honesty as the best policy. "I...um...I don't really have any plans yet. I mean, usually I hang out with my Grandma Faye or with one of my friends."