Dine With Me

Ah yes, France. Mysterious, sweet, harsh, dramatic.

Romantic.

Speaking in a foreign tongue that attracts the ear, it is a hub of elegance and curiosity. A place of constant hustle and bustle. Millions running errands, buying with French coin, and eating cuisine.

Cuisine.

An interesting word. Cuisine? What kind? What culture? What region? So many questions are tacked onto that one term. What does cuisine mean? What makes good cuisine? What is your favorite kind of cuisine? Well, that last one can be answered by pretty much everybody. Restaurant regulars, a tourist, or even a child.

But not just anyone can answer, "what makes good cuisine?

That one is reserved for critics. To be more specific, men and women who have a special eye (or taste) for food. They would say good cuisine is based on the way that it is made, or where it originated from. Their opinion taken very highly by the public. Robert was one of these people. He had wit, humor, and a guarded heart. The only thing that he let seep past his well-constructed walls was his job, Parée's food industry. Ok, maybe a few other things, but mostly that.

Well, that was about to drastically change.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was quiet. No interruptions, no people, no noise-

BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BEEP BE-

Click

"Unghhhhhhhhhhh..." Robert groaned as his alarm broke the air of peacefulness that he was trying to withhold just a little longer. He slammed his pillow over his face, trying desperately to deny the fact that he needed to act like a semi-adult today. Well to be honest, that was every day now. God, being twenty-five sucks ass.

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Robert looked at his phone.

~one new message~

He sifted through Instagram for a couple minutes before deciding to read it. Electronic light danced over his face, hurting his eyes as he tried to make out the tiny text on the screen.

Mr. Douglas please stop by the store today and get some Smoked Gouda for dinner tonight. Ne reste pas au lit toute la journée, rat sans abri.

~Violet Rousseau~

Robert groaned at his friend's text. She only calls him 'Mr. Douglas' to get on his nerves.

"Rat sans abri?! So rude to me! Who gave her the right to call me that?" Robert scoffed with a roll of the eyes.

Blowing out a breath he mumbled, "Well, the quicker I get out the quicker I get back." To himself. Then got out of bed and into the kitchen.

Parée is a fast-moving place. People wherever you turn, endless venders and stores. Your nose is constantly assaulted with numerous different smells at the same time. Personally, Robert loves it. He adores the people, the language, and especially the food. When Robert first moved here from America, he was out of his element. A semi-large city in New York State is nothing compared to the suave elegance of France.

Robert had a job in the food critic business, he loves the many tastes of Parée. He's well known enough for people to recognize his name, but not for the public to bombard him on a morning walk. Robert loved his job, taking multiple nights out of his week to try different restaurants around town.

He often felt a little lonely in his apartment. Sitting by himself thinking of the different foods that he tried that week for hours on end, probably would've driven his sanity right out the window if he hadn't met Violet Rousseau. Violet is a good friend, who moved into his apartment just a few years ago. They both agreed that he needed to interact with people more. Well, that conversation went more along the lines of,