Lumi leaned into Julien. “Do you know him?”
She gestured with her chin in the direction of the watcher. Julien rubbed his eyes and looked toward where she had pointed.
“Who is that?” Lumi whispered, her eyes not leaving Julien’s face.
Julien groaned. “That’s Verdi, the owner of Maison Neuf. It’s only a block away from here. I should have known he would be lurking around. He’s a nineteenth-century liqueur connoisseur,” he muttered, absentmindedly running his free hand through his hair.
“What’s your deal with him?” she asked.
He made no attempt to conceal his irritation. “He had dinner at DAX one night and since then has claimed that I stole his boeuf bourguignon recipe.” He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“But the recipes you use are the most standard versions of the classics,” she said.
“Exactly! It’s nonsense. He’s a petty man who is envious of my business and knows he’ll never have as steady clientele as I have in midtown.”
When she looked up, she saw Verdi waddling over to where they sat. “Wait. Why is he coming over here?” she asked.
“Well, that’s another thing about Verdi,” Julien said. “When he’s drunk, he likes to argue.”
Lumi’s eyes widened. “Great. And will you—”
“No,” Julien interjected. “I will not fight him. He can say or do whatever he wants. I’m not getting you in the middle of that. Whatever he tries, we will just ignore him and continue enjoying our night.”
Lumi paused to think this over for a moment. “Should we leave?”
“Absolutely not. I will not give him the pleasure of having any power over me . . . or you.”
She rested her chin in her palm. “All right, then,” she said, though she was sure that leaving was still a better idea.
Verdi stopped right in front of their table. He grabbed the back of a chair and began to pull it over. Julien shot him a forbidding stare, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Look who decided to come downtown. Slumming today, Dax?” asked Verdi. “Or did you just decide to swoop in and see what other recipes you can steal?”
Julien looked at him in disgust. “When are you going to stop spreading lies?” he asked him.
Verdi furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. “No one else puts tarragon and mushrooms in their boeuf!” he said, slapping his thigh for emphasis.
Julien yawned. “That’s nonsense,” he replied. “My grandmother put tarragon and mushrooms in her boeuf bourguignon all through my childhood in Quebec. Now, can you please leave us alone?”
Verdi glared at him and then leered at Lumi. “You just wait until I copyright my recipe, Dax. Then you’ll have to send me a check every time you sell that dish,” he said.
“No problem, Verdi. I’ll send you the dirty plates as payment,” Julien said.
Verdi turned on his heel, his beady eyes menacingly illuminated in the green-lit room, and walked back to his table.
Julien let out an exasperated sigh and turned to Lumi, running his hand down the length of her arm. “Sorry about that,” he murmured. “Let’s not let that idiot ruin our night.”
She nodded uneasily and leaned into him, letting him wrap his arm around her. She tried not to look toward Verdi as he glowered at her from his table near the entrance, but the feeling of his eyes seemed inescapable. She squirmed in her seat. Julien noticed.
“You know what, on second thought, there are so many other places we can go that won’t make you uncomfortable. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They stood up and headed to the door. Julien strode right past Verdi, stepping in front of Lumi to open the door for her. She thought they had cleared him until she heard Verdi’s chair squeak out from under him.
“Hey, Dax,” he shouted, “you can pay me back for the recipe whenever you want. And while you’re at it, why don’t you throw in your little Cuban chick as interest? Then we’ll call it even.”
Lumi cringed as she heard the words and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Julien had already moved in on Verdi. She heard a sickening crack as his fist connected with the rival chef’s jaw. It was an unyielding curveball of a punch, and that combined with however many drinks Verdi had had that night knocked him clean off his feet. He flailed and stumbled backward, tripping over a chair and falling flat on his posterior.
“Damn, Julien,” he sputtered, shaking his head and rubbing his sore jaw.
Julien glared at him. “I can’t imagine what else you would have expected, friend,” he said. “I mean Verdi. ‘Friend’ is clearly not the fitting term here. And she’s not a chick, she’s a woman and chef, and a better chef than you.” The sleeve on the arm he had punched Verdi with had rolled down, and he ceremoniously rolled it back up, turning toward the door.
“W-wait,” sputtered Verdi. “Isn’t anyone going to take a video of this?” he asked, casting his gaze around wildly.
“Oh, is that what you were hoping for, to get me some bad press?” Julien glanced around the bar, where the other patrons had gone back to nursing their drinks. “That doesn’t seem to have panned out for you. Enjoy the rest of your night,” he said, and they exited the bar.
Julien exhaled once they had taken a few steps away from the bar. He stopped to lean over and rest his hands on his knees. Once he caught his breath, he straightened up and touched his hand to Lumi’s chin.
“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for a nightcap,” he said.
Lumi allowed her eyes to drift down to his hand and let his soft touch against her face calm her. She was unsure what to say. And what did Verdi mean by calling it even? She made a mental note to ask him another time, when he wasn’t coming down from having punched someone in the face.
“It wasn’t what I had in mind either, but . . . thank you,” she said softly. “You know what? It’s three A.M. I should head home.”
“Hey. I feel bad ending the night on this note. Why don’t you come back with me to the kitchen and I’ll make you dessert?”
Lumi hated that the mention of the word “dessert” sounded so enticing. It sounded pretty intriguing, though . . . her and Julien alone in the kitchen (she liked how he referred to his restaurant simply as “the kitchen”). She looked at him and felt a twinge deep in her belly. Her proximity to him, the lingering feeling of his lips on hers and of his hair in her hands, the smell of his cologne . . . was a fun fantasy that came alive in her imagination. But that’s all it was. Tomorrow night, and the night after that, they would be back to work as though nothing happened. It would have to be like nothing happened for it not to be awkward in the workplace.
She gently shook her head. “That sounds nice, Julien, but I should really get home.”
His shoulders drooped a bit, and he nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll order you a car.”
When the car pulled up, she gave him a quick peck on the side of his mouth and jumped in. When she glanced back quickly to wave goodbye, the look in his eyes was pure flame.
LUMI’S MIDNIGHT ESPRESSO
Serves 2
3/4 cup water
1/2 cup ground coffee (NOT instant)