They are friends, that’s true. Maybe Midge is just assuming that he wants something more from her due to his reputation, but she wouldn’t want someone to think less of her due to her reputation.
Then again, he’s looking at her like he wants to devour her, so maybe her assumptions aren’t that far off.
“If you think that’s going to get me to bake you a cake, then you’re wrong,” Midge says with a smile as the two of them exit her apartment building. “Where are you taking me tonight?”
Guess who went down a rabbit hole about French restaurants that existed in the late '50s
“Damn, and here I was hoping to appeal to your vanity.” Courfeyrac leads her down to the street, where he has a cab waiting, and opens the door. “La Côte Basque. I did promise you something French.” Even for Rene, the restaurant is expensive, but he has never believed in doing things by halves.
“What vanity?” she asks jokingly. “I have no vanity.” She’s a little vain when it comes to her looks, though she’d like to think she’s not overly vain. When it comes to her cooking, Midge is probably more vain, though Rene will have to create some sense of jealousy within her if he’s going to get her to bake for him.
He helps her into the cab and then gets in on the other side. When he tells her where they’re going, Midge’s lips can’t help but form a little o of surprise.
“I’ve never been there,” she tells him, “but I’ve heard it’s excellent.”
It’s one of the hottest restaurants in New York. How was he able to get a reservation so quickly?
For better or worse, Courfeyrac is extremely good at getting what he wants, and not just through simple charm or bribery. He's one of those people who is good at making friends in high places and low, and he almost always knows a guy who can do him a favor.
And he loves it, too. In fact, he'd found finding a way to get a table at one of the best restaurants in Manhattan almost as enjoyable as eating there.
Now, he allows himself a smile of triumph. "Well, I did promise you a special night. I would hate to let you down."
"I can't imagine anyone believing you aren't." The way Courfeyrac says it, it sounds like it could be a line--or it could not. Maybe he isn't entirely sure. But what he's sure of is that Midge is a delight. Regardless of how serious this thing between them will end up being (not very, if Rene's track record is anything to go by), she's the kind of girl a man finds easy to spoil.
He rests his arm on the back of the seat behind her, lightly drumming his fingers as they speed through New York City traffic. "Have an interesting week?"
He does know the right things to say to her. Midge isn’t a brat or a snob, but she likes nice things and she likes being pampered, treated like a princess. Taking her to La Côte Basque is a stroke of genius on his part.
They can have a frank conversation over dinner. Midge pulls no punches.
“Not too interesting, unless you count my son going to school in his Howdy Doody costume without any of us realizing it before it was too late,” Midge replies. “How about you?”
"And such a costume is considered...inappropriate?" Courfeyrac quips. "Nothing too exciting--well, I have a new roommate. There's this fellow in a few of my classes, Marius is his name, who had some sort of terrible falling out with his grandfather and had nowhere to live, so I told him he could sleep on my sofa until he sorts himself out."
“Considering that there’s a school uniform, yes,” Midge replies. “Everyone thought everyone else was helping him get dressed. Turns out none of us were.” Life with kids.
“That’s kind of you. I hope you’re not going to charge him rent for a sofa, though New York is a place where you could get away with that.”
The taxi drops them off outside of the restaurant and Midge puts her hand on Rene’s arm as they walk in. Time to see him work all of his social angles.
Courfeyrac chuckles. “Well, school uniforms are absolutely hideous, as a rule. He was probably the most fashionable boy in his class.”
Midge’s children are, at best, an abstraction to the young man. Their existence has never been a surprise to him, and he doesn’t see them as an obstacle to his flirtation. But to him, they are anecdotes more than people, and stories more than dependents. He certainly doesn’t think about what motherhood might mean to Midge.
He takes her arm as they leave the cab and walk to the restaurant. “Naturally not! What do you take me for?” he says, mock-offended, and then turns to the maitre’d. “Reservation for Rene Courfeyrac, Monsieur.”
Midge loves her children but feels like a terrible mother quite often. She’s out most nights of the week, so she’s not there to tuck them in to bed or read them stories. She loves them, of course, but she loves her career too. Balancing both of them is a puzzle that Midge hasn’t solved yet.
“An entrepreneur?” Midge asks jokingly. The maître’d leads them to their table, which is in a quiet little corner of the restaurant. Midge wonders if that was planned too.
“Now you really are trying to insult me,” Courfeyrac quips as they are led to the table. The waiter pulls out Midge’s chair for her, hands them menus, and disappears quietly and efficiently, as only waiters in expensive restaurants can.
Once he’s gone, Courfeyrac peers over the menu with a smirk. “Well, isn’t this terribly romantic.”
Perhaps she shouldn’t call a socialist an entrepreneur. Rene is, at least, taking it as the joke that Midge intended it to be.
She glances up at him over the top of her menu. “Is that what you wanted?”
Midge has no idea what he wants and it’s quite frustrating. All signs would point to him trying to woo her, but to what end remains a mystery. If he wants to fuck her, he should just say so.
Courfeyrac chuckles and lowers the menu with a boyish shrug. “Not on purpose.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I think the friend who got me the reservation is trying to make me look good. Or possibly this is his idea of a joke.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you like it?”
“The restaurant?” Or the joke? She takes a look around. “It’s very nice.” Everything looks tastefully done, of course. There are candles on the table and abstract art on the walls. “Your friend must be very supportive of your personal life.”
Her eyes drop back to the menu. “I’m going to let you pick the wine,” Midge says. No point in arguing with a Frenchman about wine. “A red, please.”
“Who am I to argue with the lady?” says Courfeyrac, already running his finger down the wine list. When the waiter returns, he orders a bottle of Syrah from Provence, quipping, “A taste of home, forgive the indulgence. I grew up not very far from this winery, if memory serves.”
“I was going to ask where you’re from. Provence?” Midge says, trying to have a conversation while deciding what to order. “That’s in the south of France, isn’t it?”
Despite her mother being a Francophile, Midge’s own knowledge of France is limited.
Lucky for Midge, Courfeyrac has grown used to answering questions about French geography, and he only smirks briefly at her question. "Yes, in the south--near Marseille, to be exact, in my case. As a general rule, I don't believe in nostalgia, but when it comes to wine--" He offers a 'what can you do?' sort of shrug.
“More’s the pity. Paris has infinite charms, but there’s nothing like the South in the summertime.”
He folds his hands in front of him and leans forward slightly. “Because nostalgia is a trap. It tempts a person to long for the past when they should be looking towards the future. See here, ask anyone who says ‘things were simpler back then’ when, exactly, ‘back then’ was, and their answer will inevitably encompass the time they were a child. Quod erat demonstrandum, the world was simpler because they were a child, not because it was in better in some measurable, objective way.”
“I can always go back,” she says, leaving it at that. Midge isn’t asking for an invitation, of course.
“Aren’t you a philosopher?” Midge teases with a smile. “What if it’s not about things being better or simpler, but just about wanting to return to a time when you were happy? Being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“But that’s exactly it,” Courfeyrac says with growing exuberance. “People make assumptions about the world, even decisions about other people’s lives, based on their childhood happiness.”
Courfeyrac is briefly interrupted when the wine comes, transforming into someone polite and mannered as they go through the ritual of tasting and approving the bottle.
Then he's back at it. "Besides, not all childhoods are pleasant, even those that people may remember fondly."
It’s fascinating how Rene can switch from speaking about something so philosophical to being so genial with the waiter about the wine. It reminds her that he’s a law student, not just some silly Frenchman trying to woo her with words and wine.
“I haven’t thought about that,” Midge says. “If I’ve ever made decisions based on my childhood happiness, I certainly didn’t realize I was doing it.”
She raises her glass of wine to him. “What are we drinking to, Monsieur?”
“Freud would say we do all sorts of things because of our childhoods without realizing it,” says Courfeyrac with a grin. Psychoanalysis isn’t something he actually puts much stock in. “But it’s less about individuals. When governments act in nostalgia, that’s when the real trouble starts.”
He swirls his wine around, considering. “How about this-“ he holds out his glass, “to devestatingly charming new friends.”
“L’chaim,” she replies, clinking her glass against his, then sipping the wine. Midge nods her approval. “Good choice.”
“Freud would also say that you want to fuck your mother and that cocaine is good for concentration.” A wry smile. “Do you think the American government is nostalgic for twenty or thirty years ago? The war? The Depression?” Not particularly happy times in the history of this country.
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Then again, he’s looking at her like he wants to devour her, so maybe her assumptions aren’t that far off.
“If you think that’s going to get me to bake you a cake, then you’re wrong,” Midge says with a smile as the two of them exit her apartment building. “Where are you taking me tonight?”
Guess who went down a rabbit hole about French restaurants that existed in the late '50s
I love that
He helps her into the cab and then gets in on the other side. When he tells her where they’re going, Midge’s lips can’t help but form a little o of surprise.
“I’ve never been there,” she tells him, “but I’ve heard it’s excellent.”
It’s one of the hottest restaurants in New York. How was he able to get a reservation so quickly?
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And he loves it, too. In fact, he'd found finding a way to get a table at one of the best restaurants in Manhattan almost as enjoyable as eating there.
Now, he allows himself a smile of triumph. "Well, I did promise you a special night. I would hate to let you down."
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“I didn’t know I was that special,” she says as the taxi takes off down the street.
She’s still not sure if she’s anything but a conquest. Time will tell.
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He rests his arm on the back of the seat behind her, lightly drumming his fingers as they speed through New York City traffic. "Have an interesting week?"
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They can have a frank conversation over dinner. Midge pulls no punches.
“Not too interesting, unless you count my son going to school in his Howdy Doody costume without any of us realizing it before it was too late,” Midge replies. “How about you?”
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uniform, yes,” Midge replies. “Everyone thought everyone else was helping him get dressed. Turns out none of us were.” Life with kids.
“That’s kind of you. I hope you’re not going to charge him rent for a sofa, though New York is a place where you could get away with that.”
The taxi drops them off outside of the restaurant and Midge puts her hand on Rene’s arm as they walk in. Time to see him work all of his social angles.
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Midge’s children are, at best, an abstraction to the young man. Their existence has never been a surprise to him, and he doesn’t see them as an obstacle to his flirtation. But to him, they are anecdotes more than people, and stories more than dependents. He certainly doesn’t think about what motherhood might mean to Midge.
He takes her arm as they leave the cab and walk to the restaurant. “Naturally not! What do you take me for?” he says, mock-offended, and then turns to the maitre’d. “Reservation for Rene Courfeyrac, Monsieur.”
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Midge loves her children but feels like a terrible mother quite often. She’s out most nights of the week, so she’s not there to tuck them in to bed or read them stories. She loves them, of course, but she loves her career too. Balancing both of them is a puzzle that Midge hasn’t solved yet.
“An entrepreneur?” Midge asks jokingly. The maître’d leads them to their table, which is in a quiet little corner of the restaurant. Midge wonders if that was planned too.
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Once he’s gone, Courfeyrac peers over the menu with a smirk. “Well, isn’t this terribly romantic.”
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She glances up at him over the top of her menu. “Is that what you wanted?”
Midge has no idea what he wants and it’s quite frustrating. All signs would point to him trying to woo her, but to what end remains a mystery. If he wants to fuck her, he should just say so.
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Her eyes drop back to the menu. “I’m going to let you pick the wine,” Midge says. No point in arguing with a Frenchman about wine. “A red, please.”
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Despite her mother being a Francophile, Midge’s own knowledge of France is limited.
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Settled on what she wants to order, Midge puts the menu down on the table. “Why don’t you believe in nostalgia?”
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He folds his hands in front of him and leans forward slightly. “Because nostalgia is a trap. It tempts a person to long for the past when they should be looking towards the future. See here, ask anyone who says ‘things were simpler back then’ when, exactly, ‘back then’ was, and their answer will inevitably encompass the time they were a child. Quod erat demonstrandum, the world was simpler because they were a child, not because it was in better in some measurable, objective way.”
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“Aren’t you a philosopher?” Midge teases with a smile. “What if it’s not about things being better or simpler, but just about wanting to return to a time when you were happy? Being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
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Courfeyrac is briefly interrupted when the wine comes, transforming into someone polite and mannered as they go through the ritual of tasting and approving the bottle.
Then he's back at it. "Besides, not all childhoods are pleasant, even those that people may remember fondly."
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“I haven’t thought about that,” Midge says. “If I’ve ever made decisions based on my childhood happiness, I certainly didn’t realize I was doing it.”
She raises her glass of wine to him. “What are we drinking to, Monsieur?”
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He swirls his wine around, considering. “How about this-“ he holds out his glass, “to devestatingly charming new friends.”
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“Freud would also say that you want to fuck your mother and that cocaine is good for concentration.” A wry smile. “Do you think the American government is nostalgic for twenty or thirty years ago? The war? The Depression?” Not particularly happy times in the history of this country.
cw: mention of antiblack violence, outdated language
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