Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,67

Italian fare on offer in the neighborhood. The restaurant itself was small, only ten tables, which were supplemented in the summer by a patio. The décor was rustic and included antiques, such as reclaimed church pews and old harvest tables. It gave Julia the impression of something like a German weinkeller, like the restaurant Vinum that she had visited with friends when she was in Frankfurt.

Gabriel liked it because they sold a particular kind of Trappist Ale that he preferred, Chimay Première, and it pleased him to have pizza in the Neapolitan style to pair with that beer. (As ever, he was impatient with mediocrity.) Since Gabriel was a frequent patron of Caffé Volo and more than somewhat persnickety, he was offered the best seating, which was a quiet table for two tucked into a corner near the large picture window that looked out on the madness that was Yonge Street at night.

Transvestites, university students, frat boys, policemen, happy gay couples, happy straight couples, celebrities slumming, yuppies walking their pretentious pets, eco-friendly activists, street persons, buskers, possible gang members, Russian mafia, a wayward professor or Member of Provincial Parliament or two or four, etc. It was a myriad of fascinating human behavior, it was live, and it was free.

Julia settled cautiously into her seat, which was a converted church pew, and pulled the lambskin rug that the waiter had draped over the back of the pew tightly around her.

“Are you cold? I’ll ask Christopher to seat us near the fireplace.” Gabriel moved to signal to the waiter, but Julia stopped him.

“I like to people watch,” she said shyly.

“Me too,” he admitted. “But you look like a Yeti.”

Julia reddened.

“Forgive me,” he hastened to add. “But surely we can do better than a lambskin rug that has been God knows where. It probably used to grace the floor of Christopher’s apartment. And who knows what kind of shenanigans went down on it.”

Did he just use the word shenanigans in a sentence?

And with that, Professor Emerson gracefully pulled his British-racing-green cashmere sweater over his pretentious bow tie and head and handed it to her. Julia accepted it and moved the objectionable Yeti-like carpet to one side. She gently pulled on his generously-sized sweater.

“Better?” he smiled, trying to smooth his now mussed hair.

“Better.” She smiled, feeling much warmer and very comfortable, blanketed in the warmth and scent that was Gabriel. She folded up the cuffs considerably because his arms were much longer than hers.

“Did you go to Lobby on Tuesday?” she asked.

“No. Now, why don’t you tell me about your proposal?” His tone immediately became businesslike and professorial.

Thankfully, Christopher interrupted them at that moment to take their order, which gave Julia precious minutes to gather her thoughts.

“Their Caesar salads are quite good, as are their Neapolitan pizzas. But they are both a bit large for one person. Are you the type to share?” Gabriel asked.

Julia’s mouth dropped open.

“I mean, would you share with me, please? Or you could order whatever you like. Perhaps you don’t want salad and pizza.” Gabriel frowned, trying very hard not to be an overbearing, domineering professor for at least five minutes.

Christopher tapped his foot quietly, for he did not want The Professor to notice his impatience. He’d seen The Professor when he was irritated and did not wish to witness a repeat performance. Although perhaps he would behave differently now that he had female companionship (which was Christopher’s professional prescription for any kind of personality disorder, small or large).

“I’d like to share pizza and a salad with you. Thank you.” Julia’s quiet voice ended the deliberations.

Gabriel placed the order, and shortly thereafter Christopher appeared with their Chimays, which Gabriel had insisted Julia try.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to hers.

“Prost,” she replied.

She sipped the beer slowly, unable to forget her first beer and who it was with. That beer had been a domestic lager. This beer was reddish brown and sweet and malty all at once. She liked it a great deal and hummed her approval.

“It’s over ten dollars a bottle,” she whispered, not wishing to embarrass Gabriel or herself with loud incredulity.

“But it’s the best. And wouldn’t you rather drink one bottle of this rather than two bottles of Budweiser, which really is like drinking appalling bath water?”

I can only assume that all bath water would be appalling to drink, Professor Emerson, but I’ll take your word for it. Sicko.

“Well? Let’s hear it,” he prompted. “What are you thinking? I can see the wheels turning in that little