Fleur de Sel was a little French bistro on Saint-Denis, right at the center of Montreal’s Plateau Mont-Royal neighborhood. It was Thursday afternoon, but with the recent storm, the dining room was empty, except for the tall man drying glasses behind the corner bar in the dimly lit room. His eyes were riveted to the TV that was hooked up to the bar’s back wall. It was soccer.
“Excuse me,” David said, shutting the door behind us. “Is—”
“Kitchen’s closed, kids. And I’m taking off soon.” The barman looked at us. “You’re not getting an ounce of booze from me. Fake ID or not.”
I looked around the dark room. There were fancy little tables draped with white table cloths. The main wall was all brick and it smelled vaguely of chicken broth in here. Suddenly, I had an inclination to redo the seati
