maitre d

anonymous asked:

So, since now white people can't cook, it means French people can't cook. Like excuse me, but aren't French famous exactly for their cuisine. Isn't the word cuisine itself French? Isn't most of the english (and by extension american) words about food coming from French? (I don't know menu, maitre d' *cringes*, etc...) Try and tell to a real French they don't know shit about food, they will gut you and roast you.

shhhhhh don’t tell them that they might actually get brain short circuit

First Sight

This is the much- requested follow up to my fic “Seeing Double.” Enjoy.

***************************

She’s being ridiculous, she tells herself.

It’s sheer ludicrousness, nothing more, to see Sherlock in the shape of a waiter.

A fellow diner.

A maitre d.

Though she mat think that however, Molly still finds herself reaching for her wine and taking a fortifying sip.

As she does so she lets her eyes scan over the restaurant, waiting for Jonathan to return to her.

Six months she’s been gone from London, she reminds herself. Six months she’s been living in Edinburgh. If he wanted to follow her here, he would have. If he wanted to talk to her after that awful night at hers, he’d have found a way. He’s Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake! The cleverest man in all the world. The genius to end geniuses. And he’s a detective; He knows how to find people. He’d know how to find her.

The fact that he hasn’t even tried tells her everything she needs to know about their relationship, she reminds herself forcefully.

It’s over.

Dead.

She herself had ended it: She couldn’t bear to spend another minute, let alone another year, waiting for him.

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Not Over You pt. 10 (final)

Prompt: “I was getting over you, why did you have to come back?” or it’s been a year since you and Steve broke up. He’s moved on, you haven’t.

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1,067

Warnings: language, angst

A/N: feel like this is a good way to end this series. i hope everyone enjoyed it. i loved this story.

Tagged: @thorne93 @buckyswinterchildren@generalgoldfishldrm@katexbishopx @marvelfandom-stuff@all-around-geek@cchrriissuuu@lizzyhaverty@soundslikevanilla@itsagentromanoff@rileyloves5@defendors@nenyakj@lisssays @anbrax5553 @scaly-manfish@supervoldejaygent @obsessedwithatwell @fandayo@demongodess @eve1978

Part 9

——

Originally posted by littlemisssyreid

You rode in the elevator down to the lobby. The music was awfully cheery and you fought the temptation to roll your eyes at the tune. The doors opened and you stepped into the lobby and made your way outside to where Steve was waiting. You walked out the revolving door and the bitter wind nipped at your cheeks and your nose, instantly coloring them red.

“Oh, so we’re just leaving then?” Steve laughed a little and nodded at you. “You know, you look… great.” He let out a sigh of almost astonishment as his eyes scoured your body.

“Thanks. You look nice too.” You eyed him. He was wearing some dress pants and a blue button down shirt. It was a great combination. His outfit accentuated every part of his body. His biceps seemed like at any moment, they could come busting out of his sleeves. You shook your head and forced yourself to look away.

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Strawberry Moon - (Trixya/Vatya) - spacespice

Just another Hollywood lesbian AU. Trixie is a struggling music artist finally discovered by a sleazy Hollywood manager; however, his Russian trophy bride (along with her small-waisted young lover) complicate and confuse Trixie’s rise to the top as a legend, icon, and star. 

A/N: This is the brain-vomit first outing in an AU that will be two or three parts long? Fair warning, this is heavier on Trixya than Vatya. (But I’m a slut for Vatya, so there will never be enough.) Also, I’m not a Russian fish; so, if any of these phrases are totally and completely wrong…I apologize. 

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TalesFromYourServer: Afternoon tea

[medium] Due to the nature of the place I work we are required to explain all the dishes for dinner and afternoon tea as they are served and are very rarely able to take walk in’s as we are usually jam packed.

I had a table come in for our afternoon tea a couple of days ago and it didn’t go too well, let me preface this by stating I am the c and b manager but am occasionally required to cover the maitre’ d when he is away, this was one of those days.

Lady- we are here for afternoon tea

Me- fantastic what was the name of the reservation

Lady- we don’t have one but it should be fine.

Me- I’ll have to check with the kitchen Madame as we are extremely busy today.

Lady- well there shouldn’t be an issue so we will just sit here

Me - by all means take a seat at this table madam but I must confirm whether we can take you as we are extremely busy, if in the future you wish to join us for afternoon tea it’s advisable to book ahead as it’s extremely popular.

Lady- “well I don’t see why this tables obviously free”

The fact it was reserved for a table coming in in half an hour was irrelevant apparently

So I go to the kitchen and confirm that we can in fact accommodate them, tea orders are taken making sure we ask about any allergies of which we are assured there are none.

Waitress then brings out the drinks followed by the food which she describes.

“Here we have a mango and passion fruit tart, walnut cake with coffee cream, pistachio sponge topped with yoghurt mousse and raspberry gel, lemon macaroon, rhubarb and vanilla mousse and a praline profiterole and of course your fruit and plain scones”

Lady- “do these have almonds in”

Me after overhearing this jumped in “yes madam all except for the profiterole and the tart have almonds”

Lady- “but I’m allergic, this is outrageous, why didn’t you tell us, I want a discount or an alternative”

Me- “madam, had you have booked your needs would have been catered for, however as you didn’t book in advance and as you didn’t make us aware of any dietary requirements whilst the order was being taken i am not willing to offer a discount also as our afternoon teas are made in advance by the pastry chef in the morning he can’t make an alternative at such short notice”

I would’ve liked to have added- I will not offer a discount because I do not reward bad behaviour and rudeness and you are also quite clearly an utter fuckwit!

Needless to say she left unhappy and I am not slightly bothered.

By: FleetChief

queequeg5290  asked:

Thanks so much!! I've been a fangirl for a while... I used to LIVE on livejournal... Anywho my 'prompt' if you will... Post Hollywood A.D. -- Mulder & Scully head out for dinner at a fancy restaurant BUT have no reservations. Mulder (or Scully) has a plan. -- "Borrowed" ring from prop dep. -- little bit of The Petries -- and someone not really pretending in the end "You don't have to hold my hand anymore"-- etc.... IDK (The idea was totally ripped from SSN3 E23 of Brooklyn 99)… THANK-YOU :)

They had a credit card and a rented convertible.  What they didn’t have was a restaurant reservation.  In DC, that wasn’t usually a problem.  In LA, it was turning out to be.  They’d left the first two restaurants, but Scully was hungry now.  Besides, this place only had valet.  They’d already surrendered the keys.

“Mulder, we don’t have a reservation,” she murmured, standing close to him.

“I have a plan,” Mulder whispered back.

“Of course you do,” Scully said, crossing her arms and looking up at him, her eyes heavy-lashed.  There was something open and easy about her posture that he didn’t usually see, and he didn’t think it was just the champagne they’d had before the premiere.  

“It’s going to work,” Mulder insisted.  “But you have to look excited.”

Scully narrowed her eyes at him.  “Mulder.  Why would I need to look excited?”

“It’s all part of the plan,” he said, and dropped to one knee on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

“Mulder,” she said in breathless panic.  “What are you doing?”

“Dana,” he said, exaggerating the consonants and widening his eyes.  “Is anybody listening?”

She glanced around.  “I don’t think so.  The valet isn’t back yet.”

He pulled a small box out of his pocket and opened it to reveal a gleaming ring.  “Then will you do me the honor of wearing this ring and pretending we just got engaged?”

He had never considered her a particularly good actor (then again, they always gave themselves away to each other), but she put her hand to her mouth, blushing and giddy as if he were actually proposing.  

“Oh my god!” she said with breathy delight.  She held out her hand and he slipped the ring on.  She flung her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe even in her heels.

“This better work,” she whispered in his ear.  “Because if it doesn’t, I will very likely go cannibal and make it into the X-Files for a record-setting third time, and you won’t be around to record it.”

“Message received,” he murmured back, and she turned her face and kissed him.  He kissed her back, too startled to pull away, too filled with a sudden rush of desire.  

“Verisimilitude,” she said against his lips, barely audible, and pulled away.  There was a sparkle in her eyes that he had never known he had always wanted to see.

The valet was back; he smirked and clapped a few times.  The maitre d’ was smiling too; she waved away their lack of foresight and had them seated at a corner table, tucked away.  

“Congratulations,” she said.  The bartender sent over a bottle of champagne.  

Scully held her hand toward the candle to watch the ring sparkle.  “Where did this come from?”

“The props department,” he told her.

She gave him a patented Scully Look.  “And you expect me to believe that you just picked up a ring, just in case.”

“It’s a crazy night, Scully,” he said.  “A Hollywood night.  Anything could happen.  There’s magic in the air.”

“I think that’s the smog,” she said, but he liked the way she was smiling at him.  Verisimilitude, sure, a pretty little play for whoever might have been scammed out of their table, but god, he wanted to believe.

They started with oysters and went from there.  Scully had fish; Mulder had steak; they shared something so chocolatey and intense that it seemed to defy the law of physics, an outsize amount of flavor in a tiny, elaborate sculpture.  They dug into it with the points of their spoons.  He watched Scully lick at a morsel of chocolate, her tongue pink against the bright silver.  Her other hand lay curled on the table.  The ring kept catching the light; he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.  He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, either.  She was in her everyday black, but something was different. Maybe it was the way her hair was pulled back.  Maybe it was the way he could hear the champagne bubbles in her giggle.

“So what are we doing after this?” she asked, giving the spoon one last lingering lick.  “What was it that the undead do?  Dancing?  Making love?”

“Traditional engagement night activities, honeybunch,” he said, reaching for her hand.

“Of course,” she said.  “It does feel a bit like we’ve come back from something.  Maybe not death, but something.”

“It does,” he said, still holding her hand, startled by the warmth of her delicate fingers against his.  He’d seen her hands do so many things.  He’d never seen them grasp his gently while wearing an engagement ring.  It looked nice on her, even if if it was just a relic of some writer’s dream.  He wondered if she’d accept a real one one day, when the moment was right.  

The bill came.  He didn’t have to let go of her hand as she worked Skinner’s Bureau card out of her miniature purse.  They left a ridiculous tip and walked out still holding hands, accepting congratulations with gracious nods.

“Do you hear music, Scully?” he asked, looking up at the glow of the sky.

“You know,” she said, “I think I do.”

The Upper Hand: Jefferson x Reader {Part 6}

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Hamilton - Modern AU (Law School)

Jefferson x Reader

1,349 words

Part 6! Man, I feel like this series is getting a little long… Don’t worry. It’s almost over. I didn’t proofread this at all, so sorry for any tense changes or grammatical errors :) I think I spent more time researching French foods and the French Riviera than I did writing this! 

Originally posted by imagineham

“But I said, ‘Hell no! You better give me another chance!’”

You giggle at Thomas’s story, completely enraptured by his storytelling—his wide eyes, waving hands, the way he did the voices of the different people. He has so much passion for life.

“What did he say to that?” you ask excitedly.

Thomas merely shakes his head. “He kicked me out!”

“No!” His grin widens as you burst out laughing. “That’s insane!”

Your phone buzzes on the table and you see an incoming text message from John Laurens. It would be rude to check your phone during the date, so you slide it into your pocket and pick up your menu. He was probably just checking in to make sure Thomas hadn’t insulted you yet.

“So, what do you recommend?” you ask, scanning the menu in confusion. “I don’t know what any of these dishes are.”

He chuckles and leans across the table so the two of you can share a menu. He skims the list with his fingertip until he finds something called Bouillabaisse.

“This is a stew of mixed Mediterranean fish, tomatoes, and herbs,” he says, his voice low. His dark eyes meet yours, and you can’t look away. “It’s a dish from Côte d'Azur, the French Riviera. Along the Mediterranean coast. I stayed there for six months, just soaking up the culture and dining on this very dish.”

“How do you pronounce it?”

Boo-la-bayze.”

You grin, never realizing until now that talking about French food could be so sexy.

“How about that one?” you ask, pointing to another dish.

Pieds paquets,” he says, the French rolling fluently off his tongue. “Are you impressed yet?”

“Very. The only French foods I know are crepes and ratatouille, because of that Pixar movie.”

“That was a very cute movie.”

“You watched it?” you ask in disbelief. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy…”

“Pshh! It’s about France and food. My two favorite things.” He grins lopsidedly and looks you up and down. “That dress would be my third favorite.”

You look away, hoping that he won’t notice your blushing. The front door to the restaurant opens roughly and a harried young man with long dark hair rushes in. It takes you a moment to recognize him, but the three other men who straggle in behind him help jog your Thomas-fogged memory.

Panic floods your chest as Alex scans the restaurant, registering the wrathful expression on his face. He knows. You lift your menu to obscure most of your face, peeking over the top. He is speaking with the maitre d’, getting more riled by the moment.

Thomas frowns at your strange actions. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

“Alex is—”

“JEFFERSON!” Alexander bellows across the restaurant, his eyes boring into the back of Thomas’ head. “YOU SON OF A—”

“Alexander!” Thomas drawls, his entitled, obnoxious persona sliding expertly into place. He rises from his seat and stands, slightly shielding you, to meet Alex, who rushes across the restaurant with wings of fury. “As usual, it’s a delight when you show up uninvited.”

“Jefferson, what the hell do you think you’re doing with Y/N?”

“Well, I think I’m taking her out on a date. What do you think I’m doing with her?”

“You can’t go anywhere near her, talk to her, touch her. You have hurt her so many times already. This is just an elaborate plan to destroy her self-esteem and ultimately force her to go back to Nebraska.”

“You can’t tell me what to do or what not to do, little Hammy,” Thomas says tauntingly, taking a step closer to Alex. “If I want to take Y/N out, I will. And you can’t say anything about it.”

“You’re so entitled, Jefferson. I’d love to see you without your money and family name. You’d be floundering in the shallows.”

“You know nothing of loyalty. You’re so desperate to rise above your station that you will take advantage of anything and anyone to gain it. Is that why you’re friends with Y/N?”

Alex glances at you, his anger cracking slightly. Thomas shoves his shoulder antagonistically.

“What does she give you? A shoulder to cry on? She’s smart and beautiful and compassionate. Did you think you’d get her at some point? Just keeping her on the back burner while you explore this thing with Eliza Schuyler.”

Alex lunges at Thomas, fists flying. A woman in the restaurant screams. You scramble out of your seat as the two men stumble toward your table. Thomas extracts himself from Alex’s grip and punches him solidly across the face, causing Alex to fall backwards. Flailing his arms, Alex lands on your table, pushing a glass of red wine onto your dress.

Everyone freezes.

Your heart drops as you look at the stain forming on the front of your dress. Touching the liquid with your fingers, you feel your temper rising. How dare Alex come in here and make a scene! How dare Thomas speak about you like you’re nothing more than a consolation prize! How dare Laurens break his promise and tell Alex!

“Damn it, Alexander!” you yell, glaring at him as he lies on the ground. “I finally find a guy who likes me for me and you have to come in here and ruin it with your old grudges and lack of respect? You don’t get to decide who I date or where I go! Stop being such a child and trust that I can handle myself.”

He bows his head in shame, wiping his bleeding lower lip with the back of his hand.

“Same goes for you, Laurens!” you continue. Laurens partially hides behind Hercules’ shoulder, regret painted across his features. “I am an adult and I can make decisions for myself. You don’t need to protect me! You promised that you would keep this secret, but you didn’t! How can I ever trust you after this?”

Shaking your head reproachfully, you turn your attention to Thomas, whose smirk quickly vanishes from his features.

“And you,” you mutter darkly, taking a couple steps so you’re nearly chest to chest with him. “You don’t own me. You are lucky that I agreed to go out with you, but this childish display with Alex shows me that you’re not capable of being respectful of my friends. No matter how much they irk you.”

“Y/N, what are you saying?” he asks, his expression vulnerably worried.

You gaze into those eyes you like so much and your heart begins to hurt. “I gave you a chance, but you’ve shown me that we wouldn’t work. I’m sorry.”

A tear slipping down your cheek, you grab your purse and jacket and push past your friends, your almost-lover, and a gaggle of waiters. You let a sob out once your face hits the cool outdoors air. How could this night have turned out so bad? You wore the dress, he brought you flowers. It was supposed to be perfect.

Walking away from the restaurant, you fish your phone in your pocket. Laurens had texted you, you remember. You open the message and read it. He had tried to warn you.

A million scenarios ran through your mind. What if you had read the message? Perhaps you and Thomas could have escaped the restaurant and found another place for a date. Maybe you could have prepared for Alex’s confrontation. Then you wouldn’t be limping down the darkened street in your heels with a dark stain on the front of your perfect dress.

You don’t want to return to your apartment. It would still have that aura of excitement and hope, which was something you wanted to avoid. John is someone you wanted to stay away from until you had the opportunity to cool off. Hercules and Lafayette would only try to talk you out of being mad at Alex. Peggy is at her boyfriend’s, and you don’t want to disturb them.

A dark car pulls up beside you. The driver rolls down the window.

“Hey, you wanna lift?”

You ponder the offer for a moment before hopping in the backseat.

TalesFromYourServer: "I need to make a reservation for a table for 11. We're coming in right now."

Hey lovelies, your resident Ramen Girl, Sapporo Slinger, Daifuku Maker, Chalkboard Painter here. I do a bit of everything around my place and tonight I was manning the host stand when I got the call in the title.

Many possible reactions ran through my head, first and foremost the hysterical, disbelieving laughter of the maitre d’ of Dorsia in American Psycho, when Patrick Bateman calls to make an 8:00 reservation on the day of.

Okay so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt here:

Even assuming he didn’t realize we are a tiny, 36-seat restaurant (as is common in Manhattan), on our busiest night, that would have no way of accommodating such a last-minute party of this size…

…that doesn’t even take reservations because of our dining room size–we can’t afford to reserve tables, no-show reservations are too common and we are small enough that it would drive us out of business in 2-3 months if we allowed tables to languish empty and turn away walk-in guests in expectation of reservations that may never show…

…why even bother calling to make a reservation this last-minute? For all intents and purposes you’re a walk-in. It makes zero difference whether you call or not. Making a reservation isn’t going to magically guarantee you a table or that you’ll be quickly seated, so…why?

Seriously please explain the rationale to me because I’m totally baffled.

By: MilkPudding

anonymous asked:

I believe you mentioned a blurb last night... I need it!! ASAP! 😏😍

Sorry for the wait! Here’s part 2 of Heartstrings. Enjoy.


Heartstrings - Part 2

[Read part 1 here]

You sat on your hotel bed, playing your guitar, a classical piece that you’d learned at university. You were a little more than halfway through when there was a knock at your door. Stopping, you laid your guitar on the bed before rising and crossing the room.

“Hi,” a beanie-capped Harry greeted you with a grin which you returned.

“Hey,” you said. “What have you been up to?”

You noticed the hoodie that Harry had gripped in his hand, his t-shirt marked with sweat.

“Just got back from a run. I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner.”

“Um…dinner?” you blinked.

“Yeah. After I shower of course.”

Harry’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he spoke, the same grin still on his face. You couldn’t help but bite your lip at how attractive he looked at that moment.

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I always assumed that Daniel Brühl’s character in Burnt was from Spain, based on his last name (Balerdi) and one scene where he seemed to speak a little Spanish. Unfortunately I only understood the last word of his sentence. That was “coño”, a very common swear word, that literally means “cunt” and is used like “damn” or “shit”. I heard it in some Spanish shows I watched, so I was pretty sure the other three words of the sentence were Spanish too. 

But I couldn’t figure it out, so I asked my nice Mexican friend to listen to it and she said it sounded like  “Pandilla de subnormales, coño!” , that means something like “Gang of retards! Shit!” She said she wasn’t 100% sure about the word “pandilla” because the pronounciation was not right (that is weird because she had listened to Daniel speaking Spanish before and she said he had been very good… but maybe it was just an occasional mistake). But I think it’s 99%, and it makes sense.

If anyone would like to check it out, it’s in the scene when Simone Forth (Uma Thurman) arrives to Tony’s restaurant and he gets very pissed. Right after saying “She will destroy us!”, while throwing food into the trash can. (Around 1:26:03.) 

2012 Mollydooker The Maître D’ Cabernet Sauvignon

May I serve you some CabSauv from McLaren Vale in Australia? Deep, dark fruit on the nose - cassis jam, baking spices, pie crust, brown sugar, and bourbon vanilla. Cassis and blackberry jam on the palate with the rest of the pie ingredients! If you like fruit-forward wines, this is a good one! Acidity is there to keep it in balance. 

3/5 bones

$$

Cabernet Sauvignon

15.5% abv

McLaren Vale, AUSTRALIA

Jimin, CEO: Ch. 3

Summary: KangKong Inc is getting a new CEO. And he is nothing like you expected.

Request: Nope

Type: Multi-chapter Story (Smut later)

A/N: Jiminnie <3 Double post woot woot!

Jimin, New Employee   ~   Jimin, CEO   ~   Two

Blind dates had never been your thing.

The discomfort of it. The awkwardness. The shallowness of some of the men.

Yet today after work you were headed to meet with someone name YoungJun. To avoid having to rush home you wore the outfit you were planning to wear for the stupid date as well as the makeup, though you knew you would have to touch it up later.

The way you were dressed wasn’t far off from your work wear but it caught Jimin’s attention. You ignored his looks and smiles and tried to keep blush from rising.

At the end of your work day you slowly gathered your belongings.

“Not staying late today?” Jimin was leaning in his doorway.

You slung your messenger bag over your shoulder. “Oh. No, Sir. Did you need me to stay?” He shook his head. “Are you sure?”

“I’m more than sure. Have a goodnight.”

You bowed returning the Goodnight before walking to the elevator.

~

Dreading this date you walked slower in hopes of getting a text saying the date was cancelled but you found yourself in front of the bookstore cafe with no messages.

Further and further into the date you wished you had stayed behind at work.

YoungJun was rambling on about his friend’s new rug. Quite a story. You were feigning interest when you heard someone call your name.

“Y/N.” You look over and see Jimin with a bookstore bag hanging from his wrist as he stood on the other side of the railing that separates the bookstore from the cafe.

Quickly you hopped up, bowing. “CEO!”

“CEO?” Your date asked. “You’re the new CEO of KangKong?’ The man seemed impressed when Jimin nodded. Wanting neither of these situations you stood there contemplating making a run for it.

“So Ms. Y/N,” Dammit. “This is what you are doing instead of in the office?”

You were taken aback by the edge in his voice. His face was hard but not exactly angry. Nodding, you apologized. “I could have used your help. I thought I would come by here and get another planner since having an assistant isn’t helpful.”

Stunned. Both you and YoungJun were stunned at his harsh words. “Sir, if you want I could come back now.”

Jimin looked at you for a second before nodding walking away, expecting you to follow.

Gathering your stuff as quickly as you could you offered an apology to YoungJun. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want you to get fired. Minho will have that rug for a while.” he laughed and you offered a forced smile before scurrying behind your boss.

~

You followed a safe distance behind the man through the parking lot. It wasn’t until you arrived at a car that you assumed was his that he turned to you…smiling.

“I-I-”

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Not really.” you answered honestly. “Sir, I feel terrible about leaving. I promise to do overtime all week!”

“Woah Woah!” He stopped you before you could go as far as working one of your off days. Thank god! “Y/N, I was acting.”

Your mouth dropped open. “W-What?”

“I spotted you before I came over. It looked like you were dying.” He laughed. “I thought you knew I was acting. I gave you a look.”

“Look?”

“Yeah! Like this.” His face cleared and he looked over to you barely a second with no expression before looking away.

“That’s just called looking, not giving ‘a look’.”

He stood with a blank expression for a second. “Oh.” He broke out into laughter and you couldn’t help but do the same.

He walked to the driver’s side opening the door before looking at you. “Are you going to get in or go back to rug boy?”

“You heard that too?” You laughed, getting into the passenger seat. He nodded as he started the car and pulled out of the spot. “He was telling a story about that carpet for 10 minutes, Park!” You hadn’t even realized what you said but Jimin did. His smile widened and he bit his lip. You still didn’t notice and continued telling how terrible the date had been.

15 minutes later the car stopped.

Peeking out the windshield, you noticed a beautifully lit line up of buildings across the way. You turned to Jimin for an explanation and were met with a smile before he got out. Of course you followed, coming around to meet him in front of the car.

“I figured you’re dressed for it, might as well take you somewhere fitting.” Unable to answer before his hand was on your lower back to usher you across the pedestrian street, you bit the inside of your cheek.

It was obvious the maitre d knew Jimin, his face lit up seeing the young man and seated the two of you immediately. The blonde man led you through the tables of people with wonderful smelling food. You thought he was taking you to the empty table by the window but instead he went up a staircase. You hesitated for a moment. Jimin noticed and held his hand out for you to take. Taking his hand you followed to see the man standing next to a table by an the fourth wall that was low enough to look over. It provided a beautiful view of the strung lights over the path of the pedestrian street.

Jimin pulled out your chair and you sat, awestruck over everything.

“Thank you Sam.” He said dismissing the man as he took a seat across from you. “Enjoying the view?”

Lost for words a nod was all you gave.

“Good! I promise I won’t talk about rugs.” He joked but you were back to biting your cheek, still looking out at the view. “Y/N.” You looked over and he rose his eyebrows in question.

“This is very nice.” He felt a ‘but’ coming. “But…” Yep. “…isn’t this a little…much for a dinner between a boss and his employee?”

He sighed, leaning back. “I suppose so. Since we’re here maybe we can just treat this like that night at the bar?”

“No rum and coke!”

“No rum and coke.” He agreed with a chuckle.

~

Though you were uneasy at first, Jimin was just as easy going as he seemed in the bar. And this was with both of you completely sober.

Jokes were said and laughs were share. Compliments were given and blush risen.

By the time you were eating your last forkful of cheesecake you were laughing with no cares.

It wasn’t until he pulled in front of your apartment building that you began to remember why you had reservations about getting so comfortable with him in the first place.

You got out of the car as did he. “No, Sir it’s fine. I can walk by myself.”

His shoulders slumped. “Uh oh. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” you answered too quickly.

Taking a step towards you, he replied. “You called me sir. All night you’ve been calling me Park. You even said Jimin at one point. When you call me CEO outside of work it means you’re uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t known me long enough to actually determine that.”

He gave you a look. “Y/N, that’s not the point.”

It was no use in lying. “I told you, even if this wasn’t an official ‘date’ I can’t do it again. If people find out you’re going against your own rules they might not give you the respect that you have been earning. Let alone follow your rules themselves.”

“They aren’t my rules.” he said.

“But they are the company’s. Your Uncle didn’t change them before he left so it isn’t a clean slate.” With a tired apology to ‘CEO Park’ you went inside.

This left him alone with your words.

~

You hadn’t spoken to Jimin all day.

He had passed by your desk a few times but for the most part he hadn’t acknowledged you.

Currently he and his associate Kim Taehyung were speaking in his office. You heard the other man exclaim “You can’t be serious.” but was quickly shushed by Jimin. Not long after, the two men emerged from the office laughing. They hugged and Taehyung said goodbye. As he walked away, he looked over at you before looking straight ahead with a knowing smile.

Ignoring it, you quickly stood and followed Jimin into his office. “CEO, about yesterday,-”

“Hold that thought.” He stopped in front of his desk and picked up his intercom to address the office. “Everyone! Could you please listen up this is important.”

People paused what they were doing, some standing to peak over their cubicles and others other stopping in the walkways.

He smiled,waiting for the sound of the copy machine to stop.You took the chance to continue. “I just wanted to say I am sorry. I just feel so strongly about not going against the rules of the office.”

Offering his heartwarming smile and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t apologize. I understand completely. Ah!” he noticed the copier stopping and picked up the intercom again.”Sorry to disrupt the workflow but there have been some changes to office policy and rules. Some of the changes include overtime, deadline extensions, and dating.” He suppressed the wide grin coming when he caught your face from the corner of his eye. “A revised copy of the employee handbook has been placed in everyone’s mailbox. Please review it and if you have any questions please leave them with Ms. Y/N. Thank you.” He placed the intercom back on the hook and turned to you. 

“All good?” He didn’t wait for your answer before leaving his office with a shit eating grin.

what i wanna know is like. the servants in the beast’s castle. did. did they just rename themselves to suit what they’d been turned into? was what they turned into purely by chance? like idk cause mrs potts is a cook and server, plumette is a maid, the nice lady who gets turned into a wardrobe is genuinely interested in dressing belle. so like. they got turned into things that fit their jobs, but what about their names? 

you can’t fucking tell me that a man who keeps the schedule of the house- subsequently being turned into a clock- was already named cogsworth. i mean come on. lumiere, the charismatic maitre’d, is a fucking candelabra. mrs potts, the tea pot? i mean i always sorta thought chip was a nickname due to his broken rim but like? 

did they get turned into objects, maintain higher thought processes, and decide lol welp let’s change our names! 

were they bored? or what

Mabifica Headcanons
  • Pacifica is an athletic person and gets pretty muscular in her late teens/early twenties. This means that when Mabel insists Pacifica sit on her lap, Pacifica almost crushes her, but Mabel won’t let her stand up because IT’S FOR LOVE
  • Mabel always steals Pacifica’s clothes, especially her bras because “they’re so prettyyyy”, despite the fact that Pacifica is a size smaller than her. Tired of stretched out bras, Pacifica just buys Mabel her own fancy lingerie so she doesn’t have to share.
  • Pacifica borrows Mabel’s tamer sweaters “because it’s cold” and she’s a sap
  • Mabel is like a furnace, which makes summer cuddling a bit of a bummer, but is perfect in the winter because Pacifica has poor circulation
  • They still have epic mini golf showdowns, but with more smooching. Dipper keeps score and tells them to get a room once or twice.
  • Mabel sings to Pacifica all the time. The biggest girl power anthems, the sappiest love ballads - you name it. As much as it’s embarrassing, Pacifica is also touched.
  • Mabel is small forever and *hates* it, so sometimes Pacifica will prop her elbow on Mabel’s shoulder to prove a point. It…doesn’t go over well.
  • Mabel does the slingshot thing with the bra in the bedroom pretty much every time because of course she would.
  • Bad karaoke duets? Bad karaoke duets.
  • Come to think of it, they have weekly karaoke showdowns that escalate into real competition
  • They like to go to the drive in, share popcorn, and hold hands because they’re gross
  • Putting either one of them in the kitchen is just asking for trouble, so they do a lot of premade/simple dishes. Stir fry is a household staple.
  • Mabel gifts Pacifica with all sorts of art: paintings, sculptures, clothes, jewellery…the list goes on. Pacifica loves every single one and puts them on display, despite the fact that they clash brilliantly with the decor. Because *Mabel* made them and they’re beautiful, dammit.
  • Pacifica is essentially a cat when she wants Mabel’s attention. She’ll play with her hair, lean on her shoulder, lie across her lap when she’s using the sewing machine, until Mabel finally gives up on productivity and takes a break to cuddle with her high-maintenance girlfriend
  • Speaking of high-maintenance Pacifica, she is so particular about things that Mabel sometimes gets annoyed. She’s more of a go with the flow, “if life gives you lemons” kind of girl. But not Pacifica. When she wants something, she wants it exactly as she wants it, no substitutions, no compromises. So that one time their reservation gets messed up on their anniversary, Pacifica uses her full vocabulary to tell the maitre d’ what she thinks of it, then follows Mabel to the nearest thai place for what turns out to be the sweetest, silliest anniversary dinner yet.
  • Mabel. Loves. Babies. She often volunteers to babysit local Gravity Falls kids and drags Pacifica into it. Although she’s sceptical at first, by the time the parents come home, Pacifica’s on the floor making funny faces at the baby and playing with blocks just like Mabel.

in POA during the shrieking shack scene, in between telling their story and snape bitching out on them and all that nonsense, sirius turns to remus and snorts “nice fuckin mustache btw professor lupin, trying to convince minnie youre an adult?”
and remus is all like “omg sirius i fricken knew u were gonna say something, i like it ok, james always said i would look good with a mustache, just sod off and let me finish”
and sirius dramaqueen black rolls his eyes all the way to the astronomy tower and loudly whispers “james was obviously LYING u look like a maitre d”

No matter how often you may use stolen Taco Bell napkins as toilet paper, even the biggest slob knows better than to throw trash all over the ground in public. Especially not in a restaurant or bar – you’re liable to get your face bashed in by the maitre d’. Try living that one down. It’s like getting curb-stomped by a mime.

Except for in Spain, where littering can actually be considered polite.

In the iconic tapas bars of Spain, throwing trash on the floor is very much welcome. And we’re not talking glorified fast-food joints here – even the finest establishments could depress the shit out of Woodsy Owl. In Spain, the unwritten rule is that the best tapas bars are usually the ones with the most trash on the floor. That’s right – not only is rampant littering completely acceptable but leaving your garbage is like leaving a positive review.

5 Foreign Rules of Etiquette That America Desperately Needs

Can you imagine? Smithers does not come out to Burns at all, but the residents of Springfield just assume Smithers and Burns married long ago. Like out of their presence people will mutter things.

Chief Wiggum to Lou: There go the Burnses.

Apu: I don’t know how Mr. Smithers managed to catch such a wealthy Mammon.

Lenny to Carl: Hurry up and act like you are busy! Here comes Mr. Burns!

Homer flails around in panic as he shouts from the other side of the room: WHICH ONE!?

*Smithers walks in*

Then the suggestions become even more intense:

Blue Haired-Lawyer to Burns: Your credit return has came back, and I have noticed that you are being screwed out of money.

Burns: Vultures! Those IRS deacons preach to the pulpit. I may be the one percent but they still treat me like the rest of the 99!

*tents fingers*

Well then, I am up for a bit of revenge! Loophole make your presence.

Blue-Haired Lawyer: Well, now under jurisdiction you can apply for a partnership benefit with your significant other.

Burns narrows his eyes: We squabble over this every quarter! I keep telling you I’m NOT married.

Blue-Haired Lawyer: *pinches bridge of nose and sighs* Mr. Burns, it’s absolutely acceptable in –

Burns: I pay you to point out loopholes, to spin doctor and to lawyer, not to yarn my biographies! I do that for Stephen King and he’s been slacking.

Blue-Haired Lawyer: Your loss.

And then one day, in the most obscure way, Burns figures it out. They walk into the Gilded Truffle. Smithers talks to the maitre d’ and he responds “I have always given our best customers a cut on their anniversary.” Burns shrugs it off until the end of the meal when the waiter finally for the first time stops asking for separate cheques.

And then.

Boom.

The Guardian – The £30m bookshelf: Pierre Bergé and the greatest stories ever sold

With Impressionists on their walls and priceless books on their shelves, Pierre Bergé and his former partner Yves Saint Laurent were the ultimate collectors. But now the art and YSL have gone, Bergé says it’s time ‘to attend the funeral’ of his library.

On an evening when Anonymous were berating the 1% in Trafalgar Square, I was in a book-lined salon a short distance away with a man who has spent a lifetime dressing the wives of le premier cru. Pierre Bergé never actually had pins in his mouth himself, you understand – that was his lover and partner, Yves Saint Laurent. But Bergé was the cool maitre d’ who kept La Maison YSL running on castors while the maestro was in the back, agonising over his sketchpad.

“Fashion is not an art,” says Bergé, “but it takes an artist to make fashion.” The 84-year-old unburdens himself of this apothegm with the foxy charm of the late French actor Charles Boyer. He is wearing a dark brown suit by Anderson & Sheppard, the Savile Row cutters where he has been going for 30 years, with the discreet blazon of the Légion d’honneur in his bespoke lapel. As for the book-lined salon, we are surrounded by his “jardin secret”, he exhales raptly: the most priceless and exquisite library in private hands, grown from 1,600 vanishingly rare and hysterically hard-to-find books and manuscripts.

Bergé has decided to part with his beautiful specimens and the auctioneers handling the sale have put an estimate of almost £30 million on them, making this perhaps the most valuable collection ever to come to market. It includes early editions of books which are cornerstones of western civilisation: a first edition of St Augustine’s Confessions printed in Strasbourg in 1470 and estimated at up to £140,000; Dante’s Divine Comedy from 1487; Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories and Tragedies printed in London in 1664. Coddled by gloved flunkies in dehumidified rooms, these volumes have been cherished with the same hushed attention that Saint Laurent and Bergé once lavished on Parisian ladies of a certain age.

Together, Bergé and I admire a heavily worked manuscript of The Sentimental Education by his favourite, Flaubert, published in 1870 and valued at up to £420,000. Naturally, he also has a copy of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary: it has the author’s handwritten dedication to Victor Hugo on the flyleaf. He adores connections like these. He has a volume by Baudelaire dedicated to Flaubert, and his copy of Treasure Island (1883) is not only a first edition, but a present from Robert Louis Stevenson to a friend who suggested the character of Long John Silver.

The eminence grise of the rag trade shows me an illustrated copy of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. “I don’t like Poe so much, but this was translated (into French) by the great Mallarmé and the art is by Manet,” he says. Briefly released from a vitrine for our delectation are the fragile, handwritten notes for the Marquis de Sade’s last erotic novel (all that survived the fastidious bonfire lit by the Marquis’s scandalised son). These provocative jottings, composed on paper as dry as the leaves of an old cigar, could set you back £280,000. In addition, la Bibliothèque de Pierre Bergé boasts super-rare early copies of classics by Cervantes, Joyce, Bronte, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and more. They were acquired by Bergé himself and “his agents”, to a strict formula that only books by authors he admired were admitted.

It was literature that gave the young Bergé his lucky break, although this good fortune was at first well disguised. On his first day in Paris, as he was strolling the Champs-Elysées, a Surrealist poet called Jacques Prévert fell from a window and landed on top of him. A winded Bergé chose to see this defenestration as an augury that the French capital had been waiting for him. He embarked on a career in antique books, truffling for overlooked treasures among the bouquinistes, the bookstalls on the banks of the Seine. In the brilliant young tailor Yves Saint Laurent, he recognised another man with an eye for a silver lining. “Christian Dior fired him, and on the same day, he told me we will set up our own business, the house of Yves Saint Laurent.”

Before long, the pair were dressing the screen goddess Catherine Deneuve. The spouses, and mistresses, of the rulers of the Fifth Republic soon followed. Twice a year, in readiness for YSL collections, the designer and his major domo repaired to their villa in Marrakech. They had another home redecorated to a theme of Proust’s À la recherché du temps perdu, the one literary interest they had in common. “It was the only book he ever read,” says Bergé. “Of course, it is a very long book.”

The couple amassed an art collection to excite the salivary glands of gallery directors and oligarchs, including works by Matisse, Cezanne and Klimt. The anguished genius and his suave helpmeet, walled in by Old Masters and first folios – it recalls A Rebours, Joris-Karl Huysmans’s great novel of decadence, of which Bergé naturally owns a highly covetable first edition. The pictures were sold after Saint Laurent’s death in 2008, fetching more than £240m. When asked if he would miss them, Bergé replied, “Everyone dreams of attending their own funeral. I am going to attend the funeral of my collection.” “It must have been an exquisite life,” I suggest. But Bergé hasn’t devoted himself to the luxe, calme et volupté [luxury, peace and pleasure: Baudelaire] of the super-rich without developing a keen nose for how fashions change, swiftly and fatally. “I don’t care to look back,” he says insouciantly.

Bergé claims that Saint Laurent’s great insight was to remove couture from chic restaurants and fashionable apartments and take it “to the street”. The fashion house “empowered” women by putting them in men’s tailoring, in the broad-shouldered shape of the marvellously franglais le smoking. The stress of bringing YSL’s creations before the public and the fashion press took its toll. The couple’s intimate relationship ended in 1976, though they remained friends and business partners.

Today, haute couture is finished, snorts Bergé at his most gallic, no more than a licence to flog scent and handbags, and a pastime for bored supermodels and cashiered pop stars. Only in France, perhaps, could a man with his profile have been a fundraiser for those well-groomed socialists, François Mitterand and Ségolène Royal. I invite Bergé to run a couturier’s tape measure over our own ruling elite. He approves of David Cameron’s holiday wardrobe, but he is not an admirer of the prime minister. He says of Jeremy Corbyn: “I like him. He is a dreamer – and without dreams you have nothing.” But as he claps eyes on a picture of the Labour leader in shorts and dark ankle socks, he shudders almost imperceptibly, like a sequin shaken by a distant Métro.

Our tête-à-tête at an end, Bergé musters his entourage of stubbled younger men who are dressed in autumnal tones. They’re going on to a party. “On y va!” he instructs, leaning dapperly on a cane.

La Bibliothèque de Pierre Bergé auctioned at Sotheby’s, Paris, on 11 December 2015. His interview with Stephen Smith appears on BBC Newsnight on a following post.

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