Mushinsky - Ménard · Posted Jun 16, 08:42 AM by Todd Babiak
East of Saint-Laurent, on the Island of Montreal, it was ungracious to speak one’s first language. If one were forced, by circumstance, one whispered. Yet under the Society’s current leadership, this is precisely what they did on the eve of the federal election: they finished nineteen bottles of the second-cheapest Bordeaux on the menu, twenty plates of duck confit, and shouted at each other in English. Toby had admonished them several times, to kindly respect the dignity of the bistro. After all, dignity was the reason they had chosen it.
His admonitions had been received with mockery. And since his fellows felt no shame, he resolved to feel it for them.
Toby had not yet addressed the membership. The Benjamin Disraeli Society was his creation, and he continued to prepare monthly speeches to be delivered during the dessert course, but he enjoyed no administrative power. He looked at his watch, sighed, apologized to the staff whenever possible, and tapped a jar of cornichons while staring crossly at the president.
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Plumbers and their bling This just in: everything good is bad
What is this?
— Kat Jun 16, 09:57 AM #
The Benjamin Disraeli Society eh?
(Just wanted to post and say hi)
— Phil Douglas Jun 16, 11:43 PM #