Chapter 52: An Offer You Can't Refuse

The elderly gentleman placed a basket of food in front of Ronan. Inside were smoked ham, Italian sausage, pickled cucumber slices, black olives, and a large piece of cheese, accompanied by bread as the staple. Then, perhaps the oldest waiter in all of Provence stepped into the kitchen to inform what was likely the finest active chef in the region:

“A young man from China has come to dine with us. I’ve decided to postpone our lunch break by an hour.”

“Understood. Let him wait a moment,” came a woman’s voice from the kitchen, her tone suggesting she was no spring chicken either.

Ronan didn’t hear a third voice, so he couldn’t help but wonder—how could these two elders, whose combined age might exceed 150 years, manage the demanding work of a bustling restaurant?

Shortly after, the old man slowly returned and sat down to continue chatting with Ronan. The meal was ready, and the elderly lady pressed the kitchen bell.

At that moment, the old gentleman was recounting his heroic deeds during World War II. He raised his eyebrows, paused briefly, then resumed with determined resolve, describing the urgency of those times when retreat was not an option.

The bell rang again, with a clear insistence.

He had no choice but to rise and leave, his stern expression melting into one of affection as he muttered sweetly while walking away, “Here I come, here I come. You just can’t stay away from me.”

Ronan assumed the herb-crusted lamb chops were the entirety of the meal, but to his surprise, the chef returned with a plate of black pepper pasta and a serving of potatoes drenched in rich gravy.

“Still hungry?” she asked with a warm smile, her face flushed from the kitchen flames.

“Delicious,” Ronan replied eagerly, popping a freshly baked potato into his mouth.

In truth, the flavors of this restaurant were nothing extraordinary; they resembled a mother’s cooking, even less refined than Mrs. Cher’s culinary skills. Yet, those who came here dined for that sense of ‘home’—the warmth and familiarity that transcended the food itself, which was far more enchanting.

The elderly couple stood side by side, radiating happiness.

The lady enthusiastically described the restaurant’s decor, noting that she personally designed the placement of every nail. The gentleman no longer felt the urge to dominate the conversation, handing the microphone to his wife while occasionally chiming in with words of praise.

It was clear they loved this restaurant deeply, cherished their work, and adored each other immensely.

Ronan listened quietly, ate contentedly, and thought silently:

If one day he could open a restaurant like this, he would fear no aging.

Just imagine... growing old slowly with the one you love—what a joyous thing that would be.

This blissful lunch cost only sixty francs.

Had he not driven, this price would have even included wine.

---

Ronan began to form a preliminary understanding of the cost of living in Provence... Food prices were very reasonable, and the same meal in Paris would cost at least twice as much in the same setting.

Perhaps this elderly couple had a clear grasp of their culinary skills and were not motivated by profit but by pure happiness.

However, Ronan’s “research” was still insufficient to draw firm conclusions.

After spending some time wandering in Bonnieux and learning that Mr. Jacques’s Michelin-starred restaurant was at the pinnacle of acclaim, he returned to the village entrance and drove home.

Dining at a Michelin restaurant would surely bring a great deal of happiness, so it was time to maximize every opportunity to add “value” to the experience.

---

“Going to Bonnieux village?” Zoe blinked in confusion, not understanding why Ronan insisted on having lunch there instead of returning to Mrs. Cher’s restaurant.

Ronan skillfully helped Zoe pack up the stall.

“Remember Mr. Jacques? The one who bought my truffles? He invited me for a drink, and it’s bad form to stand someone up,” Ronan explained.

Zoe tilted her head, contemplating whether upgrading a cozy work lunch to a business-class feast was truly necessary.

Ronan raised an eyebrow provocatively.

“I know many ‘stories’ about Bonnieux village. This time, I’m going to tell you all about them.”

He had learned the “past and present” of Bonnieux from that old gentleman.

Zoe burst into laughter.

“Alright,” she said.

The second time in Bonnieux, as soon as they entered the village, Ronan began educating Zoe about the ancient buildings lining the streets.

“Bonnieux has two churches: one at the foot of the hill, one on the summit,” Ronan said, gazing at the Gothic structure. “Locals call the one at the bottom the ‘new church,’ though it’s not really new.”

He looked to Zoe expectantly, hoping for some praise.

A breeze lifted Zoe’s golden hair, making her look like a star in a music video.

“Yeah, it’s definitely not new,” she said, pointing to the plaques. “These are works by 16th-century German artists.”

“You’ve heard the local stories too?” Ronan asked, surprised.

Suppressing a smile, Zoe replied, “Not heard. I observed with my eyes.”

What a little fool...

Ronan fell silent.

---

Daring to show off his knowledge in front of Zoe... He must have been kicked by a donkey!

Zoe continued to display her scholarly charm.

“Since the Neolithic era, this place has been inhabited—it’s the oldest area in all of Provence. Three kilometers north of the village lies the Julian Bridge, which historians date to before the 3rd century, and there’s a monastery built in the 6th century.”

She paused.

“However, Bonnieux’s population has never been ‘thriving,’ hovering around 2,000.”

“Long history, and in the golden triangle region—why so few people?” Ronan realized he was better suited as a listener.

Zoe smiled.

“That’s because since the 16th century, Bonnieux has been the domain of the Avignon popes. Many ancient manor houses on both sides were once homes to bishops. See, history connects itself like that, right?”

They had once visited Avignon together, and Zoe later told Ronan how the papacy had once moved from the Vatican to Avignon. Now they were in the territory that once belonged to the popes... The historical knowledge Ronan despised had somehow found its way into his mind in the most peculiar fashion.

“If you didn’t pursue art, you’d make a great teacher,” Ronan admired.

Zoe made a ‘please spare me’ face.

“I don’t like kids.”

Kids never stop with their demands and questions... she was scared already.

Zoe stood with her hands behind her back before the 16th-century Gothic church.

“Though Bonnieux has few residents, every July it holds the largest classical music festival in Provence, attracting tens of thousands of visitors and classical music lovers alike.”

“A classical music festival?” Ronan asked eagerly. “What’s it like?”

“The whole village is alive with celebration. Renowned and lesser-known artists and enthusiasts from around the world gather for hundreds of performances over a week,” Zoe said as they climbed higher.

“Have you been?” Ronan caught up to her.

She shook her head.

“No, I’m not interested in classical music.”

“But it’s lively, isn’t it?” Ronan stood before her, excited like a child. “Let’s go together this July.”

Zoe glanced at Ronan and quickly looked away.

“Okay.”

She really did dislike children.

But she liked this ‘child’... so she could not refuse his wishes.